by Cairo
My computer dings again. I have three new emails. My mind tells me to delete them without opening them; to log off and shut down my PC. But, of course, I don’t. I open the first email:
5’11”, 255 lbs, trim beard, stache, stocky build, moderately hairy, and aggressive. Always in need to have my dick sucked to the extreme! I love a woman who is into my cum. Show it to me in your mouth and all over your tongue, then go back down on my dick and try to suck out another load.
That’s right up my alley, I think, deleting the note, but not with you. Your ass is too damn fat! I move onto the next email:
6’3”, 190 lbs, 6” cut. Black hair, brown eyes. Here’s a pic of my dick. If you like, hit me back. Before I even open his attachment, I’m already shaking my head, thinking, “no thank you” because of his stats. Don’t get me wrong. I’m by no means a size whore, but let’s face it…a nigga standing at six-three with only a six-inch dick. Hmmph. He better have a ripped body, a thick dick, and be extra damn fine! I click on the attachment, anyway. When it opens, I blink, blink again. Bring my face closer to the screen and squint. I sigh. His dick is as thin as a No. 2 pencil. Poor thing! I feel myself getting depressed for him. Delete! I click on the third email:
Do u really suck a good dick? If so, come over and wrap your lips around my 8-inch dick until I bust off on your face or down in your throat. 29, 6’1, decent build here. Horny as fuck for some mind-blowing head.
I smile. Maybe there’s hope after all, I think, responding back. I type: No, baby, I’m not a good dick sucker. I’m a great one! Send me a pic of your body and dick so that I know your stats are what you say they are. And if I like what I see, maybe you can find out for yourself. Two minutes later, he replies back with an attachment. I open it, letting out a sigh of relief as I type. Beautiful cock! Now when, where, and how can I get at it?
I know, I know, aside from being risky and dangerous, I am aware that what I am doing is dead wrong. No, it’s fucked up! However, I can’t help myself. Okay, damn…maybe I can. But the selfish bitch in me doesn’t want to. I mean, I do try. I’ll go two or three days, even a week—sometimes, two—and I’ll think I’m good; that I’ve kicked this nasty habit. It’s like the minute the clock strikes midnight—the bewitching hour, I become possessed. I turn into a filthy cumslut. In a local park, dark alley, parking lot, public restroom, deserted street in the back of a truck—I want to drop down low and lick, taste, swallow, a thick, creamy nut. Either sucked out or jacked out; drink it from a used condom or a shot glass—I want it to coat my tonsils, and slide down into my throat. Not that I’ve gone to those extremes. Well, not to all those extras. But, I’ve come close enough.
And tonight is no different. Here it is almost one A.M. and I should have my ass in bed. Instead, once again, I’m looking to give some good-ass, sloppy, wet head; lick and suck on some balls; deep throat some dick, gag on it. And maybe swallow a nut. Yes, tonight I’m looking for someone who knows how to throat fuck a greedy, dick-sucking bitch like me. I’m looking for someone who knows how to fuck my mouth as if they were fucking my pussy, deep-stroking that pipe down into my gullet until my eyes start to water.
Ding! He replies back: You can get this cock, now! No games, no BS, just a hot nut going down in your throat. I’m at the Sheraton in Edison. Room 238.
I respond, practically drooling: I’m on my way. Be there in 30 mins.
I get up from my computer desk, slip out of my silk robe, tossing it over onto my American Drew California-king sleigh bed. Standing naked in front of my full-length mirror, I like…no, love, what I see: full, luscious lips; perky, C-cup tits; small, tight waist; firm, plump ass; and smooth, shapely legs. I slip into a hot pink Juicy Couture tracksuit, then grab my black and pink Air Max’s. I pin my hair up, before placing a black Juicy fitted on my head, pulling it down over my face and flipping up the hood of my jacket. I grab my bag and keys, then head down the stairs and out the door to suck down on some cock. I glance at my watch. It’s 2:24 a.m. Hope this nigga’s dick is worth the trip.
TWO
“Girrrrrrrrrrrl,” Felecia draws out while popping her chewing gum as soon as I step through the salon’s door, “ya man has been blowin’ up this line all mornin’ tryna get you. He’s called ten times in the last forty minutes.” She pops her gum again. Click-clack, click-clack.
Felecia is my first cousin, and salon manager. And, although she’s one of the most efficient and dependable women I know, she can also be a bit extra at times. But she means well and she always has my back. Besides, she’s my eyes and ears. She keeps up with all the street news, and shop gossip. And trust me. If there’s any dirt to be dished, she’s going to be the one to serve it up. With her ear to the ground and her BlackBerry Curve attached to her hip, she doesn’t miss a beat when it comes to the goings-on in the hood, or on Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, and BlackPlanet.
“What’d you tell him?”
“I told him you didn’t have any appointments scheduled until noon so you probably wouldn’t be in until about eleven-thirty or so.”
“Thanks,” I say, wondering why the hell he didn’t call me at the house. I glance around the salon, taking in the happenings. For a Wednesday it’s surprisingly packed. Most often, Wednesdays tend to be one of our slowest days for some reason, but not today. I count sixteen clients seated in the reception area; another seven customers are at nail booths getting their nails hooked up by nail technicians. And six clients are sitting under dryers.
I spot my twelve o’clock, Janelle, lounging in one of our lush spa chairs that has an electric-heated massager with brown leather cushioning and whirlpool footbath. She has her shoulder-length hair pinned up in a clip. Janelle’s been one of my most loyal and faithful customers for the last nine years. And it’s taken me almost eight of those years to get her hair together. Because, baby, let me tell you. Girlfriend’s hair was tore up the first time she sat down in my chair. It was all broken off and uneven, and her edges were a hot, scattered, raggedy mess. I had to basically give her a close cropped boy cut and start from scratch. She hemmed and hawed and talked shit but when she started seeing results, she shut her trap and let me do what I know best—hair. Now girlfriend’s mane is to die for. And she comes in faithfully every two weeks to keep it tight, along with her feet and hands. Then every two months she comes in for a waxing. I smile, watching Alicia and Anna—two of my best mani-and-pedicurists, tend to her. Alicia is filing her nails while Anna scrubs her feet.
I watch as another customer takes a seat in one of the other nine spa chairs to get her toes done. Two more customers follow behind Shuwanda—another stylist—to the waxing room, used for those more personal areas, like cleavages, snatches, pits, asses, backs and legs. Women’s eyebrows, mustaches, and beards are usually done at one of our stylists’ stations.
One of the things I love about my salon is that we offer one-stop services. From a wrap and a weave to twists and locks to braids and a rinse and set; from manicures and pedicures to facials, threading and waxing, Nappy No More is here to offer you the very best salon experience. Aside from me, two of my nail technicians and four stylists also have an aesthetician license to do facials and waxing.
“How many appointments do I have for today?” I ask, glancing over at Felecia.
She flips through the schedule book, counts. “Looks like five. Oh, and Greta called. She wanted to know if you could squeeze her in sometime tomorrow. I told her you were booked solid, but she said it was an emergency; something about having a date tomorrow night.”
I shake my head, chuckling. That girl is a damn mess, I think, grabbing the mail. Greta is another longtime client, close friend, and social butterfly extraordinaire, whose hair I’ve been doing since high school. This girl, love her dearly, has more dates than an almanac. Every time you turn around she’s going out on some kind of date. I think for a moment. Let me see. Wanda, she wants an updo; Bianca, wants her ends trimmed; Mona, is getting a hot oil treatment. Lynn, needs a color treatment; Cynthia, w
ants her blunt bob with graduated layers; Knowing Greta she’ll want a Doobie Wrap, which won’t take me too long. I decide to tell Felecia to squeeze her in between Bianca and Mona. “And tell her I said to bring me lunch.”
“Will do. Oh, and one more thing. Erica called. She wants to know if you can see her Friday; apparently she wasn’t happy with her new stylist and wants to come back to you.”
I frown, rolling my eyes. When someone decides to go to another hair salon because they’re not happy here for whatever reason, that’s their prerogative. And I’m okay with that because I want all of our clientele to be completely satisfied. But, when you bounce talking shit about how you’ll never set foot back up these doors, that’s a no-no. You keep your ass right where you are! “Mmmph. So they done jacked up her scalp and now she wants me to fix it.”
“Basically,” Felecia says, shrugging her shoulders.
“Wrong answer. Tell that nappy-headed bitch I don’t need her business.”
She laughs, snapping her fingers. “Well allriiiight.” Click-clack, click-clack. “I knew you were gonna say that.” The phone rings; she answers on the first ring. “Nappy No More. How can I help you?” She pauses, mouths, “It’s Jasper.” I tell her to transfer the call to my office, walking off.
Janelle sees me as I head toward my office and throws her free hand up and waves. I wave back, glancing at the clock. It’s only eleven, so she still has time before she gets in my chair. I say hello to a few of the customers sitting underneath dryers.
I toss the mail up on my desk, then unlock my bottom desk drawer and place my bag inside before locking it back. As soon as my private line rings, I pick up. “Hey.”
“Aye, yo, where you been? I’ve been calling you all mornin’.”
“What do you mean, where I’ve been? I’ve been home. Why didn’t you call there?”
“I did and the shit kept going into voice mail. I called last night up ’til count, then called you this morning and the same shit. Where the fuck was you at?”
“Nigga, I just told you I was home.”
“Then why you ain’t pick up the damn phone, yo?” Shit, I think, shaking my head. I forgot to turn the ringers back on. He’s already tight—about what I have no idea, so I already know if I tell him that shit, he’s going to snap.
I decide to tell him a half-truth. “I didn’t hear the phone. When I got home last night, I was exhausted. The only thing I wanted to do was crawl into bed and pass out.”
“Yeah, aiight. And I called you this mornin’, too, yo. So where were you?”
“I already told you.”
“I’m tellin’ you, Pasha. Don’t be on no bullshit, yo.”
“I’m not on anything. But I would like to be up on that pretty-ass dick,” I say, lowering my voice and trying to change the subject. “I’m so fucking horny.”
He calms down. Usually this is all it takes to get him to shut the fuck up. I swear, I love this man, but he can make shit so damn difficult. You’d think he’d be more mellow now that his time behind the wall is short, but nooooooooo. He seems to be getting moodier, and more agitated.
“Oh, word? I’m horny, too.” He sighs, pausing. “Man, I’m tired of this shit. I’m ready to come the fuck home, yo. This prison shit is for the birds, word up. I need some muhfuckin’ pussy. I need my dick sucked. And I wanna eat some ass, bad.”
“I know. I’m ready for you to come home, too. How you think I feel? I need some dick, bad. I’m tired of playing in my pussy. I miss that big dick, baby.”
“Fuck! You got my shit bricked. I can’t wait to get home and bust that hole wide open. You better not be out there giving my pussy out, yo.”
I suck my teeth. “Not this shit again.”
“’Not this shit again’, my ass, yo. I don’t know where the fuck you was last night, or this morning.”
“Fuck, nigga,” I snap, switching the phone from one ear to the other. “I told you, I was home. I didn’t hear the damn phone because I was fucking drained. And this morning I went to the gym for an hour, from there I went to Wegmans, and then had to go to the cleaners to drop clothes off. By the time I got home, it was already going on ten, so I only had time jump in the shower and get dressed, then race out the door.”
“Yeah, aiight. Why you ain’t say all that shit in the first place? Let me find out some other shit, aiight?”
I sigh. “There is no other shit to find out, fool.”
“I’m tellin’ you, Pasha, don’t have me fuck nothin’ up, yo.”
“What. Ever.”
He lowers his voice, going from one extreme to the other. “Yo, what kinda panties you got on? We got time to get it in before your appointment?”
I glance at my watch. It’s almost quarter to twelve. If I go in on him now, I should be able to get him off in like ten minutes, maybe fifteen. But that’ll be pushing it. I am a stickler about not having my clients wait. If I give them an appointment time, then that’s what it is, unless it’s an emergency situation. Otherwise, I think it’s poor business practice to have someone sitting around waiting for you when they’ve made an appointment.
“Hold on,” I tell him, placing the receiver down on the desk, then getting up to lock the door. I return to the phone and sit back behind the desk. “I have on a purple thong.”
“Damn, yo…I wish I could smell them shits; you know, suck on ’em while I beat this dick.”
I smile. He’s such a nasty ass. “Ooh, baby, I wish you were here so I could suck all over your dick. Spit all over it, and gulp it down. Aaaah…baby, I miss that dick. I can’t wait to feel it deep in my hot pussy…”
“Yeah, baby, talk that nasty shit, yo…”
“You want me to straddle your face, and lower this wet pussy down on your mouth, so you can suck my clit and tongue fuck me while I swallow your fat, black cock?”
“Aaah, shit yeah…”
I glance at my watch. Five minutes to go. I have to speed this up. I speak in a low throaty whisper, careful that no one walking past my office door can hear me. But if I were home, I’d be panting and moaning loud as hell. I keep my eye on my watch. Count the seconds, then the minutes. “Oh, baby, you got my hole so slippery…”
“Yeah, you like how this dick feels?”
“Oh, yes…fuck me! Uh…fuck me! Uhhh…aaah shit…you making me cum, baby…”
“Yeah, take this dick, baby…bounce that ass up on it…”
“Fuck me! Harder…faster…deeper…uh, ooooh…you got my pussy so wide open…”
“Yeah, that’s my pussy…I’ma tear that shit up…”
“Fuck your pussy, nigga…Uhhh, uhhhh…oh, yes…like that…”
“Oh, shit I’m gettin’ ready to bust…Oh, fuck…”
“Give me that nut, baby…bust that nut deep in my pussy…”
“Uh, uh, uh…aaaaah, shiiiiiiit, yo.” He lets out a deep breath. “Whew. I needed that nut.”
“Me, too,” I lie. Truth is I wasn’t even touching myself. Most times I don’t, especially when I’m here at the office. I need, want, the real thing. The only thing this phone shit does is make me hornier, more frustrated and more eager to go out and suck another damn dick. Especially since the nigga I sucked last night, well early this morning, nutted in seven goddamn minutes, literally. Hmmph. He had a nice juicy eight-incher, too. And I was greedily sucking the shit out of it before he cracked his nut all quick and whatnot. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt since he told me my throat game was like no other he’d ever experienced. So I sucked him another round. Unfortunately, the nigga still busted off quicker than I liked. But he was able to hold out for a whopping fifteen minutes before his knees started buckling. So, basically, I spent more time on gas and travel time than on sucking dick. What a waste! “Look, baby, I gotta go. It’s almost twelve.”
“Aiight, do you. I’ma hit you up later tonight, aiight?”
“Okay, cool.”
“And make sure you answer the damn phone.”
“I will,”
I say, rushing him off the line. “Talk to you tonight.” We say our “I love yous”, then hang up. I get up and go into my private bathroom to use the toilet, then freshen up a bit. My mind should be on all these heads I have to do today, but the only thing on my brain at this very moment is getting home tonight and posting another ad.
THREE
Mmmm, daddy…feed me your thick, throbbing dick. Your balls swollen and heavy with cum. Sit back and get a slow, hot, wet and nasty, toe-curling slob job you’ll always remember. Spread my lips. Move in deep. Feel my lips surround your cock as my wet tongue licks you; as the warm fleshiness of my mouth engulfs you. Go deeper. Feel my throat hold the bulbous head of your dick. Oh, yes, daddy, take my mouth; own it, fuck it as if you were fucking my pussy. You ready to get sucked? If so, PLEASE provide me with your accurate stats: age, ht/wt, race, etc.
I couldn’t wait until I finished up my last head tonight and was able to jet up out of my shop so I could post this ad. Talking to Jasper earlier had me so worked up that it was hard for me to concentrate. All afternoon my pussy tingled, thinking about potential prospects for tonight. And I’m hoping there will be a much better selection of men to choose from than there’s been for the last few days. I may be horny for cock, but I will never, ever, be desperate for it. Sucking bottom-of-the-barrel niggas is a no-no!
Tonight, I have decided to widen my search. Although I predominately suck black dick, there have been a few occasions where I have broadened my options and been open to other ethnicities, particularly Italian and Hispanic men. Provided they look good and their dicks aren’t all pink or red-looking, like a half-cooked sausage. Yuck! Pale-skinned men do nothing for me. When I’m sucking a dick, I don’t want it so bright and light that it’s almost glowing in the dark. I also tend to seek out married men, for the obvious reason. I don’t want any damn drama. And they aren’t looking to leave their wives; just looking to get what they aren’t getting at home, most times—a good dick sucking.