CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Hotter than fiiiyah…da object of a nigga’s desires…usin’ this p-ssy for bait…nigga wanna knock it from da back…wanna test out da dick ridin’ skills…’bout to have ’im poppin’ Viagra like Tic-Tacs…nigga betta run ’fore it’s too late…dumb muhf*cka ’bout to get had by a bitch who kills…
After two muthaf*ckin’ days stuck down in this dusty-ass town, my mark has finally come out to play. My p-ssy snaps, ’crackles ’n pops at knowin’ this muhf*cka is finally gonna get it to the dome. I’m in one’a the local shot houses tucked up in the cut way back in the woods, shootin’ pool and poppin’ shit wit’ one’a the muhf*ckas up in this piece. I’m keepin’ it cute in a white five-pocket Gucci mini-skirt and sexy silk jersey halter top. I’m standin’ in a pair of four-inch high-heeled ankle strap clogs, posin’ for all the admirers. I’m surrounded by a buncha thick, hamhock ’n biscuit-eatin’muhf*ckas buzzin’ all ’round a bitch. And they all look like they got some big-ass country cock.
That’s right, muhf*ckas…all eyes on me! The booga bitches up in here roll they eyes or suck they teeth, but you know a top-dolla bitch ain’t pressed ’bout no shit like that. This is my third round on the table housin’ muhf*ckas. Although a bitch is ready to get outta this costume—the curly bob wig, green contacts, and wire-framed glasses—I’m enjoyin’ the fact of knowin’ I’ma finally be able to get at this nigga.
“Eight ball, corner pocket,” I say, bendin’ ova the table just a taste to give ’em all a sneak peek of my fluffy ass cheeks. I hear a few niggas mumble shit when I stand or bend in front of ’em as I go ’round the pool table.
“Ooooh-weee. Looka-here, looka-here, that purty young thang got some sweet cakes on her.”
“I’d sop her up with a biscuit any day.”
I ig the comments, let ’em talk what they talk as I pop my hips up in they faces. My eyes sweep ’cross the room, takin’ in all the stares and sideway glances. I grin, lovin’ the attention. I chalk my pool stick, then sink the ball into the pocket. Muhf*ckas start clappin’ ’n shit.
“Aiight, who wanna get whipped next?” I say, lookin’ directly at my target ’cross the room. He’s at’a table playin’ cards wit’ three otha muhf*ckas. A bitch is feelin’ frisky and ready to earn a lil’ lunch money in the process. I look ’round the room, know-in’ aint’ nobody in here ready to bring it. I turn it up a notch when I peep my mark eyein’ me on the otha side of the room. He’s kept his eyes on me practically the whole night, which is exactly how it’s ’posed to be. I can tell the nigga is likin’ what he’s seein’. Dumb muhf*cka, too bad I gotta take you outta ya misery. “I gotta gee for da baddest muhf*cka up in here who thinks they can handle me on da table.” I open my bag, pullin’ out a wad’a bills, wavin’ it in the air, then tossin’ ten Ben Frankies on the pool table. A few niggas shift in they seats; some move away from the table ’cause they pockets are on low. “Goin’ once, goin’ twice…”
“Rack ’em up, shorty,” this deep, boomin’ voice says behind me. I glance ova my shoulder. There’s a big, black greasy-ass muhf*cka walkin’ up on me, grinnin’. And the muhf*cka gotta nerve to have a nice smile. I turn to face ’im. I cringe when I spot two brown-skinned boogas wit’ ’im. Mygaaawd, they some big linebacka bitches. One of ’em is a real live amazon. She’s ’bout five-eleven, and a good two hundred-and fifty-plus pounds wit’ humongous-ass titties bustin’ outta some kinda blouse that crisscrosses in the front. And she has a set’a ’xtra juicy dick sukas. The bitch kinda reminds me of a moose. It looks like all she does is sit on her fat ass stuffin’ her big face wit’ muthaf*ckin’ Ho Ho’s and Ring Dings. The other ho is tall, too; but not as hefty. She looks like a chipmunk, though, wit’ er chubby cheeks and two big front teeth. I peep the booga has more stomach than titties. And the bitch is rockin’ a black dress wit’ some kinda powder blue sash—a f*ckin’ sash?!—wrapped ’round what I guess is supposed to be her waist. Mmmph, straight country coon-trash, I think, shiftin’ my eyes. I gotta hurry da f*ck up outta this hick-ass town wit’ they backward-ass fashion.
I smirk. “Oh, you ain’t said nuthin’ but a word, Big Man. Show ya paper, and let’s get it poppin’.”
He snaps his finga at the Chipmunk wit’ the sash. She digs into her blouse pullin’ out money. She counts out ten Ben Frankies, then stuffs the rest back down in ’er titties. I take his money, count it, then scoop up my paper and hand it all to the amazon. Why I choose ’er ova the Chipmunk is beyond me.
I eye ’er, walkin’ ova to ’er. “Here, Boo, you hol’ this. But don’t hol’ on to it too tight ’cause I’ma be takin’ it back in a minute.” Big Man laughs. Tells me he digs my cockiness. Tells me is gonna beat me softly. I roll my eyes. Tell the nigga instead’a yappin’ his trap to break the balls and let the games begin.
The first round I f*ck wit’ the muhf*cka, give ’em all’a good show and let ’im win. Then I dare the nigga for anotha round; double or nuthin’. At first he wants no parts of it; p-ssy muhf*cka wants to run wit’ his change. But muhf*ckas start eggin’ ’im on, gassin’ the nigga up that it’s an easy win. The nigga starts feelin’ himself, gettin’ all caught up in the hype. Fifteen minutes later, I rock the nigga’s socks off, moppin’ ’im up off the table. Niggas start high-fivin’, and poppin’ mad shit. Big Man runs me my paper, then I step, walkin’ right into my mark.
“Hey, beautiful, I see you know how’ta handle a stick,” he says, grinnin’.
I look ’im up and down. He has on a V-neck Polo tee and a pair of faded blue jeans. His curly hair is tucked under a blue Yankee fitted. Seein’ this no-good, women beatin’ muhf*cka makes my guts churn. But my * jumps, anticipatin’ finally spinnin’ the nigga’s clock back. “That’s not da only thing I can handle.”
He stares at me as if he’s tryna remember me from somewhere. But the nigga’s only seen me once, and Juanita wasn’t the kinda ho to have a buncha flicks of me all round ’er spot, so I ain’t beat.
“Oh, is that so?” I nod. “Where you from? I can tell you ain’t from around here.” I tell ’im I rest in Cali; that I’m here for a family reunion . “Oh word? That’s wassup. How long you in town for?”
“’Til Sunday,” I lie, glancin’ ’round the room for a spot to sit. I peep two empty seats ova in the corner. “How ’bout we finish our talk ova a drink, then see what else pops off; if you know what I mean.”
“I got you. How ’bout you go grab them seats, and I’ll go get us some drinks.” He tells me they only servin’ moonshine and brandy up in this muhf*cka. Oh, and beers. I tell ’im to hit me wit’ some brandy, then walk off, feelin’ the muhf*cka starin’ at my ass as I spin off.
“Here you go,” he says, five minutes later when he comes ova, handin’ me a plastic cup. He grabs the chair next to me and sits it in front of me. He sits so he can face me. “Damn, ma, you look real familiar. You got people in New York?”
Yeah, muhf*cka, the bitch you beat into a coma. I shake my head, shiftin’ in my seat. “Not that I know of.”
“Oh, aiight. For some reason it feels like I’ve met you before.”
I stare at the nigga, then shake my head. “I doubt it. A bitch like me would definitely remember a sexy-ass muhf*cka like you,” I say, baitin’ the nigga in.
He smiles, flashin’ his chipped tooth. Muthaf*cka, I’ma be knock-in’ ya fronts out in a minute. “Oh word? You think I’m sexy?”
I slowly nod my head. “You made my p-ssy pop da minute I peeped you walk through da door,” I tell ’im, reachin’ ova and lightly touchin’ his hand.
“That’s wassup. You get on?”
I frown. No this no-good muhf*cka ain’t cokin’ it up, too. I shake my head. “No. I ain’t wit’ that shit.”
“Oh aiight. What you wit’ then?”
I lean into his ear real-sexy like, then say, “I’m wit’ a fine muhf*cka wit’ a big-ass dick f*ckin’ my p-ssy deep.”
“Daaaaamn, it’s like that? You real bold, ma. I like that shit.”
“It is what it is. I’m on vacay, and a bitch tryna have a good time, you feel me?”
He licks his lips. “I got you.” I ask the muhf*cka if he gotta girl. “Nah, I’m chillin’.”
“Good. ’Cause I’m lookin’ for good dick, not drama. You got good dick, daddy?” Of course the muhf*cka starts suckin’ his own dick, talkin’ ’bout how good the shit is; ’bout how he brings it in the sheets, makin’ bitches breakdown. Juanita pops into my head.
“Yo, you got my dick hard as hell right now. I wanna freak you, real talk. I wanna eat it up, heat it up, then beat it up. Nonstop f*ckin’, feel me?”
I keep myself from rollin’ my eyes up in my head. I laugh in his face. “Nigga, that kinda talk might work wit’ these country boogas, but you wanna impress me, you gonna have’ta pull ya dick out and show a bitch; not tell ’er.”
He flashes his crooked smile. “I dig you.” I shrug. “I’m sayin’… what’s good, ma?”
I sit back in my seat, open and close my legs real slow and sexy. Let the nigga see a bitch ain’t wearin’ no drawers. “What’s good is this hot-ass p-ssy, muhf*cka.” I cross my legs, then put the tip of the straw back up to my lips and sip on my drink.
His eyes scan my smooth cocoa-brown thighs. “Daaaamn, you got some pretty-ass legs. I’d definitely like to slide up in them hips.”
“Nigga, you couldn’t handle this p-ssy,” I say, twirlin’ my tongue ’round the straw, “so you might wanna stick to these dusty bama-freaks you got eyein’ you.” I slide the tip of the straw in and outta my mouth as if I’m suckin’ a dick. I’m done wit’ drinkin’ the shit since I know a bitch can’t spend too much time wettin’ ’er throat. Gettin’ lit ain’t on the menu, but lightin’ this muhf*cka’s dome up is. So I gotta keep it cute. A drunk bitch, can become a messy bitch. And I ain’t the one.
I stare at the panther on his forearm. Juanita’s face flashes in my head, again. Kat, this is Jawan, my fiancé…
I hear his voice in my head. Baby, you didn’t tell me she was this fine. He stares at me. “Damn, ma, you remind me of this chick I met a while back. What part of Cali did you say you were from?”
Bitch, you need’a hurry up ’n wrap this lil’ party up. I lean in and slowly lick my lips. “I didn’t. I told you I was lookin’ for some dick, so how ’bout we take this party someplace more private so I can show you where I’m from.” He looks ’round the room. “What, you scared? Let me find out you scared’a p-ssy.”
“Nah, ma. Never that.”
“That’s what ya mouth says. Now let a bitch feel what da dick says.”
“You gotta spot?” I shake my head. Tell ’im I’m sharin’ a room wit’ my moms and sista. Tell ’im we gotta move on the low. The muhf*cka tells me his papers low. Broke ass nigga, I think while tellin’ ’im I’ll front the money. I tell ’im he’ll have’ta get the room in his name. Tell ’im to wait five minutes after I slide out, then dip out and meet me at my rental—a red Mini Cooper.
I toss back the rest of my drink, then lean in his ear and whisper, “I’ma f*ck ya brains out tonight. I hope you can deliver.”
He grins. “My dick game is right, ma. I ain’t ever had no complaints.”
“We’ll see,” I say, gettin’ up. “I’ll be outside waitin’.” I walk off. The minute I get to the car, I pull out my Kat line and hit Cash up to make sure he got his crew on standby.
“No doubt, pretty-baby. We just waitin’ on you.”
“Good. I got da nigga hooked, now I’ma ’bout to reel ’im in. Here he comes now. I’ll text you all’a da info as soon as I know where he’s gonna get da room.”
“Aiiight bet.” I get ready to disconnect when he says sumthin’ else. “Aye, yo, Kat…how you feel? Ya p-ssy wet, yet, knowin’ you ’bout to body this muhf*cka?”
I laugh. “Nigga, what you think? Look, I gotta bounce.”
“Aiight, save me them drawz.” I hang up on his ass, rollin’ my eyes an suckin’ my teeth as my mark opens the passenger door and hops in my whip.
“Yo, ma, I ain’t get ya name.”
I look at ’im and reach ova and rub his crotch. “And I ain’t get yours, but that ain’t gonna stop me from f*ckin’ this dick. Now u wanna name, or you wanna f*ck?”
“F*ck,” he says, openin’ and closin’ his legs.
“Good, then let’s get to a hotel quick so I can rock ya cock.” And welcome you to da Kat Trap, muhf*cka!