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Bobby fell back against the couch and stared up at Chaos. He could feel his erection tearing through his boxers as he watched Chaos rip open a condom and move closer to him.
He unbuckled his pants and asked Chaos, “Why Crown gotta always be fuckin’ wit’ me? I mean, I do y’all right, pay for it when I can. But he ain’t gotta be embarrassing me in front of everyone, like I’m some herb.”
Chaos was on her knees, helping Bobby with his jeans and listening to him complain. She personally thought that Bobby was a punk, but he was cool and he was always good to her.
“I mean, damn, Chaos, two hundred? How am I gonna live for the week?” he asked himself aloud.
That wasn’t Chaos’s problem. She heard him talk, but was far from listening. She pulled out Bobby’s erection and stroked him delicately. Bobby let out a tender moan as Chaos’s soft grip clutched around his thick piece of meat. He slithered down on the couch a bit and soon forgot about Crown and the money.
“Let me relax you, baby,” Chaos crooned, moving her soft grip up and down his thick shaft.
She rolled the condom onto Bobby’s dick and positioned herself above his lap. She guided his dick into her slowly, feeling his width stretch her open as she straddled him. Bobby held Chaos tightly against him, her tits pressed against his chest, and grabbed her phat ass for a better thrust. He breathed heavily against her neck.
“Aaaaaahhh, you feel so fuckin’ good Chaos,” he moaned.
“I know, I know,” she replied, making her pussy contract against him.
Bobby moaned and panted louder. “Oh shit!”
2
Crown was still at the bar with Cherish and Midnight by his side. He sipped a Kamikaze and waited for Chaos to finish with Bobby. He was left alone by the other patrons as he schooled his hoes by the bar about gettin’ that money and eyed potential tricks from a short distance.
“All I know, is that bitch better hurry the fuck up wit’ makin’ that money. I ain’t running a 7-Eleven out this bitch,” he complained to no one in particular.
After getting screamed on, Midnight knew to speak only when spoken to, and Cherish didn’t give a fuck about the situation. She had her eyes on a potential trick and knew that with Crown’s permission, she could come up with some cash for the night for him.
Crown downed his drink and then said to his hoes, “Yo, y’all bitches go do what y’all do and don’t fuckin’ come back here empty handed. Go make me that muthafuckin’ money.”
“You know it, Daddy,” Cherish said and walked toward the nigga that had been eyeing her for a minute.
Crown turned his attention away from his hoes and said to the bartender, “Yo, let me get another one.”
His long white mink was sparkling clean and his jewelry gleamed like the sun itself. His long permed hair rested against his shoulders like he was royalty. He was like a fashionable monument placed in the middle of the bar—an icon for what a pimp should be.
“Yo, Crown, I don’t know how you have your chicks in control the way that you do,” Angel, the bartender, said with a hint of admiration in his voice. He was always amazed by Crown’s way with the ladies and how he controlled them like puppets on a long string.
“Angel, them bitches is like my dogs. Once you train them right, you ain’t never gotta worry about them biting the hand that feeds them,” Crown boasted.
Angel laughed as he poured Crown’s drink. He shook his head and said, “Man, if I could be you for one day.”
“Ain’t no college degree in pimping, Angel. Trying to be like me would take a lifetime to learn. When God made me, He knew I was only born to be a pimp,” Crown said.
“I hear that.”
Crown downed his second drink. He noticed YB come into the bar, flanked by his cousin, Rufus.
“Muthafucka,” Crown mouthed.
He and YB had an ongoing beef for months because YB was one of the few who didn’t fea
r Crown. YB thought Crown was a weak loudmouth. He hated niggas from New York coming into his hometown and acting like they were running shit.
YB eyed Crown from a short distance and a smirk appeared across his face. He nudged his cousin Rufus and said, “Look at this clown-ass nigga here.”
Rufus chuckled and knew it was about to be on. He and his cousin were straight hoods from the west side of Philly. They were into everything from drugs to murder and were two of the most feared men in the city.
YB was a tall figurehead, 6’2” with long braids that reached down his back and striking, smooth dark skin like the night itself. Ladies considered him easy on the eyes, but you could see that he lived a hard life. He hardly smiled and the scar that lined his right cheekbone was an illustration of the harsh life he’d lived since he was five years old.
