AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER ONE
They say the closest ones to ya are the same ones who’ll sneak up behind ya and stick the knife through ya. Sleepin’ on me is your biggest mistake. Close ya eyes, and ya’ll find ya’self in a river of blood. One for the money, one for the nut, one bullet to the skull…nigga, what?!
My name is Katrina, Kat for short. Voluptuous, vivacious, and vicious—at five-feet-eight, a buck-twenty-five, I’m that bitch. Be clear. Fine, fly, and fabulous with a wicked brain game and a fat, wet, deep pussy so good it makes a nigga shake the minute I wrap my walls around his dick. I’m that chick with the small waist and the Hottentot Venus ass: big, round, and juicy. The kinda ass that makes a nigga’s jaw drop and his neck snap every time I walk past. Niggas love it when I make my bootie bounce, shake, and clap for ’em. With my cinnamon skin, shoulder-length hair, thick lashes wrapped around chinky eyes, I am a hood goddess. I’m that chick the bitches bow down to, and niggas worship. I was born and bred in Brooklyn, a product of one of the most notorious housing projects known for drugs and murders. If you’re an uninvited or unwanted guest, beware. You might get in, but you comin’ out either slashed up, beat down, or bodied.
I’ma keep it real cute for ya. Ain’t shit sweet ’bout life on the compound—the hood, the concrete jungle. It’s ruthless. Game recognizes game. And ya either learn to play hard or get played. Ya either eat or be eaten. It’s that simple. Make no mistake: The hood don’t give a fuck ’bout you or the next chick. And it definitely ain’t beat for what the next nigga’s into. You either handle ya business or get handled. Ain’t no way ’round it. I ain’t tryna make excuses. It is what it is. I learned how to handle mine without sellin’ my ass, or suckin’ a string of dicks in alleyways or up on somebody’s rooftop. I studied the game, watched its playas, and mastered the rules without stuntin’ on the next bitch, or hustlin’ a nigga off his grip. I ain’t have to claw or scheme my way up to nobody’s top. I’m from Brooklyn, baby! I kicked open the muhfuckin’ door of opportunity, smashed out its windows, and fuckin’ snatched my spot ’cause I’m that bitch.
So, if ya lookin’ to hear me spit some whack-ass story ’bout some fast-assed little ho from the hood stretched out on a pissy mattress in shit-stained panties, eating dry-ass cereal out of a dirty-assed plastic bowl watching cartoons on a busted-ass black-and-white TV while counting roaches, then you got the wrong one. If ya wanna hear ’bout a bitch goin’ hungry ’cause her moms sold her food stamps to get high, nope…not gonna get it. If ya lookin’ to hear ’bout some young chick who got her ass beat with extension cords, razor straps, and switches because she was too hot in the ass, then ya might as well step now, ’cause that ain’t what I’m here to serve ya. Yeah, we had roaches, okay…who didn’t? But I never got my ass beat, always had food to eat, and I ain’t never laid around on no pissy-assed mattress.
Uh, yeah, a bitch was born poor. Yeah, my moms was clockin’ welfare, and? Her ass still worked, though. And she gave me what she thought I needed, which—outside of food and a roof over my head—was close to nothin’. Fuck what I wanted. No, she wasn’t on crack or dope or a fuckin’ drunk. Maybe she shoulda been. But I can’t give ya no fucked-up tales of watchin’ her smoke up, shoot up, or snort up. And I can’t tell ya jack ’bout no tricks or johns runnin’ up in her pussy all hours of the day and night. Sellin’ her ass wasn’t her thing. Yeah, she went through men like water, and moved one in after the other…okay, and? That’s her
story, not mine. She did her thing, and I learned to do mine.
Yeah, I knew…uh, I mean, know, who the fuck my father was/is, so? It ain’t like the nigga ever did anything for me. Besides hustlin’ and robbin’ niggas, the only good thing he ever did was donate his nut to my moms, a half-Spanish, half-black chick who spit me outta her hairy pussy when she was sixteen. Other than that, goin’ in and out of prison and breakin’ my mom’s heart was the only thing his sorry ass was good for. Be clear. I ain’t hatin’ on dude. He was a street nigga who tried to get in where he fit in. From breakin’ into cars to burglaries to drug dealin’ to numerous parole violations to runnin’ with known felons to fuckin’ any unsuspectin’ trick willin’ to spread open her legs and her wallet, he was a rebel, down for whateva.
The hood raised him. Bitches praised him. And the streets and pussy were what turned their backs on him when his black ass got popped fifteen years ago. Now he was on lock for another ten years for an aggravated assault he didn’t commit, and drug charges for shit that wasn’t his. But the nigga ain’t a snitch. Turnin’ state’s evidence on his niggas was outta the question. That’s the code he lived by, and one he’d proudly die by. That’s how the real niggas get down. So fuck what ya heard ’bout me needin’ him. A bitch can’t miss what she never had! Other than sharin’ the same DNA, the only thing dude and I will ever have in common is our love for the benjamins. Believe that!
So, you wanna know what’s really good with a bitch like me? Then I’ll tell ya. I’ma give it to ya straight, no chaser—as real and as raw as it gets. I fuck for sport. But I murder for business. And because most muhfuckas are so driven by lust and the desire for good pussy and a slow, wet dick suck, it doesn’t take much for me to lure ’em into their own death traps. My mission is simple: Wet a nigga’s dick, then put a bullet in his skull, or in his chest, just before he cracks his nut. That’s right. Send his ass to his grave with his eyes rolled up in his head and a smile on his face before he ever knows what hit his ass.
Make no mistake. This shit ain’t ’bout love. It ain’t ’bout revenge. And it surely ain’t personal. In this business, there’s no time for compassion or sympathy. And there’s no room for regret. It’s ’bout clockin’ that paper. And a bitch like me gets paid by the body. Welcome to the Kat Trap, muhfuckas…it’s ’bout to get poppin’!
CHAPTER TWO
“Lay back, nigga, and let me wet your dick with my pussy,” I said, mountin’ my target for the night, then slammin’ my hot, wet snatch down on his long, black cock. I leaned forward, brushin’ my perfectly rounded titties with their Hershey kiss nipples against his lips as I galloped up and down on his brick-hard dick, positionin’ myself so that the shaft of his pole stroked my clit while I rode him down into the hotel mattress. I slowly lifted up, used my pussy muscles to milk the head of his dick, then slammed back down. I repeated it. Up. Down. Up. Down. Bounced and twirled my hips, buryin’ e’ery thick inch of him deep inside me until I had the nigga beggin’ me, until I had him practically slurrin’ his words.
“You like this wet pussy, nigga? You like this pussy grabbin’ ya dick?”
“Uh…uh…Oh, fuck yeah! Oh, shit! Ride that dick, baby.”
I glanced over at the digital clock on the oak wood nightstand. It read 11:42. I had been fuckin’ dude for almost forty minutes and was determined to cum for the third time before I sealed his fate. Murder made me no never mind. I didn’t ask no questions, didn’t want no answers. The less I knew, the better. The only thing I needed to know was: when, where, and who.
Easy cum, easy go, I thought as I took in my target’s face. The nigga had the nerve to be fuckin’ fine. Deep, dark chocolate-coated, broad-shouldered nigga with waves that spun so deep a bitch could get seasick just starin’ at ’em. His eyes were slits of lust, his face slick with sweat as he thrust upward, matchin’ my rhythm stroke for stroke, stabbin’ my pussy, stokin’ the fire that ignited inside me. Damn! And the nigga had some good dick. Too bad that in another few minutes it’d be a wrap for his ass. I didn’t give a fuck. Wasn’t shit I could do about it, even if I wanted to. His time on this earth was limited. The mother-fucka was on borrowed time, and didn’t even know it. Oh, well.
The clock ticked in my head. His life meant nothing to me. I didn’t give a fuck whether or not he had a wife and kids, and I definitely didn’t give a fuck how his family’s world would be after tonight. The only thing I cared about was gettin’ my fuck on, bustin’ a nut, and puttin’ this snitch-ass nigga outta his misery. My pussy got hotter and wetter just thinkin’ about my next move. “You ready to nut for me, big daddy?” I asked, clampin’ my pussy around his throbbin’ dick.
“Damn, ma, you got some killa pussy. Ah…uh. Shit. This pussy is mad tight. Yeah, baby. Just like that. Got my dick wetta than a muhfucka,” he said in between his moans, grunts, and groans.
If you only knew, I thought, smilin’. “That’s right, make my pussy cum, nigga,” I whispered into his left ear. “Fuck this pussy. Give me that nut, daddy. Yeah, nigga, just like that…fuck this pussy…Mmmm, give me that nut.” The lower I spoke, the harder he jabbed his dick in me. “Oh, yes,” I moaned. I sucked on his ear lobe, then stuck the tip of my tongue into his ear. “Oooh, daddy, this dick feels so good. You ready to give me that hot nut?”
“Yeah, baby, I’m ’bout to spit. Oh, shit. Damn, girl.”
I cut my eyes over at the clock again: 11:52. I quickly gazed down at the unsuspectin’ victim beneath me. He was ’bout to bust his dick milk. I smiled. And in one swift move, I reached up under the pillow and pulled out my shiny black silencer gun.
“Oh, shit! Oh, shit! I’m cuuuuming, baaa—” Theessrrpp! Before he could finish, before he could get his nut off, I shot him dead center in his forehead. Mission complete, I thought, pullin’ myself up off this dead nigga’s still stiff dick.
I stared at his lifeless body, silently admired his perfectly chiseled abs and his big, black dick, then yanked off the condom and dropped it into a Ziploc baggie. I licked my lips, watchin’ his nut spurt and run outta the tip of his dick. I shook off the thought of lickin’ it up from ’round his big, hairy balls, diggin’ into my Gucci satchel and pullin’ out a bottle of rubbin’ alcohol and a pack of wipes. I started wipin’ him down. Leavin’ a trail of clues that could potentially lead back to me was not an option. I was a stickler for details and there was no room for bein’ sloppy, which is why I always did my dirt solo.
When I finished wipin’ all the evidence off the corpse sprawled out in the middle of the bed with his dick slick from his own juices, I pulled the sheets from underneath him, rolled them up in a tight ball, then stuffed them in a bag. I glanced at the nigga lyin’ on the bare mattress one last time before pickin’ the spread up from off the floor, then tossin’ it over his body. I had seen enough, and needed to get the hell outta there. I had about twenty minutes before the “clean-up” crew came through to dispose of the body, or do whatever the fuck else it is they did. I just knew I wasn’t trustin’ no niggas I didn’t know or hadn’t seen before to make sure my fingaprints and pussy juice wasn’t still lingerin’ all over the place.
I went into the bathroom, wiped my soakin’ wet pussy with some tissue, then used several baby wipes to give myself a whore bath. When I was done, I quickly dressed, slipped on my white gloves, then slid my feet into my Jimmy Choo mules. I straightened my burgundy wig, then applied a fresh coat of burgundy-wine lipstick to my full, soft, made-for-dick-suckin’ lips. Satisfied that everything was dusted off and in place, I shut off the bathroom light, then strutted toward the door. On my way out, I caught my reflection in the mirror and almost didn’t like what I saw starin’ back at me: the slanted, eyes of a cold-blooded killa. I shook the image from my mind, and pressed out the door and toward the elevators.
