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I tell him to pull out his Mandingaling. I watch as he slips his hand down into his designer sweats, lifts up and fishes out his dingdong. My pussy starts juicin’ as I open my bag and pull out my tube of Platinum Wet, then discreetly squirt some into my hand and start strokin’ his snake. It’s long and thick. Ooooh, yes, goddammit! This ain’t no dick, it’s a motherfuckin’ arm! He tells me the shit’s twelve-inches long and six-inches thick. I press my legs shut, imaginin’ this Anaconda goin’ in deep, drillin’ the oil from outta my pussy ’n ass.
My pussy twitches. My asshole clenches.
Lupe Fiasco’s “Bitch Bad” starts playin’ and I slowly stroke him, my rhythm matchin’ the beat, swirlin’ my hand over the head of his dick. It’s the size of a plum and I wanna slide down under the booth table and bite into it. Feel its juices squirt into my mouth and all over my face. But I ain’t slutty with it so I don’t.
I lean into his ear and moan. “Mmmm, you a ugly motherfucka but you gotta big-ass dick, daddy . . . mmmm . . . long, black horse-cock, niggah . . . you wanna stuff my pussy ’n ass with it . . . ?”
“Yeah, ma . . . aaah, shit yeah . . . I wanna bust ya shit up . . . ”
He puts my thong up to his nose.
“Sniff my pussy, niggah . . . ”
I quickly glide my slippery hand up ’n down and around the head. “Lick the crotch, niggah . . . you wanna taste my wet pussy?”
“Yeah, ma . . . you’se a sexy-ass bitch . . . ”
“Lick my panties, motherfucka . . . . ”
I eye the niggah as he runs his tongue all through my panties. This nasty niggah done got my pussy on my fire. I keep strokin’ him, imaginin’ his lappin’ tongue is all over my pussy. I squirt my lube into my hand, then twist my body so that I can work the niggah over with both hands, grindin’ my pussy down into the leather seats.
His voice dips to a husky whisper. “Aaah, shit, ma . . . jack that muhfuckin’ dick . . . mmmph . . . ”
I take one hand off his dick, then reach in back of me and pull out my butt plug. I place it up to his lips. Tell him to lick it. He gives me a crazy look.
“Yo, what da fuck is this?”
“It’s an ass plug. I just pulled it outta my fat ass.”
He takes it from me, glances around the club, then sniffs it.
“Lick it, niggah . . . let me see how nasty you are, motherfucka.” Reluctantly, the niggah finally licks it, then slides the shit into his greedy mouth like it’s a deep fried chicken-finger battered in ass juice. Oooh, this niggah is nasty. And I love it goddammit!
His dingaling seems to get harder—if that’s even possible. “C’mon, niggah . . . give me that dingaling juice . . . bust this dick for me, Daddy . . . ”
His head rolls back. “Fuck,” he groans over the music. The niggah don’t give a damn if someone hears him or not. But the music is on blast, so it don’t matter. I hand fuck him through three songs ’til the niggah finally shoots his cock cream all over my hands. I keep strokin’ every goddamn drop out, then let go. My hands are coated with his nut. I lick two fingers, tastin’ his cream. I lick my lips, scoopin’ some nut off my other hand, then slippin’ my fingers into his mouth. He sucks on ’em. The niggah’s warm mouth and wet tongue feels good. I pull my fingers out, then grab napkins from off the table and wipe my hands clean.
“Aaah, shit . . . you mad nasty, ma . . . ”
Of course I am, niggah!
He wipes himself off, stuffs his dingaling back down into his sweats, then pulls out a knot of green. “Yo, real shit, ma. You a bad bitch. I’m tryna see what’s good with ya sexy-ass. How can a niggah get at you, again?” He slides me the roll.
I grab the knot, tossin’ it into my bag as he slides outta the booth to let me out.
I glance around the club. Niggahs and bitches still dancin’ hard, poppin’ bottles and talkin’ shit. I don’t know if Knutz done dragged Dickalina’s ass outta the club and whooped the shit outta her or not. But what I do know is, I just nutted this niggah up outta five grand. I grin, bringin’ my attention back to him. “If you wanna get at me, you’ll find me, niggah.”
With that said, I step, leavin’ the niggah’s eyes locked on my ass as I make my way through the sea of drunk-ass niggahs and ho-ass bitches.
Yeah, ass right, pussy right, titties right . . . I’ma bad bitch!
Thirty-Seven
I’m in my bedroom with the stereo playin’, listenin’ to Adele’s CD Adele 21. “Turning Tables” is playin’ and I’m smokin’ a blunt and drinkin’ a bottle of Barefoot Moscato, mindin’ my business when my cell rings. I reach over on the bed for it, glancin’ at the screen. It’s Day’Asia’s ass. I press IGNORE, tossin’ the phone back on the bed. A few seconds later, it beeps, alertin’ me she done left a message. I close my eyes, inhalin’ smoke, then slowly blowin’ it out.
Nooo, lil’ bitch. You ain’t disruptin’ my vibe. You tried to turn the tables and do me, boo. Daughter or not, I ain’t got no convo for a bitch like you.
I hum to the melody. Oooh, this white ho knows she can sing her drawers off. I toss back my drink, then reach for the bottle and fill my glass to the rim. The kids are gone ’til tomorrow night. Well, all of ’em except Isaiah and Tyquan. Neither of ’em wanted to go with their fahvers. And the one thing I don’t ever do is force my kids to go, especially Isaiah, since I don’t like the walrus-lookin’ bitch he’s married to. It’s early in the evein’ and I’m feelin’ good. I’m gonna use the quiet to just sit and chill for a minute. No dingaling, no buncha kids, and no damn drama.
