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He frowns, furrows his brows. “Fuck no. You know I don’t get down with no shit like that.”
I smile, pulling him into me by his neck, then lightly kiss him on the lips. I slip my tongue into his mouth, then pull back. I stroke him. He strokes Porsha. He moans. She moans.
“What’s my name?” I ask him.
“Mmmph...Pleasure.”
“No, nigga, wrong sister. What’s...”—I slam my rubber dick in him; grind my hips into his—“my...”—I pull it out, leaving only the head in, tip-drilling him—“name?”
My pussy is leaking.
He grunts.
Porsha grunts.
Paris grunts.
I stretch and pull open his ass cheeks as far as they’ll go. Watch my dildo glide in and out. Watch his tight hole slurp it in. I am so turned on by the sight. Oh how I love a man who submits every inch of himself to me. Sweat drips from my face, drops onto his back. I reach up under him, grab at his balls, then yank them. “What’s my name, nigga?”
“Pain,” he finally says, arching his back and clutching and clawing the sheets. “Aaaah, fuck, baby...ohhhh shit, baby...uhhh... you’re hitting that spot.” I continue my pace, deep stroking him. He bucks his hips into Porsha. I buck mine into him. Then pull my—well, not mine, but you know what I mean—dick out to the head, tip drill him again, then plunge back into his loosened man hole. He chants over and over how I’m hitting his spot. Porsha chants how he’s hitting hers. The two of them are feeling the pressure building; his prostrate to her G-spot. I continue my pace. He continues his. I count my strokes. He counts his. I switch my rhythm. He switches his. He is focused on fucking the shit out of Porsha. I am determined to fuck the shit out of him.
Persia cranes her neck, looks back at him and me. A mixture of delightful pleasure and disgust etched on her face. She hates herself for loving this scene. “Aaaah, shit...oooh, the dick is good... beat my pussy up...”
I cut my eyes over at Paris who is now wide-eyed, looking up at us with her mouth slightly parted. She licks her lips.
“Tear...his...ass...up,” she encourages in between groans of pleasure. She is clearly in her own zone. She has sped up the thrusts and the machine’s arm is power-fucking her so fast it almost looks like steam is coming from out of her pussy. “Fuck... her...good, Damon...ooooh...”
She gasps as the machine’s fucking-arm slams in and out of her. Her head thrashes from side to side. Her eyes flutter and roll back in her head. Her body shakes.
Damon grabs Porsha’s hips, speeds his thrusts. “Oh shit...I wanna nut...oh fuuuuck...I feel it coming...”
“Nooooo,” Porsha whines. “I wanna suck your dick first, then let you nut all over my face.”
He pulls his dick out of her. I slowly pull the dildo out of him. We’re all sweating and panting. He yanks the condom off as Porsha quickly hangs her head over the side of the bed. Damon stands over her and feeds her his cock. He leans forward, plays with her clit while I pull open his cheeks and slide back in. I grind my hips into him. He grinds his hips into Porsha’s face. She has his dick all the way down in her throat, reaching up and massaging his balls. She lightly squeezes them.
“Ohhhh...shiiiit...ohhh fuck...”
“You like this dick in you?” I ask him, knowingly. But I ask anyway because I like hearing the answer. I slap him on his ass again. He grunts, pulls his cock out of Porsha’s throat. She reaches between her legs and plays with herself. Damon’s tongue hangs outta the side of his mouth. He is panting like a puppy in heat. I pull out again, slowly rotate my hips and slide back in. Repeat the process three more times, then slam back into him. Slow grind. Tip drill. Slam. Slow grind. Tip drill. Slam.
Damon shudders; grunts again. “Uh...uh...uh...aaaaah... ooooh, fuuuck...”
Two minutes later, without hands, lips, or tongue on his cock, he shoots his nut over Porsha’s head; his cum splattering all over her stomach and titties. He smears his creamy dick over her lips. I watch on as she licks the head, then slips him deep into her mouth, sucking him back to life.
Paris
CHAPTER NINE
“Hello, Paradise Boutique?” I answer, folding a multicolored pile of designer tees.
“Wassup, Paradise? Can a brotha finally get your name?” the familiar voice asks. Against my will, I smile at the sound of his deep, sexy voice. “Or do I have to keep coming in droppin’ paper?”
“Sir, who’s speaking?” I ask, suppressing a giggle.
“Oh, here we go wit’ this. I’m the tall, dark, handsome bruh who came in and copped two expensive-ass pocketbooks for my moms. Don’t front like you don’t remember me, ma.”
“Mmmm, I don’t recall any man with that description coming in here,” I tease. “And we don’t call them pocketbooks. They’re handbags and clutches.”
“Yeah, aiiiight, Paradise. Let you tell it. But, let me come through and refresh ya memory.” The shop’s door opens. I crane my neck over my shoulder to see who is walking in and almost drop the phone.
