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“Aaaah, fuck…oh shit…yeah, this some good-ass pussy…uh, uh, uh…y’all got a nigga’s head spinning…”
“Fuck us, nigga! Beat the pussy up…” Paris taunts, pinching her nipples. “Make my pussy cry…uhh…mmmm…”
“Aaah, shit…goddamn it…
For the next forty-five minutes, Paris, Persia and I fuck every inch of Irwin until he is literally slurring his words. He wanted to fuck a room full of strippers, and that’s exactly what we gave him. Three hot, slutty-ass strippers who we let fuck us in the pussy, ass and throat. Drained and wobbly, he doesn’t stumble up out of here until almost three in the morning.
Porsha
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lord, puhleeeeeze don’t let this day turn into a nightmare, I think as Paris pulls up to the elegant country house known as the Manor in West Orange. Amidst its hand-carved ice sculptures and ornate flowers, the restaurant is considered one of the best places to dine in this area. And I must agree. It is wonderful. And it’s where our mother wanted to meet for Sunday brunch with the three of us; something we haven’t done in over a year. And, relunctantly, Persia and I agreed. I suppose this is Mother’s peace offering. But right at this moment, I’m anything but peaceful. I’m on pins and needles, hoping she doesn’t say or do anything that’s going to set Persia off. She’s already on edge, anticipating a conflict. And honestly, I believe it’s what she wants. A reason to make a scene and curse our mother
out. Growing up, that seemed to always be Persia’s mission; to do and say things to antagonize her. I’m silently praying that today isn’t one of those times.
We’ve all been quiet for the most part of the ride here. Persia’s stared out of the passenger window and I’ve been texting, well sexting, back and forth with Emerson. He has my pussy sizzling with anticipation for what’s to come later today. I can’t get enough of him. My pussy, my body, my lips long for his mouth, his tongue, his touch. Thoughts of his hard-body pressed against the softness of mine makes me want to pull out my mini-vibrator, pull my panties to the side and fuck myself right here in the backseat. I press my thighs together. Text him, let him know how wet I am. Let him know how horny I am.
Paris glances at me through her rearview mirror, then cuts her eyes over at Persia, who’s in the vanity mirror gliding a coat of lipgloss over her neatly painted lips. “Geesh, girl, you over there acting like we’re about to walk into a funeral.”
Persia grunts, flipping up the visor, looking over at her. “Mmmph. More like walking into hell.”
“It won’t be that hot,” I say, smiling at the picture he’s just sent of his hard dick. He tells me it’s all mine.
“Please,” Persia says, craning her neck to look at me, “that woman’s a dragon and you know it.”
Paris waves her hand dismissively. “Whatever. Let’s go in and try to have a nice time.” She opens her door and hands the attendant her keys as we step out of the vehicle. The three attendants blink, then do double-takes as we walk by. The three of us, heeled, bagged and dressed like runway models, flash them smiles, making our way to the door. “Persia, can you at least try to give Mom the benefit of the doubt? Don’t go in with a shitty ass attitude, looking for something to go wrong, please.”
“Yeah, Persia,” I tease. “Don’t start pissing on fires that aren’t lit, yet.”
She huffs, glancing over her shoulder to get a quick look at the young, buffed Italian guy who’s standing outside with an older woman waiting on their car. “Fine, but the minute she cranks it up, I’m going to get up and walk out. And if she goes too far, I’m going to embarrass her.”
Paris huffs. “Persia, stop being such a bitch; damn. We haven’t even gotten to our table and you’re already picking a damn fight.”
“I’m not looking for a fight. I’m stating a fact. But, whatever. I don’t even like this stuffy ass place. I would’ve preferred Sweet Basil’s instead.”
“Well, get over it,” Paris says as we walk into the restaurant. “It’s not always about you.”
Our mother is already inside, waiting. She glances at her timepiece when she sees us. It’s twelve-twenty five. We have a twelve-thirty seating. “You must’ve driven,” she says to Paris knowingly, as Paris walks over and gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Otherwise…” Paris shoots her a look that keeps her from saying more.
“Hello, Mom” I say, kissing her. She greets me, kissing me back.
“Hello, Mother,” Persia says, half-heartedly.
I can tell Mother’s taken aback that Persia doesn’t give her a kiss as well. Paris squints at her. I raise my brow. And she acquiesces. Mother smiles and says, “The three of you look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” we say in unison. There’s a nervous energy between us, the four of us apprehensive and cautious. Remembering the last time we met for brunch at Galloping Hill in Union and how it ended. Everything was going good up until Mother, being her opinionated self, felt it necessary to remind us of how nasty she thought we were for still sleeping with the same men. Well, that didn’t sit well with Persia.
“No, Mother,” Persia had said through clenched teeth. “What’s nasty is you staying with a man you knew was a whoremonger. So what if he was your husband and our father? You still knew he was shoving his dick in other women. What, were you that damn dick-whipped? Or were you so desperate to hold onto him? You have a lot of damn nerve, always judging us.”
Needless to say, Mother was embarrassed. Persia stood up and practically told her to kiss her ass, then spun on her heels and strutted out the door with Paris and I following right behind her.
So today, we try this again, hoping for a better outcome. I bring my attention back to Mother; tell her how lovely she looks. Even Persia agrees. She’s wearing a beautiful cream pantsuit with a silk emerald green blouse. Her neck is adorned with the emerald and diamond choker the three of us bought her for her fiftieth birthday. Her shoulder-length hair is neatly coiffed in a French-roll.
After two rounds of mimosas, Paris, Mother and I are relaxed, having lively banter while we feast on shrimp and lobster. And Persia is sitting here being…shitty. She keeps glancing at her watch like she has someplace better to be and rolling her eyes up in her head anytime Mother opens her mouth to say something. This childish shit is starting to really get on my last nerve. Mother also notices it.
“Persia, so how are things going with you?”
“Fine,” she answers curtly.
