Candy Licker (15 page)

Javier sucked my clit between his lips so good I almost started humming. Instead, I coughed and tried to smile. “Okay. Um … excuse me. Uh, do you have your ticket?”

The husband started patting himself down, searching for the little blue stub. “I must have left it on the table,” he said, and walked back toward the dining room. I was praying his wife would follow him, but instead, she was staring at me like she was trying to figure me out.

“You don't look so good,” she said, peering closely into my face. “You're perspiring and your skin looks flushed. Are you coming down with something?”

“Yesssss,” I sighed, my eyes rolling upward as I tried not to throw my head back. Javier's tongue was teasing my asshole, and he'd inserted his thumb in my pussy. He pumped it slowly in and out, and he used his other four fingers to massage my wet mound. “Um …” I wanted to moan, but instead I let out a weak, fake-ass
ha-choo.
“Something's going around. Don't come too close. It must be c-c-catching.”

She got out my face real quick then. “I'll just go help my husband,” she said, backing away. “You know, look for the ticket.”

The minute she turned her back on me I reached back and pinched Javier's ear until that shit bled. He yelped and took his suction-cup lips off me and pulled his hands out of my pussy.

“What you do that for?” he said, cupping his ear. “You was getting off girl. You liked it!”

He was right. I liked it all right, but I wasn't trying to get caught with him in no coatroom! I was so tongue whipped I could barely stand. By the time the couple came back for their coats I had them off the hanger and ready for them.

“Sorry,” the husband said, shaking his head and holding out his hands. “I guess I must have lost it. I can show you ID if you want, but those are our coats.”

I gave him a big smile as the wife stood back, eyeing me suspiciously.

“That won't be necessary,” I reassured him. “I know these are yours. I remember you from when you came in.”

I gave them their coats and then asked one of the waitresses to watch the room while I went to the bathroom. I got in there and wet my face with some cold water, then soaked a paper towel and went into a stall and dabbed at my damp pussy. Javier had eaten me out until I was sore. If I could have snapped his head off his body and taken it home with me, I would have slept with his face between my legs all night long.

My pussy had got to percolating as I thought about Javier's tongue, and I was just about to slip my fingers into my pants and get me a quick nut when Hurricane walked into our bedroom. He had just finished working out in his gym, and he stood in the middle of the room and stripped out of his sweaty clothes.

I must have been in a serious need-some-pussy-licking zone, because I damn near committed suicide.

“Whassup?” he said standing in front of me butt naked and scratching his balls.

I glanced up, saw his baby dick, and chuckled. “Not a damn thing.”

The next thing I knew I was flat on my face with monster punches raining down on the back of my head. I screamed and tried to run up the steps and jump on the bed, but he followed me right on up, kicking me in my back and fucking me up. I scrambled around on the bed trying to get away from him, and that niggah snatched me by my shirt and tossed me into the air. I landed on the floor by the dresser, banging my shoulder and yelling for Joog or Butter or anybody to come help my ass.

Hurricane leaped off that bed like a goddamn frog, and it was only God who helped me roll over fast enough to keep him from landing on my head.

“Bitch!” he screamed, and dragged me into the bathroom.

“Please, Cane!” I begged. I was trying to get away, but I wasn't crazy enough to swing no blows like I was bad enough to fight him back. “What I do, boo?” I screamed. “Huh? What did I do?”

He yanked me over to the toilet bowl and lifted the seat. Rage was in him as he stared down at me and he looked like the devil. “You gone make me kill your simple ass.”

I screamed for real when I saw what he was planning. That niggah was fittin’ to give me a swirlie, and when he tried to dunk my head in the bowl I fought him like he was that old white trick who had almost killed me and Mama.

For a minute I took him by surprise.

Then he regrouped. “Oh, so you a bad bitch, huh? You wanna fight back?”

My whole head was in that bowl before I could draw a quick breath, and I sucked in a mouthful of toilet water that should have been air.

I came up sputtering and choking, freaked the hell out. But Hurricane wasn't finished with me yet.

“All you trifling bitches are just alike!” he screamed. He grabbed the back of my head and dunked me in again, then reached up and flushed the damn toilet. Still cursing, he squeezed my neck between his fingers as cold water ran up my nose burning and choking me, and all I could do was hold my breath and pray the toilet would hurry up and flush and the water would empty out.

When he finally let me go I sat on that bathroom floor and cried loud as hell. I knew Long Jon and them other niggahs had probably heard me hollering. But I was Hurricane's housewife, his property, and playas like them believed whatever a man felt like doing to what was his was his God-given right.

Hurricane just stood there and stared at me like, There. Talk some more shit about my dick if you want to, then he turned around and walked out the bathroom.

I was trying to stand up when I heard his voice.

“Stay your black ass down there.”

“W-w-what?” I sniffed back tears as toilet bowl water ran from my hair.

He spoke in the voice of a maniac. “You heard me, Candy. Crawl your ass in here. On your hands and on your mother-fuckin’ knees.”

I was so scared, what could I do?

I crawled.

Out of the bathroom, across the plush carpet, and over to where he stood, water dripping from my hair and tears falling from my eyes.

“Wash me.”

I looked up at him, confused as hell. He never even wanted to take a shower with me, let alone asked me to wash his body.

“Gimme a bath, Candy.”

I was about to stand up and head back in the bathroom when he brought his foot up and mushed me dead in the mouth with his big nasty toes. “With your tongue, bitch. Gimme a bath with your
tongue.”

That's right. I had to lick that rusty niggah from his ankles to his ears. It was all about humiliation, and I knew it. First his and now mine.

He had salt coming all off of him. Salt and funk, and he stood there grilling me as I licked him like he was my favorite flavor Tootsie Roll Pop. He had the nerve to cock open his legs when I got to his heavy, sweaty balls, and he wanted those licked top and bottom, under and above. My mouth was dry and I was gagging inside the whole time, but I made damn sure he didn't see it.

“No,” he said as I lifted his mini-dick and held it with two fingers. He slapped my hand away and covered up his cheesy little wee-wee, then turned around.

“Now lick my ass.”

I got to licking.

I was finishing up the right cheek and starting on the left one when somebody banged on the door.

“Cane!” called a deep voice. “It's Knowledge, man. We got
some hot business to handle, boss. Let's take a quick ride. There's money to be made.”

They say money talks and bullshit walks. Well, Knowledge represented money, and little old me? Hey, I was just some old bullshit that Hurricane had rescued out of a mobster's trunk.

I walked.

T
he day after he gave me that nasty toilet swirlie, Hurricane surprised me with a gorgeous gift.

“This for you, ma,” he said. We'd just come home from the House after a big all-night recording session. Butter was sitting right in the front lounge getting his dick sucked by some groupie he had brought home, and everybody else was chilling in the kitchen where Sissy was cooking breakfast for us. Hurricane made sure the whole household was watching before he gave me the gift. I took the box and just stared at it.

“Go 'head.” He waved his hand. “Open that shit up. I ain't got all day.”

I opened the box and stared into it before taking out my gift and holding it up so everybody could admire it. It was a 24-karat bracelet that had a trio of nice-sized diamonds on the band and three classy little charms.

And that was just the first peace offering. I noticed real quick that every time Hurricane dogged me out he bought me something def By the end of the month I had three new pairs of diamond
earrings, a platinum and pearl choker, and two dainty white-gold rings rimmed in rubies. That might sound phat, but believe it. For every piece of jewelry Hurricane gave me, he put a scar on my body to match it.

And I wasn't the only one taking blows. Now I knew why the chicks in his mansion stayed iced out. Fatima was a straight redbone, and she had more black-and-blue bruises, busted lips, and black eyes than I could count. But her man Joog kept her gear tight. Jewels, hair, nails, shoes—she had it on lock in all those areas. That's when she wasn't too dented up to leave the goddamn house.

And Peaches. We won't even go there. Fatima had been right. That chick was brain damaged to the bone. Long Jon was a master bitch-beater. I'd seen him mush her in the face with his size 13 boot. While that shit was still on his foot. Later on I found out that this was the usual for some high-profile thug rappers and even a few of the more hard-core ballers. They got so hyped on their money and their gangsta image they started believing they were entitled to kick a bitch's ass whenever she got out of pocket. Just look at them chicks who hung heavy with some of our big-name rappers. Bruised up and hiding behind designer glasses 'cause they tripped over their pussies and banged their eyeballs on the floor. Remember Big Pun's housewife, Liza? And all that shit that was said by Charli Baltimore? I ain't saying all rappers and ballers were wife-beaters, but a hella whole lot of them coulda hung that label around their necks right next to them phat-ass platinum crosses.

So where did that leave sistahs like me who had uncontrollable niggahs who liked to throw blows? As much as I had dreamed of having my name in the media and my songs on the
charts, I was beginning to wonder if it would actually feel as sweet as I thought it would. My life was too damn controlled for me to be so young. If I wasn't in the studio rehearsing I was at the crib ducking blows. When I wasn't doing that, I was sneaking on the spare computer and hanging out in sexy chat rooms or participating in hot cybersex. Basically, I was abused and defiant and bored out of my mind. I was tired of masturbating and fantasizing. I wanted to be handled. I wanted my shit done right. I wanted my titties sucked. I wanted to feel some tongue on my clit and a nice thick pipe in my pussy. Instead, I had to satisfy myself with future visions of stardom and get off on that.

I'm not gonna lie. In the back of my mind I'd known shit wasn't all the way right with Hurricane almost from the beginning, especially in the sheets, but I'd ignored it because he was a true warrior when it came down to making music, and he knew exactly how to cut top sellers. He got hold of Scandalous! and made changes in our style and in our pitch that fucked all our heads up they were so good. It didn't matter how much he beat my ass or how bored or horny I was laying next to him in bed. Hurricane was putting it down heavy for me in the studio, and careerwise, that's where it counted.

Plus, Vonnie and Dom were hyped. We were excited as hell about this new direction our lives were taking, although it seemed like I was the one who had to pay all the dues. Anytime Hurricane got his ass on his shoulders, something of ours went out the window and it was my job to get it back. They didn't understand that I was just another possession to Hurricane. They thought since I was in his bed that meant I had his heart in my hand and my mouth to his ear, so my girls were pimping
the mess out of me for stuff we hadn't even earned yet like limo service, jewelry, clothes, restaurants, you name it. He even sent us on shopping sprees when he was feeling nice. Saks, Nord-strom, Macy's, Bloomingdale's. We tore them stores up. But let Hurricane get mad because somebody was a half a second late for rehearsals or one of us wasted studio time by forgetting lyrics or singing off-key. That fool nutted up like he was Ike Turner. Fuck sending the limo down to Brooklyn. Y'all bitches betta walk or take the train. Oh, so y'all hungry and ain't had lunch? No more freebies up in my rib shack. Dig some damn Tootsie Rolls or a bag of Doritos outta that goddamn purse.

Hurricane was a slavemaster, but like I said, he also knew how to get top results. He'd learned a lot from music vets like Dr. Dre and Jermaine Dupri, and everything he touched shined like diamonds. He was grooming us to be big stars, and since that was our ultimate dream, none of us could fault him for that.

But belonging to Hurricane meant I had to watch my every move. He was mad jealous and his temper was ridiculous. One time I saw him pistol whip one of his new artists just because the guy messed around and used Hurricane's private bathroom. Hurricane liked to sit down and pee, and I'm sure you can understand why. But not only did this new kid use his toilet without asking, the stupid boy left the seat up when he was done, which pissed Hurricane off so bad he bust up in the bathroom and dragged him out, then went upside his head with that same hair-trigger pistol he had shoved up my stuff.

“Who da fuck”—
wham!
—“told you”—
wham!
—“to piss in my”—
wham!
—“fuckin’ bathroom!?”
Wham!

The guy was so stunned he didn't even have a chance to put
his dick back in his drawers. He rolled over on the floor with his sausage hanging out, and after getting a real good look at it I turned my head right quick and looked the other way. The only niggah pissing on his nuts up in here was Hurricane, I laughed to myself, because that skinny little dude he was beating on was straight hung.

It didn't take us long to complete the first eight tracks on our album 'cause Hurricane kept us on it night and day until we had it right. We argued with him over the title but he wasn't hearing it. The three us of had come up with
Urban Soul
, but he said hell no, the album was gonna be called
Scandalous!
because that's exactly what we three bitches were. He fronted all the money for our pre-release hype, and between him and his sister, Jadeah, our names were hot before the album was even done.