From the Streets to the Sheets (9 page)

“Yo, Yani! I’m on my way over. I just wrapped up some business and I’ma come through and holla atchu. Put on some heels and some sexy shit. I wanna see you looking good when I come through the spot for that wet wet,” Smooth Willie said.

“Oh shit!” I told Life when I hung up. “That was Smooth!”

“Fuck that nigga.
This
is what you want! You got time to enjoy
my
dick. If this clown gets here before we finish fucking, he can watch me do what he should’ve been doing all along with a thick mommy like you! If he catches your legs up in the air or my mouth on his pussy, so be it!”

“Life, I don’t want any trouble. Please, just get the fuck out, fast!”

“I don’t see no ring on your finger, so what’s the problem here? Why can’t you stand up to this nigga? Just call him back and tell him you don’t wanna see his ass tonight. Is that so hard?”

“You don’t understand. I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Well I do. What’s the deal, Yani? If I don’t understand everything, explain.”

“Fine. Maybe if I tell you, you’ll leave! Smooth’s dangerous—he’s a drug dealer, and he’s not wrapped too tight. Please, do yourself a favor and go home. I don’t wanna be with you right now.”

“Yani, if and when you get your head together, holla at ya boy,” Life told me. He adjusted his clothes and headed for the door.

I wanted to cry when he left. I felt so sad inside for getting so close to something I wanted for myself, and then allowing Smooth to get in the way of it. I picked up the bills that lined the floor and clutched them in my left hand. I walked toward my bedroom and placed the money in a drawer where I kept priceless mementos and souvenirs. After that, I walked toward the bathroom, took my shower, put some sweet-smellin’ stuff on for Smooth, before sliding my feet inside of his favorite red Frederick’s heels.

A few moments later I heard a loud banging sound at the door. When I opened it, looking my best, Smooth slammed the door and locked it. He was barely inside when he made me open my mouth wide, forced me to my knees, and shoved a glock down my throat.

“Who’s been fucking my pussy, Yani? I want the mother-fucker’s name and address!”

I shook my head frantically, not understanding what Smooth was referring to.

“Don’t play dumb! Word has it that you were at the club letting baller niggas touch on my shit! After all I’ve done for you, you act up. You get this piece-of-shit job working in some office and now you think you’re the shit ’cause you work around some suit-and-tie motherfuckers? You lucky I don’t blow your fuckin’ head off. From now on, if you ain’t out with me, you ain’t out! You go straight to work and come straight the fuck home. When I take this glock outta yo mouth, you repeat the last line back to me.”

“I go straight to work and I come straight home,” I whimpered, shaking on my knees.

“Good. Now get the fuck up and let’s go to bed.”

I couldn’t believe how ruthless Smooth was. The game made him as cold as Alaska—even with me, the person who had tried to be his best friend. I wanted to drift off to sleep, but I couldn’t. I prayed that Smooth stayed knocked out and didn’t pull out that glock again.

The next morning I got up and made Smooth breakfast while wearing a long, black Victoria’s Secret negligee with netted sides that hinted at my dangerous curves.

“You still love Smooth, baby?” Smooth asked as bacon cooked in a skillet.

“Yes,” I lied while flipping the strips of meat. What the fuck did he expect me to say after the crazy stunt he pulled? He didn’t know it, but I was ready to start plotting my escape from his reign of terror.

“Good. I’ll drive you to work,” he said. An hour later Smooth drove me up to the curb of the building where I worked and made me sit in the car while he told me again what he was gonna do to me if I ever stepped out on him. After threatening my life, he ordered me to kiss him goodbye. I felt like a prisoner in my own body. He wanted to control my every move, down to my motherfuckin’ lips!

I was early, and when I walked into my office I saw a familiar face.

“I came down here ’cause I had to see you.”

“How did you know I worked here? You really shouldn’t be here, Life.”

“I parked my car up the street from your crib. I stayed in it all night because I wanted to make sure you were okay. This morning I followed Smooth’s ride here and came inside while y’all sat there talking. I ain’t scared of that nigga, but I’m afraid of you being with him.”

Life moved closer, softly kissing each of my eyelids. I could feel his hard dick poking at me through my skirt. He roped me in by unzipping his pants and showing me that big, delicious dick again. The minute I peeked at it, I felt like I was standing in quicksand—my ability to continue saying no was sinking fast. I pulled him in my boss’s office and shut the door. Life finally kissed my lips once. He moved close to my mouth again and tasted my lips for a second time. This kiss sizzled just as much as the first one. I finally began returning it. I pressed my body firmly against his, sucking his tongue, as we played in each other’s warm mouths. I met Life halfway by pulling my stockings down and my skirt off, letting them both fall on the floor. I noticed that his eyes were blazing, full of life, and I finally allowed myself to get lost in those dark pools.

As Life pulled off his shirt, pants, boxers, and shoes, he told me to sit on top of the desk. I did. He caressed my legs, then spread them apart and began kissing the inside of my thick thighs. Next, he took his fingers and began playing with my pussy. My juices began to flow from his persistent fingertip stroking, but that was only the beginning. My new lover dropped lower and stuck his head between my legs. Life licked on my clit like it was an ice-cream cone, until it felt swollen. I threw my head back, finally let go, and began to openly moan. I began throwing the rest of my clothes off until I was completely naked.

Life sucked my juices up with passion. I felt high, suspended above the sun. When I opened my eyes and looked down I gasped. My juices were all over his face and chin. Life’s brown skin was glistening, and the sight of his tattoo—a microphone inked over a nasty scar on his neck—made me shake and tremble, as the blissful feeling between my legs took on a life of its own. I closed my eyes and had an orgasm that erupted in one huge creamy wave. I heard a condom wrapper tearing open, and my mouth dropped as he pushed his tool into me and filled me up inside. His warm dick stroked me as he gripped the sides of the desk. I spoke some unintelligible words and Life answered by hitting all my sweetest spots. His focus was completely on pleasing me.

That realization made me jut my pussy back and forth in a steady motion. I became so excited that I wrapped my legs around him and the desk began creaking and moving like a seesaw. When Life noticed this, he looked around for another spot.

“Come on,” he told me. He lowered me from the desk and carefully laid me down on my boss’s large white rug.

“Get on your hands and knees,” Life said. I arched my back sharply and complied, because I wanted to, not because I had to. Life spit between my ass cheeks, then fingered my anus. He began pounding me from behind with powerful and intense thrusts, the way I’d imagined the thugs on music videos did to their hood girls. I gladly gripped my muscles tight around Life’s dick. He responded by smacking my phat ass.

“Do you like this shit, baby?” Life asked, burying his dick all the way inside of me.

“Yes. Mmmm,” I moaned. “Oh yes!”

“Does that bitch-ass, trifling nigga you got at home make you feel this good?”

“No—never. He . . . Smooth never . . . He never—”

“Then cry for Life, Mommy. If I make this sweet pussy feel good, take it and cry for me,” he said, continuing to thrust himself in and out of my pussy.

I began to cry with pleasure as Life caused my ass cheeks to bounce up and down.

“If the dick’s good, keep crying. Cry, baby. Cry or I’ll take it outta this hot pussy!” Life demanded. I cried until I felt another orgasm swell up inside of me. I tried to dig my nails into the carpet but couldn’t hold on to a single fiber of it.

“I’m about to. Damn. I’m—I’m about to cum!” I whispered in a very high pitch. Despite us being in my boss’s office minutes before he was due to arrive, Life never stopped stroking me—and I came for the second time.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Life said as I tried to crawl away. “Oh no you don’t. Keep your ass right here.”

I was feeling good and both of our bodies were wet with sweat.

“This dick feels so good! Fuck—what are you doing to me now?” I exclaimed.

“I know what you need. Turn over on your back,” Life said.

I did.

“Take this dick!”

Life placed each of my legs on his shoulders. He looked into my eyes as he worked his hips in a rhythmic motion, bending down to kiss me as he kept thrusting himself in my pussy.

Suddenly I was scared. “I think I heard something. We better stop! This is my boss’s office! I can’t get caught fuckin’ up in here!” I said.

I instinctively lifted my legs from Life’s shoulders, pried myself off of his dick, and ran to the glass-cubed wall to see if anyone was coming. My hands shook as I peeped through a small slit in the blinds. Before I knew it, Life had pushed my legs apart from behind.

“But, but—what if—” I complained. Life ignored me and began kissing, sucking, and tonguing my ass like he was getting paid to turn me out.

“Oh shit!” I said. Smooth would never lick my asshole but I loved the way Life did it. The next thing I felt were heavy balls smacking up against me. Life slid into me and began pumping deep while gripping my waist tightly, until I forgot all about my boss and came again.

“Did you like all of that—huh? Did you like that, you freaky office hottie?” Life asked.

“Thank you for fucking the shit out of me,” I said. “I needed this so bad. Thank you!” I moaned.

Life dropped to his knees. I felt the most powerful sensation as I dripped into his mouth. His talented tongue persuaded my body to release yet another quick orgasm. He sucked my juicy nectar as he let it pour out of me. When I was dry, Life pulled away from me and began picking up his clothes. I turned around, speechless. I was drained, but also stunned when I noticed his tool was still fully erect. Life had never come, despite all of the nasty things that we’d done in every which way possible.

He saw me looking at it.

“Yea. This brotha got dick control. You betta believe it!” he told me as I put my clothes back on quickly. As Life opened my boss’s office door to leave, I still couldn’t speak. I wanted to ask him if he wanted a paper towel to clean his face, but he didn’t seem to care that my juices were still wet on his skin. I was so turned on by Life’s rugged sex appeal that I’d forgotten all about betraying crazy Smooth.

“You real sweet, boo,” Life told me before going out the door. “But there are two kinds of thugs on these streets. Thugs like Smooth who are selfish and grimy, and thugs like me who are just rough around the edges. If you get tired of Smooth controlling your every move, you know how to get at me. I would never hurt you. I only want to make you feel good,” Life wiped his face with his hands.

As he stood holding the door open I caught a peek of my boss walking into the main foyer. I ran over and shoved an empty FedEx box in Life’s hands and tried to pass him off as someone I’d called to pick up a package. I watched Life walk past my boss, wishing he’d move a helluva lot faster, but being the man he was, he maintained his normal swagger.

“Good morning,” I said when my boss walked into his office. “I was just getting a few things organized in your office—I hope you don’t mind. You told me to give you a reason to consider giving me that raise,” I teased.

“I’d say you just earned it for giving me that award-winning performance,” he laughed, then cleared his throat. “I came in early today. I was in the restroom when you and your thug friend arrived. You closed the door but you didn’t
lock
it, Yani. The only thing I was missing was a jar of Vaseline and a bag of popcorn.”

I looked down at the bulge in his pants and said, “Well,
Daddy,
I guess today it was my turn to put on a show for once, not yours. And since you peeped all my action, I’m sure you could tell that my thug baby was giving me the time of my
life.
”

PRETTY MF

Gerald K. Malcom

He dug her out. She screamed like someone was committing a murder. His back, full of sweat, housed her hands. Then her fingers. Then her nails. Then her pleasure. He dug her out.

It was that grimy dick he gave her that impressed. It was the way he reached for the sky and came slamming down into her. It was that R&B dick that dug and swirled and stopped and posed and dug again, pressing against her clit. He eased out with a slick grin.

She screamed pieces of his name in between obscenities.

His voice was mellow. “Do you like it or love it?” He dug after he questioned. His dick scraped the bottom. He pushed deep and lifted her with his stroke. She touched the air. He asked her to squeeze.

She closed her eyes tight as if that made her squeeze harder. Those muscles had nothing to do with
those
muscles.

She hugged tight. Didn’t want to lose the feeling. She closed her eyes even tighter to take the picture. Dark muscular back. Felt like something good to hold on while being pleased. She knew what he liked. She eased him out by sitting up. She ate her mess.

After she cleaned him her spin was slow. She went to her knees and spread her arms across the bed. Her back had arch, two dimples and shape. The color was premium; like she bought the deepest brown they had to offer.

He grabbed each cheek and kneaded them. She needed this. His right hand pressed hard and rode its way up to her neck. He left it there and gripped the back of her neck. He pushed her head to the bed. She couldn’t breathe. She would worry about breath later. His hands hurt her neck, but she wouldn’t dare move. She would feel any residual pain later, after her body bucked ferociously, her senses emptied, and her world collapsed.

He filled her with one stroke. She jumped. Almost lost her breath. Her body shook violently. It was brutal, almost savage the way he filled her cavity. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

He stayed still. Didn’t move an inch. She felt every one. She opened her eyes and watched his shadow against the wall. The shadow was bigger, but wasn’t as defined. His pumps were smooth against the lightly flickering wall. Her ass looked even bigger. Not better.

He began a slow thrust that popped when he reached her capacity. On her neck, she felt the power in his hand. She wanted to be held down. She wanted to be forced to take everything he knew.

He spoke confidently, “You can keep your money if you don’t come when I say.” He knew she loved what she couldn’t have. She loved the battle, and didn’t care who won the war. She didn’t care if he knew her body; she was a winner either way.

“You got sixty seconds.” His voice was buttery, like he was singing instructions. The bass in it hit her spine. The confidence hit her sex. She wanted it raw, no chaser.

He gave it to her. “Fifty seconds,” he barked. He adjusted his hips and spread her ass to the farthest east and west and shuffled himself deep. He felt the beginning of something new when he entered to his max. He swung to the left and pumped slow for three strokes. He listened to her breathing. She hummed like a new car. He needed an older noise. He swung right and dug. It was methodical. His probe was expertly done. Now her engine rattled like a ’67 Chevy. “Forty seconds.” He pushed himself deeper than she would allow. He consumed her spot. She ran toward the bed. He brought her back, held her head down, and teased her ass-hole. His stroke was beautiful, like a well-placed kiss. He heard the splatter of her juice as he penetrated. His hairs were saturated and stuck together. Her sex smelled sweet. “Thirty.”

She felt her body slump. She didn’t care if she failed. She wanted his rhythm. He obliged. Gave her his soul. He never took it all the way out. He knew she needed her spot filled. He knew how. Knew how to give her pleasure with pain. His thumb was not gentle. His grip was not loving. His strokes were distant. She loved it. “Twenty seconds.” She blacked out.

He was thicker than most.

He slung dick like dope. Cops frisked him, but never arrested him. He slung dick like dope.

She wandered in from the blackout. Black hairnet cradling her head, and her ass poking out of her panties. She loved purple. Said it reminded her of kings and queens. She stood in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, and her cigarette smoking was far from diva-like. She pushed huge halos into the air like Pedro did when he tried to impress his friends on the corner.

“What do you want me to do now?” Her voice was heavy. Too heavy for some, but not for Pretty. He told her she sounded like Ella. She couldn’t comprehend so he told her she sounded like Macy Gray. It impressed her because no one ever told her she sounded like nothing but shit. He sang praises on her alto.

“I want you to do what you do, bitch! You know the rules.” He knew she wanted to cuddle and watch a movie. That wasn’t his job. She paid for dream music and blackouts.

She pushed the lit cigarette to the ashtray and mashed it. Smoke trailed like a snake toward the ceiling. She mumbled something incoherent and walked out. There was nothing seductive about her gait. It was forced. Her hips didn’t know they were supposed to rock with her foot from the same side. He told her it made her appear stronger than most. She trotted to the rear and came back with an envelope. It was standard and full. She fixed him a drink and set both next to him, got her coat and closed the door. She never looked back. His eyes never left his computer. Spirals swirled about the screen, the music blared. His first shift went without incident.

He sipped from his crystal glass. He wouldn’t drink from another glass. His lips were accustomed to the finer things in life. He let it warm his throat before he swirled the orange cognac around. He wiped the corner of his mouth like Denzel in
Mo’ Betta Blues.
His stance, his sip, and his style were all purposeful. Appearance was everything.

                  •                  •                  •

“Jarvis, can you please come into my office?”

Pretty hated that shit. Fucking Jarvis. Niggas in the hood called him Jay; the bitches on the block called him Pretty. Said he had the prettiest dick they ever seen. Chocolate. Thick like an eclair. Long like a summer day. Tastier than a Krispy Kreme. They ate it like it was going out of style. He slung dick like dope and selected the very few who had the looks and the goods, as long as they came with the right price.

He closed his drawer and nodded at the teller next to him. He lifted his pants and tightened his belt. He shook his tie into the corporate position, and then mashed his cornrows flatter against his head.

He pushed the door open. “You wanted to see me Mr. Patterson?”

Mr. Patterson rocked back in his chair and kicked up his feet. His shoes were black, expensive, and filthy. Dry mud splattered the soles and traveled up the side. He folded his hands and rested them across his stomach. He was at least six months pregnant. “Sit, Jarvis.”

Pretty snarled without the facial expression. He peered through Mr. Patterson. He wondered why his boss didn’t cut off the three silver strands that lay across his pasty forehead like wet noodles. Each one spread out quite a distance away. They loved their space. His ties never matched. His shoes was always dirty. His double-breasted suits begged at the seams and his suspenders were frayed at the sides. With all that, he still commanded respect. His heavy footsteps introduced his authority. His billowing cough demanded attention. His sky blue eyes mesmerized the crowd. And he always smelled great. All that coupled with being the vice president of the biggest bank in the area.

Pretty sat across from him and inched back slowly, never once letting his eyes leave his boss. His voice was considerate. “You wanted to see me, sir.” His “sir” was forced. Almost massa-like.

Mr. Patterson whipped a pack of cigarettes from his suit jacket’s inner pocket and began banging them against his fat palms. He unwrapped the package with anticipation. His lips quivered; his squinting eyes helped his hands unwrap his craving. He pulled one out and slammed it five quick times against his desk. He leaned back, opened a drawer and pulled out a lighter. The blue got bluer and he eased his face to it. He blew out smoke. “I need you to do something for me.”

Pretty pushed away a cloud that neared. “What is that, sir?” His “sir” flowed easier than the first.

“Are you street?”

Pretty choked on his own air.
“What?”

Mr. Patterson hustled slowly to the edge of his seat. “
I said,
are you street?”

Pretty put his defenses up. His tone echoed his mood. “Am I
street
?”

Mr. Patterson laughed. His laugh was throaty, loud and full of machismo. “Yeah. Street? Like um . . .” He snapped his fingers to jar his memory. “Fifty coins.”

“You mean cents?”

He threw his hand at Pretty. “Coins, cents, it’s all the same thing. Anyway, are you street like him?”

Pretty thought about it. He wasn’t street like the thugs he knew that sold drugs. Pretty thought of himself as the ultimate individual. He had his own street credibility.

“I’m street enough. Why?” He had no clue what this meeting was about. He made sure his braids were always tight. His edge up was always maintained. His pants sagged a little from time to time, but it shouldn’t have been anything to write home about.
Maybe I do present myself in a thuggish manner,
he thought. He didn’t want to lose the best job he ever had due to some cornrows and saggy jeans. He humbled himself and steadied for the blow.

Mr. Patterson struggled to lift himself from his chair. His ascent was slower than most, but when he stood he was steadier than a rock. “I bet you’re wondering why I had you come into my office this morning, right?” He walked to the door and opened it swiftly, and then shut it just as fast.

Pretty remained cool. His temples throbbed as he bit down. He didn’t struggle to stand. He didn’t rock when he began his rise. He turned around to face Mr. Patterson. He didn’t feel comfortable with someone behind him that he didn’t trust. “You can say that.”

“I’ll tell you. I have a proposition for you, Jarvis.” He came back to his seat and flopped into his chair. The cushion held his body like a mother would a fallen child.

Pretty found an antique mirror on the wall adjacent to the door. He pushed his braids flat to his head with one smooth stroke from front to back. He gave the ends a few determined twists to get them proper. He turned his head to the side and practiced his look, and then he straightened his tie again. He never said he wasn’t cocky, but arrogant? He wouldn’t buy that. That’s what women around the way said. They told him that he looked better than most, but he knew it. They always marveled at his skin. They said it was Hershey brown, but smoother than the candy bar. They loved his teeth. He always smiled. He couldn’t wait for the summer so he could wear the hell out of his wife-beaters. His arms spoke volumes for his work ethic. He looked back toward Mr. Patterson and wondered if he loved the winter. It was a way to hide all that shit he had underneath his shirt. Pretty checked his watch and cleared his throat.

Mr. Patterson offered Pretty a seat with a hand gesture. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.”

“The ladies love you, Jarvis. You want to know how I know?”

Petty’s tone was defensive. “How?”

“I listen. Women rumble like volcanoes when something is hot. That’s what they talk about. They refer to you as
Pretty.
” He smiled. “Isn’t that what they call you, Jarvis?”

Pretty dusted his pants off. His nerves got the best of him. He was getting a little uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going in. References like this on the street would’ve gotten his boss the shank. His foot beat the ground. He closed his eyes and rocked back. It calmed him. He inhaled with strength and blew it out softly. “They do call me Pretty,” he said with pride. His eyes opened slowly. “Is there a problem with having a nickname?” He massaged his face and felt anger and heat on it. Two more quick breaths did little to calm him down. He rubbed his hands together and rest his lips on them when they went to mock prayer position. “And they call you?” He paused and laughed. It wasn’t hearty. It was a gritty laugh that cut into Mr. Patterson and left him wondering.

Mr. Patterson’s thick untamed gray eyebrow shot up. Phlegm hustled and bustled around inside his mouth; his face showed his distaste for the texture and the comment. His tone was aggressive. “They call me
what
?”

Pretty loved the power of the unknown. Mr. Patterson had never seemed fazed by anything until now. He controlled the whole ship. He stayed in his office and peeked his head out from time to time to scare a few, but if people really paid attention they would know that. He let his pen do the talking. It talked about raises and firings and promotions. Mr. Patterson always remained in control, even when the ship seemed to be sinking.

Mr. Patterson’s thick fingers strummed against his desk. Pretty picked up the pattern and bobbed his head every time he heard the thud. He wasn’t going to answer automatically. He felt the transition of power. He had something Mr. Patterson wanted. The knowledge of Mr. Patterson’s self. Mr. Patterson thought everyone loved him. He thought no one ever said anything bad about him. Sure he ran this ship like a slave one, but he gave out great Christmas gifts. He gave rewards like Scooby snacks when people met quotas. He pampered on his own time.

Pretty held on to the information like an informant did to get a better deal. What was it worth to Mr. Patterson? He watched Mr. Patterson glance at him through his bluest eye.

Mr. Patterson’s voice was huge. “Well?”

“Tell me your proposition first.” Pretty wasn’t going to let Mr. Patterson string this proposition out for hours. He wanted to know what was going on. He needed to know the particulars.

“Enough of the bullshit, Jarvis. This proposition benefits you more than it would me.” He spoke slowly, and with conviction. “What do they call me?”

Pretty laughed. “Mr. Fatterson!” He fell back into his seat and awaited his response. He figured Mr. Patterson would want to know who it was. He thought Mr. Patterson would be angry and disturbed that someone would actually call him such names. Instead, Mr. Patterson chuckled loudly.