Riding Dirty on I-95 (16 page)

“Nothing. I got into a little altercation, that's all,” he said nonchalantly.

Paula raced to the kitchen to get some ice and returned to place it on his head. “Here, let me put this on it.”

He pulled away, and then he remembered that gangstas need love too, so he let her be his nurse. As she held the ice on his head, Cleezy looked in the mirror at her. He noticed her ass cheeks hanging out from under her T-shirt. He was seeing Paula in a different light. He was seeing her through the eyes of a different nigga, a nigga that was high off of adrenaline, the rush that he had got from murdering someone. A dude who had just been transformed to a real gangsta, a man who had been resurrected. He couldn't help himself as he reached out and palmed her ass.

Paula was shocked but didn't mind at all, especially when she felt his manhood rise against her. Her eyes grew wide because she was finally going to get the big black dick that the women been talking about. She had always wanted a piece of him but hadn't wanted to be the aggressor. She didn't have to now, not this night anyway. She just let herself go with the flow as she allowed Cleezy to take control of the situation.

Cleezy pushed Paula down on her bed. She lay there panting, waiting for his next move. He watched her, waiting for a sign that it was cool for him to do what his body was telling him to do. The look in Paula's eyes told him everything he needed to know. Cleezy stood at the edge of the bed. Paula sat up and began undoing his pants for him. He just stood there as if it was her job and he didn't want to intrude by helping her. Every now and then
Paula looked up to make sure that she was following the boss's unspoken orders. Cleezy stepped out of his pants, then quickly turned Paula over onto her stomach.

“Oh, God,” she said, caught off guard as Cleezy snatched her panties off and entered her fully from behind. She closed her eyes as Cleezy lay there inside of her as hard as a rock, not moving a muscle. There was absolutely no movement at all. He just stayed there breathing heavily in her ear.

Slowly he pulled out, leaving nothing but the tip inside of her. Afraid he was going to take that from her, Paula flexed her pussy muscles tightly around his dick, trying to activate her lockjaw pussy while holding on for dear life. Suddenly, he rammed himself back inside her; again he teased her by pulling out and leaving only the tip inside of her.

Paula began pushing her ass up against Cleezy, allowing his pubic hairs to brush up against her and tickle her ass. “Ummm,” she moaned.

“That's right, do that shit,” he whispered in her ear.

Trying to push up against the weight of Cleezy with her ass, Paula pushed Cleezy into her. The feeling of Paula's warmth wrapped around his dick like a blanket started feeling so damn good that he found himself in sync with her, stroking her softly. In and out, the strokes became faster and more passionate until Cleezy found himself hammering away at Paula's pussy like a jackrabbit on steroids.

With fists gripping the sheets, Paula began to moan, cocking her ass up, taking in all that Cleezy had to offer. In the heat of the moment she called out in between moans, “C-Note, oooh baby”

He gripped her tightly around her waist and whispered in her ear, “C-Note is dead. It's Cleezy that you wit'.” The long intense strokes of pipe that he laid up in her began to get more aggressive. “What's my name?” he asked, pumping her hard as if he
was stabbing her with his dick, waiting for a response in between thrusts.

“Cleezy,” she barely got the words out as the pains of passion ran through every bone in her body and he dog-dicked her from the back.

“Whose pussy is this?” he asked her surprisingly.

“It's … aump, aump,” she moaned. “It's … it's yours, baby?”

“Whose?” he asked as he punished her forcefully. In all of her days of ho' hopping, she had never had it laid down to her like Cleezy was giving it to her.

“It's … it's Cle … Cleezy's,” she said. “It's yours, baby. It's that nigga Cleezy's,” she said as he lightened up on her a little to the point where she could throw it back to him.

“For how long?” he asked, enjoying every minute of Paula's sweet pussy.

“Huh?” she asked, caught up in the sex scapade.

“I said, for how long?” He began hitting a spot that she never knew existed. “How long is this my pussy?”

“Forever and ever, until death do us part.”

“Don't say that unless it's official.”

“Cleezy, it is, and that's on everything I love. Cleezy, this is
y
o' pussy,” she said as she stepped up her game, poppin' that pussy like she was a Luke dancer.

“Oooohhh, you better mean it,” he said, thrusting in and out of her. Hearing the name Cleezy only made his dick harder. He was high off of who he was, that nigga, that shoot-'em-up bang-bang nigga who had the world at his feet. Hundreds of thousands stashed, keys of coke waiting to be moved, a hell of a team who would die for him, and he owned the hottest, wettest, juiciest pussy in town. Damn, life was good. Just the thought of everything had Cleezy's nut boiling inside of him like a volcano about to erupt.

“That's right. This is Cleezy's pussy. This is my pussy. Oh shit,” he moaned as he felt his cream running through his veins. He pulled out and let it shoot all over Paula's ass like it was a tsunami.

As the white thick cum oozed out of his big black stallion, Paula quickly fell to her knees, taking the sexual session to the highest level, completely throwing Cleezy off balance when she licked every ounce of the cum she could manage to lick off of his dick and swallowed like it was Kool-Aid.

Damn, damn, damn. That nigga C-Note ain't never got this kind of treatment from no broad
, Cleezy thought.
Now that shit I just had was some real gangsta loving. Here it is that nigga thought he had experienced some of the best sex any nigga could get. I can't figure out if it was her box or mouth that was the best. Now, that shit right there is deep.

When it was all said and done, Cleezy knew why Paula had acquired her nickname, Sweet Pussy Paula.

Paula had no idea who this man was: C-Note, Cleezy, whoever. But whoever she had just been with, whoever the outlaw was, had made her feel like she had never felt in her entire life. He was what she wanted, and she would sacrifice and do whatever she had to do to keep him in her stable. Being an old-school ho, she knew the power of the pussy. Paula was familiar with the fact that when a man gets a good piece of pussy he will say anything in the heat of the moment, but she hoped like hell and prayed like never before that everything he said in her bed was gospel.

Cleezy and Paula screwed until the sun came up. Then Paula got out of bed, showered, and went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Cleezy kicked back, looking like a king in her king-sized Victorian-style bed. As he flipped through the channels, he came across a news report showing the yellow tape outside of the club and the bouncer being taken away by the coroner. Hearing
the reporter say, “The authorities have no leads on any suspects, nor have any witnesses come forward yet” was music to his ears.

He had indeed gotten away with murder, which made his dick hard all over again. It led him into the kitchen to put Paula on the dining room table to get the lovemaking started all over again.

“N
o, it's no problem,” Mercy said into the phone. “I understand. Okay, I'll be ready day after tomorrow.” She hung up the phone and thought,
Damn. Now what?
She needed to get some work done on her car and wanted to replace her broken DVD player for her TV set, but she didn't have any money, and Hyena had just postponed her next run.

Maybe she could hang out with Chrissie for a couple of days, but she doubted it. Although Chrissie had a room at Mercy's apartment, Deonie's old room, she spent most of her time laid up in some paid man's house. Chrissie raked in the men from here to Anaheim. She had no dreams, aspirations, or goals. She had no oomph about herself or nothing, but the men seemed to love her anyway. Some days she would be sitting on a few grand and other days she would be as broke as an old floor-model television.

Mercy strode into Chrissie's room at the end of the hall and found her standing in front of her closet with an open suitcase on the bed.

“Where are you going?” Mercy asked.

“Girl, that fool I met last week wants to take me to Vegas to do some gambling, and I got about ten minutes to pack.”

Mercy sat down on the edge of the bed, disappointed.

Mercy never understood how Chrissie came across those men. She was like a magnet for men with money, men you would presume wouldn't be seen with a broad less than a Halle Berry look-alike. Chrissie was easy on the eyes, but she was no dime piece. She had an okay face, a creamy peanut butter complexion with a minor case of acne that her liquid foundation pretty much covered up, and a firm petite frame. She didn't even have an apple-bottom ass or big titties to fill in what she lacked in looks. The rich men Mercy had always seen on television, from rap stars with a fine-ass video ho on-screen and a model wife off-screen to Donald Trump with his exotic-looking wives, always had a trophy on their arm. Chrissie was no trophy—a plaque maybe, made out of nice cherrywood, at best. But a trophy, no way. Yet she still managed to snag NBA and NFL players, major big-time drug dealers, CEOs, young entrepreneurs with new money, and dirty old rich men with money two times as old as they were. Chrissie attracted all kinds of men with paper.

“Mercy, which one of these bags should I take? The Fendi or the Gucci. Never mind. I'll take both of them. Now, tell me, which one of these dresses I oughta take? I just got this one. Do you think it looks good on me?”

Chrissie held a slinky little slut-red dress up to her chin and glanced in the full-length mirror. Bitch had bags and clothes by Prada, Gucci, Fendi, Dior, and Chanel, just to name a few, all piled up in her closet. And it wasn't even her apartment. It was Mercy's.

“You know it looks good. Thank God you ain't never had to work for your clothes, girl. You wouldn't work in a pie shop if you was starving to death,” Mercy joked.

“Why work when I got a perfectly reliable, clean pussy, which makes certain I get all the desires of my heart?” Chrissie said.

Chrissie threw the dress into the suitcase and closed it shut. She then laced her feet with the best footwear that money could buy.

“Bye, girlfriend,” Chrissie said, and kissed her on the cheek. Then she tottered out of the room on her stiletto heels, dragging her rolling suitcase behind her. Mercy followed her to the front steps and watched as Chrissie got into her mint-green Thunder-bird convertible with customized plates that read HATE ME. Some NBA star she spent a week with in Maui paid for that.

Almost every female clique has someone like Chrissie. She's the one who's not the cutest in the bunch, but from the moment she steps into the club, every male in there tries to get at her. She just has this certain confidence that seems to consume any room she steps into. She walks up on the scene, acting as if she's looking like a million bucks. Her long straight hair, which she purchased from the Korean hair supply store, is never out of place. It's always sewn in, never glued in, and paid for by the flavor of the month. Her makeup is always applied to perfection, and she's usually sportin' the latest diamond earrings, two-carat total weight minimum, that damn near blind the men in the club. Dudes figure, if her swagger is that tough, then she must be a bad-ass bitch. And when guys step to her, she looks them up and down as if deciding whether or not they are good enough to even be saying “hi” to her.

Chrissie's parents had abandoned her, so she'd been placed in a foster home when she was nine. A few years later, Mercy met her in Chrissie's third foster home. From the very beginning, Mercy saw that Chrissie would much rather surround herself with the things that money can buy, rather than to have the money itself. As they got older and moved out on their own, Chrissie was proof that being a diva ain't got nothing to do with having money in the bank. Because even though she stayed in the company of men
with money and more money, she, herself, had none. Chrissie was all about material possessions.

Mercy picked up a gold bracelet that Chrissie had dropped on her way out of the apartment and took it back into Chrissie's room. She looked around at all the stuff, strewn about the room as if a cyclone had hit, and thought that if Chrissie would sell some of those designer bags, jewelry, or televisions and stuff, then she would have a modest fortune going on. Mercy struggled and was the backbone of the two. Mercy kept the roof over their heads and made sure they had gas money and food in the fridge. Chrissie basically pitched in when she could. One thing for sure and two things for certain, when Chrissie had Mercy had. If Chrissie had a dollar, fifty cents was Mercy's, but if Mercy needed the whole dollar, it was hers. It wasn't no hateration, none of that, between the two of them. They both had made it through hell and nothing would ever come between them. Mercy was happy that Chrissie was having fun and getting what she wanted. She hoped that one day Chrissie would luck up and that one of the men would marry her.