Trap House (2 page)

Kim pulled Mojo from her trachea and turned around. Mojo entered her from the back, pushing
himself halfway up her spinal column. He was pounding away, putting on a great show, until the
door of the bedroom opened, dashing their hopes of milking more dope out of P.I.G.

Blast emerged from the back room and surveyed the situation. She quickly ascertained what
was going on and sprang into action. Without saying a word, she made her way over to P.I.G. and
knelt in front of him. She removed him from his pants and took him in her mouth. A few strokes of
her hand was all it took for P.I.G. to reach a slobbering, air-gasping orgasm. The show was over.

“Earl, set them out an eight ball,” P.I.G. ordered once he regained his composure. He was up to
a half-ounce in his mind until Blast came to the rescue.

CHAPTER 2

B
last wasn’t just P.I.G.’s girl, but she also served as his right-hand man and was, in
actuality, running the business. P.I.G. was merely a trick; it was because of her that he was
successful.

Although Blast was a shade darker than tar and was completely flat-chested, it was obvious she
was once very pretty. She was tall, rail thin with the seductive gait of a runway model. Her teeth
had yellowed and were held in place by gray gums, a result of the drug use, but her smile could still
melt ice. She rarely smiled much anymore, though, as life hadn’t given her much to smile about.

Blast grew up in a rundown trailer along the Mississippi delta with her mother and eight siblings.
The trailer was one of the many on Mr. Johnson’s vast farm; he rented the trailers out to the help. In
exchange for rent and a meager salary, the families all worked the farms in one capacity or another.
Blast’s two older brothers, along with a few older boys, did the heavy labor, while the children
picked the fields. All of the mothers supplemented their incomes by trading sexual favors to Mr.
Johnson for extras. As a direct result, most of the younger children on the farm were the product
of that arrangement.

There were no men on the farm because once they were of age, they left their mothers, sisters,
and younger brothers behind to be slaves to Mr. Johnson, mentally, physically, and sexually.

And that was exactly how Mr. Johnson viewed his workers: as slaves. He knew the younger
ones were his offspring, but that didn’t matter to him. He made everyone call him “Mister,” and he
trained his ears to hear “Master” whenever they said it.

Mr. Johnson would ride around the farm on his tractor pretending to be an overseer. “Get back
to work, gal!” he’d bark at one. “Cotton’s not gonna pick itself!” he’d gripe to another.

It was during one of these forays into his modern-day plantation that he noticed young Blast
had ripened. At fourteen, she hadn’t grown breasts to speak of, but the amount of butt cleavage
peeking out from under her small shorts said she was ready. He had become so accustomed to the
overweight mothers that the sight of Blast was too much for him to ignore. “Hey, gal!” he croaked
through the sudden lump in his throat.

“Yassir, Mista? Blast replied meekly, lowering her gaze as she had been taught.

“Uh, I…well…um…” Mr. Johnson stammered, unsure how to proceed.

Blast heard the yearning in his voice and knew she was now in control. She knew giving up the
pussy kept the older women out of the fields, and she had a pussy too. Like most of the kids on the
plantation, she’d spied on her mother either fucking or sucking good ol’ Mista. She’d also seen the
exchange after the deed was done.

Blast looked Mr. Johnson dead in his eyes as she made her way over to where he was seated on
the tractor. “I ain’t hardly ‘bout to suck yo’ thang in this hot sun,” she said, climbing aboard.

“Well, I guess we best go on to the house,” Mister said eagerly as he put the tractor in gear.

Back at the house, Mr. Johnson explored young Blast’s budding sexuality for the rest of the
day, in two-minute increments. At the end of the day, Blast pocketed a couple of bucks for it and
was out of the fields for good. Word spread quickly about the arrangement once the jilted mothers
began to feel the pinch in their pocketbooks. When the older boys caught wind of how good Blast
was in the sack, they all wanted a piece. Since they didn’t have money like Mista to pay for it, they
just took it. Anytime one of them caught Blast anywhere alone, they forced themselves on her and
into her.

Once her brothers got in on the act, Blast decided it was time to go. She reasoned that if
she was going to be treated like a whore, she should at least be paid like one. The day after her
fifteenth birthday, she sucked Master to sleep and then cleaned out his money box. By the time the
inhabitants of the farm realized she was gone, she was halfway to Atlanta.

Blast hadn’t set both feet on the ground when Smooth spotted her. He was a chicken hawk who
routinely stalked the bus stations in search of runaways. He liked them young, and with Blast’s
lack of breasts, he knew he could pass her off as thirteen. It only took Smooth ten seconds to
recognize that she was alone. That wide-eyed gaze around the big city spoke volumes. There was
no grandmother there go get her; she was completely on her own. Smooth had to move quick since
he wasn’t the only chicken hawk in town. He checked around once more to make sure no one was
coming for her, and then he made his move.

Once he got her to his house, he fed her a steady diet of dick, game, and crack cocaine. Before
she knew what hit her, she was standing on a corner, turning tricks with a nasty crack habit to
support.

He pimped her so hard she had to sleep on her feet. If she begged for a rest, he put the rest of
his foot up her ass and put her back to work.

One day, Smooth caught her sleeping on a park bench and wasted no time kicking her ass. P.I.G.,
who happened to be on the next bench getting a blow job from another crack whore, watched in
anger. He frequented the park daily to relieve his sexual frustrations. He had recently discovered
that paying in crack was not only cost effective, but also that crack whores always worked harder
when there were drugs on the line. Although he was a coward, P.I.G. couldn’t stand the sight of the
young girl being beaten.

Before Smooth knew it, P.I.G. had him in the air, held by his throat. Smooth was hard on a bitch,
but he was a bitch himself when confronted. P.I.G. tossed him in the grass once he passed out from
the pressure on his windpipe. “Are you okay?” P.I.G. asked the battered girl.

“Do I look okay?” Blast replied, spitting blood.

“No, you don’t,” he answered, helping her to her feet. “Where do you want me to take you?”
P.I.G. asked anxiously as Smooth began to stir.

“Take me with you,” Blast said. She was as eager to leave before Smooth came to as P.I.G. was.
She went with P.I.G. that day and had been with him ever since, fifteen years and counting.

Since she was no longer turning tricks and he was no longer buying them, Blast convinced
P.I.G. to sell to support both of their habits. It turned out to be a win-win situation. Blast could
smoke as much as she wanted, and P.I.G. practically lived in her mouth. He gave her the nickname
of “Blast” because of the huge hits she could smoke. Likewise, she privately called him by his
given name.

* * *

When Blast emerged from the back room, the freak show was canceled. She knew P.I.G. was
still a trick at heart and would set out good dope to see the junkies perform. She intervened by
giving him a quick blow job to release some steam.

As soon as Mojo saw her coming down the hall, he lost his huge erection. He pulled himself out
of Kim’s intestines and began to dress. The couple then smoked their pay in silence.

“If anybody else wanna put on a show, y’all can sweep up,” P.I.G. chuckled as Blast cleaned
the semen and saliva from him.

Those familiar with the term joined in the laughter. The ones who weren’t laughed anyway
just because P.I.G. laughed. Only one person wasn’t the least bit amused. Wanda, a dancer, had
stopped by to smoke a cocaine-laced blunt, and she openly scorned P.I.G. He was a friend of her
boyfriend’s, but she loathed the man. “You need to sweep up yo’ damn self, ya nasty bastard,” she
spat venomously.

“Bitch, you’ll be sweeping up sooner or later,” P.I.G. shot back between chuckles. The feeling
was mutual. P.I.G. hated Wanda. If it wasn’t for all the money Mike put in his pocket on her behalf,
he wouldn’t have dealt with her at all. And if he didn’t have the best dope in town, she wouldn’t
have stepped foot in his place.

“You first, muthafucker,” Wanda said, taking a sizzling pull on the blunt.

“After you, ya spiteful bitch,” P.I.G. retorted.

Mike did a lot of business with P.I.G., but P.I.G. longed for the day when Wanda came begging.
He knew it would come one day, as it came for all junkies eventually.
Yeah, she’s cool now with the
fly mouth and all,
P.I.G. thought to himself,
but you can’t smoke pure cocaine every day like she’s doing
and not fall off.
He knew the shit was inevitable, and when she did fall, P.I.G. would be right there,
broom in hand.

CHAPTER 3

“H
ere we go again,” Tiffany said inwardly as Marcus turned onto Moreland Avenue. She
knew he was headed to see “the pig,” as she called him.

A skinny crack whore darted in front of them, flagging down cars.

Tiffany sucked her pretty white teeth loudly when Marcus pulled to a stop in front of P.I.G.’s
house.

“Don’t start,” he warned, dropping his high-pitched voice down a few octaves for effect.

“Start what?” Tiffany whined. “We come here every day now.”

“Just give me the money, boo,” he said sweetly, flashing that dazzling smile.

It did the trick, and Tiffany dug into her purse to pay for her boyfriend’s drugs.

Marcus was short in stature and long in good looks. His chestnut-colored skin was offset by
hazel eyes with flecks of gold in them. He had “good hair” that was wavy when short and curly
when long. Although he only stood five-five, he made his clothes look damn good.

Tiffany was short as well, standing just under five feet. She possessed the smoothest black skin,
and it seemed to glow. Her dark eyes were slightly slanted, giving her an exotic look. God had
also given her a beautiful set of full lips that she kept highly shined with Mac lip gloss. She hated
them, but most men got a semi just looking at them. Her headful of thick, healthy hair extended
past her shoulders, but that didn’t prevent her from gluing weaves in anyway. Like most dark-
skinned women, she was conditioned to believe that beauty required a light complexion, green
eyes, and straight hair. Since she possessed none of those traits, her self-esteem would not allow
her to appreciate just how lovely she really was. That was a big part of why she was hanging on to
Marcus for dear life. They had been together since seventh grade, no matter what shit he dragged
her through.