CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Six months later
“Oooooh, bitch, I don’t think I can eva forgive you for packin’ up and movin’ waaaaay out there, and takin’ Zaire from me,” Chanel says, lookin’ at me through the monitor on my laptop. We’re up on Skype talkin’, which is our new thing. We talk e’eryday, two, three times a day. It’s almost like we’re right in the same room togetha. I miss this bitch. She presses ’er face up to the screen. Zaire tries to grab the monitor. “Ain’t that right, Boo? That mean old-ugly witch done took you from ya Aunt Chanel.” He laughs, touchin’ the screen. “Ohhhmiiigod, Kat, and he has two teeth already.”
“Girl, them things just popped up outta know where. Now all he wanna do is bite up e’erything. This lil’ muh…boy, is a piece of damn work.”
“Wit’ his fine self,” she says, wavin’ and blowin’ kisses at ’im. He waves back at ’er, then gets down on the floor and starts crawlin’ ova to the otha side of the room to get his Spiderman toy. I have toys and shit e’erywhere. This boy is has e’ery kinda toy made for lil’ boys, then some. He’s spoiled rotten. Chanel rolls er eyes, suckin’ ’er teeth.
“Why you doin’ all that?”
“Kat, why’d you have to move so damn far from me?”
I laugh. She asks me the same shit e’ery time we talk. And I tell ’er the same shit. “’Cause change is good.”
Three weeks after I put my house up on the market, I was able to sell it. I dropped ten gees off’a the price but it’s all good. A bitch was ready to roll out, so I didn’t give a f*ck ’bout nickel and dimin’ ova a few thousand dollas. I even paid for the closin’ costs. I just wanted to be done. It sold and that’s all I cared ’bout. The next month, I shipped what I wanted out here and sold e’erything else, then I changed my numbers. It’s definitely a different vibe here, and I’ma always be a East Coast bitch at heart. But bein’ here is the best thing I coulda did—for me.
“Change my ass. You coulda kept it real cute and found a cute lil’ place in Connecticut, or Philly. You woulda been far enough, but still close enough at da same time. But nooooooo, you gotta be all dramatic and shit, movin’ way out there.”
“Chanel, boo. Let it go. You’ll be here for a whole month in two weeks, so…” I look to see where Zaire is, then lean into the monitor and whisper, “…stop actin’ like a needy-ass bitch.”
She laughs, whisperin’ back, “F*ck you, booga.” I toss up da finga, pressin’ it up at the screen. She asks me what’s up wit’ the nigga Tone. I tell ’er nuthin’. Tell ’er we straight mad cool. She wants to know if we f*ckin’.
Of course we are, but it ain’t nuthin’ serious. He’s my lil’ maintenance man ’til sumthin’ worthwhile comes my way. I ain’t tellin’ ’er all that, though. I laugh. “Bitch, stop tryna monitor my p-ssy. Geesh.” Zaire crawls back ova to me, reachin’ up for me to pick ’im up. “Okay, Zee alert,” I state, lettin’ ’er know that Zaire’s back in earshot. I lift ’im up.
“Eat. Eat. Eat,” he says.
“Ohmigod, when did he learn to say that? He’s talkin’ away now.”
“Girl, all this boy knows is ‘eat, eat, eat’ wit’ his greedy self.” He’s eight months old and he’s almost twenty-four pounds. He says it again, tryna bite my hand. “Okay, Zaire. Wait. Here drink this.” I hand ’im a sippee cup of water. He throws it. “No. Bad boy.”
He throws his Spiderman toy. “Don’t get it crunked up in here, lil’ boy. ’Cause you ’bout to get tossed up, okay? Now chill out.”
Chanel laughs. “Boo, you gonna have ya hands full.”
“Tell me about it. So, you already know I don’t have time for no man.”
She smiles. “Well, you neva know what might happen.”
“Mmmph. Trick, you know sumthin’ I don’t?”
“Nope.” I grab the laptop, carryin’ Zaire on my hip into the kitchen. I sit the laptop up on the table, then put Zaire in his high chair. “Kat, I’m so proud of you. Is parenthood what you thought it would be?”
“Yes and no,” I tell ’er, movin’ ’round the kitchen tryna warm up Zaire’s food. He starts bangin’ on the tray, yellin’ at the top’a his lungs. E’ery since he started daycare he’s picked up shit I ain’t diggin’. Like throwin’ shit and this screamin’. I’m slowly learnin’ how’ta ignore his ass when he starts up his tantrums. Hopefully, he’ll outgrow the shit, otherwise we gonna have’a problem. And it ain’t gonna be cute. “Sometimes it can be…” The doorbell rings. I ignore the shit. The only person who knows where I live out here is Tone. And I know it ain’t ’im ’cause he calls first.
“Ain’t you gonna get da door?”
“Nope.”
It rings again. “Kat, maybe you should get it. I sent a package to you. That might be it.”
“Ooooh, what you send me?”
“Don’t worry ’bout it. Go open da door and find out for ya’self.”
I suck my teeth. “Uggh. Watch da baby,” I say, turnin’ the laptop facin’ Zaire so she can keep an eye on ’im while I go to the door. I laugh, knowin’ there ain’t shit she can do if he gets into sumthin’, but I like sayin’ it, anyway. I tell ’er I’ll be right back, then walk out into the livin’ room, poppin’ shit.
I peek through the peephole. All I see is a white box wit’ a red bow blockin’ a man’s face. Oh, it must be Chanel’s package. I swing open the door. My mouth drops open. “How’d you know where to find me?” I ask, already knowin’ the answer. That bitch can’t eva stick to da damn script!
He grins, handin’ me the box. “Can I come in?” I step back and let ’im in. I can’t front, this deep, dark nigga looks…delicious! “Damn, I’ve missed you, Kat.”
I smile. “Nigga, I’ve…” I stop myself, almost forgettin’ I left Zaire in the kitchen by himself. I shut the door and tell ’im to follow me into the kitchen. I turn the laptop ’round. “Umm, ho…is this the package you were talkin’ ’bout?” I go back to feedin’ Zaire. He has food tossed all ova the floor, and all ’round his face. But, he’s quiet and happy and that’s all that matters.
She laughs. “Hey, Allstar; took you long enough to get there.”
He smiles, takin’ off his leather jacket, then sittin’ at the table. “Wassup, ma? Yeah, I got lost.”
“Well, I’m glad you finally made it. She was startin’ ta bore me wit’ ’er borin’-ass life. Blah, blah, blah.” He laughs. I tell ’er to watch ’er mouth. She keeps runnin’ ’er trap. Tells me she wanted to tell me that she had run into ’im at some party a few weeks ago, but figured I wouldn’t wanna hear it. And she’s right. Well, no…not really. Truth is I neva stopped thinkin’ ’bout this nigga. But I knew I didn’t have any intentions of eva callin’ ’im again.
I sweep up the mess Zaire made on the floor, finish cleanin’ ’im up, then take ’im outta his chair. I sit ’im on the floor and he starts crawlin’ ova to Alex. Alex picks ’im. “Hey there, lil’ man. Wassup, dude?” Zaire starts grinnin’ and tryna talk. “Give me five.”
I laugh when he slaps ’im. “That’s right, Zaire, baby. You know he deserved that.”
Chanel is grinnin’. “Awwwww, ya’ll look so cute. Like one big family.”
“Okaaay, bitch, I’ve had’a ’nough of you for one day.”
“Watch ya mouth, Boo.”
“Whateva,” I say, givin’ ’er the finga. “I’ma deal wit’ you later, ho.” She laughs. I slam the laptop monitor close on ’er. Alex laughs. And Zaire starts laughin’ louder. “Now back to you,” I say, takin’ Zaire from ’im. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here for you,” he says, gettin’ up from the table. He walks ova to me and Zaire. He hugs and kisses me as Zaire looks on. “I wanna ’notha shot at bein’ ya man.”
“I’m not givin’ out any more shots,” I say, walkin’ back into the family room. He follows behind me. I can feel the nigga’s eyes all up on my ass. I grin. “Stop starin’ at my ass.”
He laughs. “I can’t help it. There’s so much of it.”
“Whateva.” I sit Zaire in his playpen, then turn to face Alex, foldin’ my arms ’cross my chest. “Nigga, you tell me why you think I should give you anotha chance.”
He walks up on me, wrappin’ me up in his strong arms. “I had three bullets pumped in my chest and stomach by a bitch I aint give two shits ’bout and almost died. I’m willin’ to take those same three bullets in da heart, and die, lovin’ you. Baby, ain’t shit changed. I love you. I honestly thought I’d neva see you again. And my moms kept tellin’ me I needed to get ova you. But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to. Then I ran into ya peeps. And she told me e’erything I needed to know.”
I squint at ’im, raisin’ a brow. “Oh, yeah, and what’s that?”
He kisses me on the lips. “That you loved me.” I keep my trap shut, lookin’ up at ’im. He kisses me again. “That you missed me.”
“You a fool for listenin’ to ’er.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.” I try to step outta his embrace, but he holds on tighter. “You feel good in my arms.”
“Where you stayin’?” I ask, changin’ the subject. He tells me he’s at the Marriott ova on Fourth Street in San Francisco. I ask ’im how long he’s gonna be out here. He tells me for as long as he needs to be. I stare at ’im. “What’s up wit’ you and ya girl in LA? Ya’ll still f*ckin’?”
“She ain’t my girl. And, no, we ain’t f*ckin’. I deaded that shit the night I invited you to my spot. I already knew what it was.”
I glance ova at Zaire. He’s knocked out. “Be clear. I’m not sharin’ no nigga wit’ anyone, period.”
“And I ain’t lookin’ to let you.” I ask ’im how many chicks he’s f*ckin’. “I ain’t had no p-ssy since you.”
I raise my brows. “Nigga, stop lyin’.”
“Nah, true story. I’ve been straight beatin’ this dick, fleshlightin’ it, and beatin’ up my blow-up doll. Who you been f*ckin’?” I tell ’im ’bout Tone. “You need’a shut that shit down, today.”
I frown. “Nigga, you ain’t my man. And you ain’t runnin’ shit.”
“Whatever, yo. Shut that shit down, Kat. And let’s make this shit pop wit’ us. I’m tryna play for keeps, baby.”
I tilt my head. “What are you sayin’?”
He walks outta the den. Tells me he’ll be back. That he wants me to open the box he brought me. He walks back in, carryin’ it under his arm, handin’ it to me. “Open it.” I sit down on the sofa, then untie the ribbon, liftin’ the lid. The flowers are beautiful. Two dozen orchards and birds-of-paradise.
“Thank you,” I say, liftin’ up the card, then pullin’ it outta the envelope. I read it: I LOVE YOU, KAT, MORE TODAY, THAN THE DAY BEFORE. I WANNA BUILD A LIFE WIT’ YOU, BABY. WANNA BE ALL THE MAN YOU’LL EVER NEED. LOVE, YA MAN FOR LIFE…
“The flowers and card are beautiful. But you still haven’t told me why I should give you anotha chance.”
“There’s another box inside there,” he says, liftin’ up the flowers, then pullin’ it out. I blink. “Kat, I’m not goin’ anywhere. You’ve cursed me out, pulled a gun out on me, and moved three thousand miles away, and I’m still here, still standin’, still feelin’ what I feel.” He opens the box. “I love you, Katrina Rivera, and I wanna be ya husband, ya lover, and ya friend. I wanna grow old wit’ you. Raise mini-mes and mini-yous. And explore da world, and each otha, wit’ you—and only you. I wanna die knowin’ I loved you and you loved me back, baby. Will you marry me?”
I feel myself startin’ to hyperventilate. It feels like e’erything ’round me has stopped as I stare at the two-carat rock. My words get stuck in the back’a my throat.
“Ya peoples and my moms helped me pick out da ring. If it’s not what you want, we can go pick out sumthin’ else.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s beautiful,” I say, feelin’ myself becomin’ overwhelmed. I’ma fly, buttery bitch wit’ a buncha secrets. A cold-blooded killer, a ruthless bitch, wit’ dozens of bodies tagged wit’ ’er name on ’em. And—although I don’t plan on bodyin’ anyone else, I can’t say what I’ma do if I get the urge to pop anotha muhf*cka’s top, like his if he tries to do me dirty.
“Well, baby…will you be my wife?” I look at ’im wit’ tears runnin’ down my face. I stare into his eyes as he kisses my tears. “Yo, you my f*ckin’ heart, girl. Let’s make this shit official.”
I nod. “Yes,” I finally say in a whisper. I lean ova and kiss ’im in a way I’ve neva kissed any otha nigga. I kiss ’im wit’ a purpose I neva knew existed inside’a me. I kiss ’im wit’ more passion than I eva thought imaginable. And ’cause I’m that bitch, I slip my tongue deep into his mouth, and welcome ’im into the Kat Trap.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cairo resides in Northern New Jersey. He divides a lot of his time between Jersey and southern California, where he is working on his next literary creation, Man Swappers. His travels to Egypt are what inspired his pen name. You can email him at: [email protected]. Or visit him on his website/blog at www.booksbycairo.com, or at www.myspace.com/cairo2u, www.facebook.com/CairoBlacktheauthor, or www.blackplanet.com/cairo2u
IF YOU ENJOYED “KITTY-KITTY, BANG BANG,”
WE’RE SURE YOU’LL LOVE THIS LITTLE TASTE
OF CAIRO’S NEXT NOVEL
MAN
SWAPPERS
COMING SOON FROM STREBOR BOOKS ENJOY!
1
PLEASURE
My panties are wet and my body is hot and ready. I am so f*cking horny watching my sister, Porsha, down on her knees sucking dick. I watch as she bobs her head back and forth, making swishy-popping noises with her mouth as she slurps, gulps, and swallows the thick, eight-inch dick in front of her.
“That’s right, Sis,” I urge, grinning and sexily eyeing the six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-twenty pound, caramel-skinned stallion she’s kneeling before. He palms the back of her head, eyeing me back. My tongue traces my cherry-red painted lips. “Throat that nigga’s dick, Passion. Rock his top, like Mommy taught you.” She swallows him down to the base, juggling his balls in her hand. “That’s my girl. You’re making Mommy so proud of you.”
Porsha, aka Passion, enjoys connecting with a man’s inner spirit, empowering him to be less inhibited. She encourages him to relax, relate, release and…enjoy the moment.
I thumb my nipples and they pop up like chocolate Hershey kisses, eager to be licked, suckled, and devoured by his hot, hungry mouth. But, tonight, there’ll be no touching. He is only allowed to look.
“You like looking at these pretty titties?” I ask him, seductively shaking them at him. I lift up my left breast and flick my long tongue over my nipple. He pulls in his bottom lip. I switch to my right breast, then do the same thing. “You wanna suck these nipples?”
He groans. “Ohhh, yeaaaah, baby…aaaaah, fuuuuck…” I can tell Porsha’s head game is getting the best of him. He is straining to hold it together; struggling not to spill his creamy yogurt without permission.
“Motherf*cker,” my other sister, Persia, barks, snapping her whip, “You better not cum until I tell you to. You understand me?”
“Yessssssss…uhhhh, shiiiit…”
My sister, Persia—aka Pain, is domineering and commanding. Tonight, she is the mistress of ceremony, if you will. She enjoys creating scenarios and role-playing almost as much as she enjoys administering pain. Although she’ll tell you, quick, that she is not a Sadomasochist, or a Dominatrix, she’s the one who enjoys wearing the latex and leather getups with six-inch pencil boots and red nail polish and lipstick, dragging men around by collars and chains. And you can see the gleam in her eyes every time she causes a man to whimper and beg.
And, then, there is me—Paris, aka Pleasure. I am turned on by watching my two sisters bring a man to his knees just as much as I enjoy having him watching me pleasure myself. I enjoy seeing a man experience intimacy, and allowing him to fulfill his hidden carnal desires while connecting with his fantasies. I am the one who lets them watch me f*ck myself with fingers or toys, or a combination of the two, wishing it could be them lost in between the slick folds of my p-ssy. It is in the knowing that he can not touch, that he can not smell, that he can not taste, the essence of my womanhood—unless, I allow him to—that brings me the most pleasure. I enjoy seeing a man experience sensual and sexual gratification. And, it is within the dark confines of his mind that my sisters and I transform deepest desires into flesh-to-flesh reality.
“Yes what, you sneaky motherf*cker?’ Persia barks, bringing my attention back to her. “F*cking your best friend’s sister, you nasty motherf*cker.” She walks over to him and snaps a nipple clamp onto his left nipple.
He winces. And bolts of electricity shoot through my *. “Aaaaah…yes, Mistress Pain.”
“You like watching his mother, don’t you? You like gazing at her big, wet p-ssy?”
Bitch, you wish. My p-ssy ain’t big, I think, cuttin’ an eye at her. I smack the front of my p-ssy, then spread my lips so he can see for himself how tight it is.
He licks his lips. “Yes, Mistress Pain.”
“Tell your friend’s mother how pretty she is.”
Porsha sucks him ferociously, taking him all the down in her throat while she smacks, pops and pinches her *.
“Aaah, oh, shit…” he moans.
“Look at his mother,” Persia says, turning his face in my direction, “and tell the bitch what a sexy whore she is.”
The word whore slices through me. But I will play my position and let it go, for now.
“You real f*ckin’ sexy, ma,” he says, gazing at me. He purposefully doesn’t call me a whore, knowing it will bring him delightful consequences.
She grabs him by the throat. Her nails sink into his jugular. He winces, then grunts. Porsha’s wearing his dick out, sucking it feverishly. “That’s not what I told you to say, you defiant little shit. I said to tell her she’s a sexy whore.”
“Aaaah, shiiiiit…”
“You better not nut, you dumb f*ck. Now say it.”
I force a grin. Continue in the fantasy, leaning back on my right forearm, using my left hand to massage my * over my thin silk panties while staring at Persia. Despite my annoyance that she is forcing him to call me a whore, I am still in awe at how well she flips into script and dominates, manipulates, and controls men. She is wearing a crotch-less latex cat suit with cut-outs at her breasts. Her chocolate nipples poke out like sweet pieces of double-coated chocolate Malt balls.
He repeats her words, and she lets go of his throat, mushing him in the face. I can see the imprint of her nails embedded in his skin. He keeps his eyes locked on me, biting down on in his bottom lip.
“You like f*ckin’ your friend’s sister’s throat?” Persia asks, clamping his right nipple. He snaps his eyes shut, pulling in a deep breath. “Open your eyes,” she says, stepping up on the footstool near him and sticking her tongue in his ear. She bites down on his earlobe. Repeats the question; tells him to keep his eyes locked on me as I part my shapely legs so he can see my swollen petals around the crotch of my panties.
“Yes, Pain. Her throat feels so f*ckin’…aaah, shit…good.”
Persia walks over to the table, draped with a black tablecloth, and grabs a wooden ruler. She walks back over to Emerson. But tonight he is being called Sammie—this is what he has asked for. To be a horny teenage boy who sneaks into a window to get his dick sucked by his friend’s sister while he watches their mother masturbate. I am the mother who walked in on them, then started watching and playing with myself. A role I happily oblige. Persia glides the ruler over his muscular ass. She traces his ass cheeks with it, runs the edge of it down the crack of his ass, then without warning, she whacks him with it. He flinches. She whacks him again, and again. Then, like a razor, she slowly slides it up his ass crack before lighting his ass on fire.
“You wanna nut, don’t you, you nasty little F*cker?”
“No, Pain. Only if it is pleasin’ to you.”
I moan, listening to the smacking sounds of Porsha’s dick sucking. “That’s right, suck the shit out that fat dick. Suck him how Mommy showed you.” I let out a girlish giggle, then grind on my hand. “You have my p-ssy soooooo wet,” I moan, again, gazing at Emerson. “Sammie, you wanna smell my wet panties while you f*ck my daughter’s nasty little throat with your dick?”
“Yesssss…” he moans.
“You wanna taste ’em?”
He groans, then grunts, nodding his head as Porsha pulls his cock from out of her mouth and begins to coat it with a glob of spit. She jacks him off, then slowly starts sucking on his balls. “Aaaaah, yeah, baby…just like that…”
I lift my legs up in the air and slowly peel off my panties. I spread open my legs, give him a visual of what he can’t have. His eyes widen as he drinks in the loveliness of my freshly-shaven p-ssy. It greets him with glistened lips, smiling at him. He watches as I dip one finger, then two, in and scoop out my juices. I slip my fingers into my mouth and gently suck on them. When I have cleaned my fingers of my cream, I part my p-ssy lips and allow him to swallow in its pink center, lush and slippery.
I love my p-ssy. No, seriously…I adore it. The way it looks; the way it feels; the way it smells; the way its muscles constrict and contract—gripping and tugging at a finger, or tongue, or a neat little battery-operated gadget—when being teased, taunted and toyed with. Oh, how I love the way my cunt drips with its own sweet, sticky, delectable honey as it whines and begs and pleads for a deep f*cking by a deliciously thick, pulsating cock. Too bad—for him, tonight, there will be no f*cking…by choice.
Emerson, uh Sammie, lets out another moan, keeping his eyes glued to my weeping p-ssy. He knows my cunt cries for his touch. Knows it begs for his thrusts. And I see the yearning in his eyes to give it what it needs, wants, and craves—his tongue, his fingers, his thick, veiny dick!
Porsha slides a hand between her legs, rapidly smacks her p-ssy and pops her * a few times while throating Emerson’s cock.
Persia removes his left nipple clamp, then twirls her tongue around it. She flicks her tongue over it, then nibbles on it before moving over to his right nipple and doing the same thing. I know she is about to allow him to bust his nut. And he knows it, too. She walks in back of him, drops down and starts nibbling and biting on his swollen ass cheeks. She kisses and licks where she has bruised. I watch as she parts his ass open, then runs her tongue in his crack.
“Oh, f*ck…goddamn…ya’ll freaky-ass bitches f*ckin’ my head up…”
“Did I tell you to speak, you dirty, little maggot? Do you want me to paddle your tight ass until he bleeds?”
“No, Pain.”
“Then you speak when spoken to. You understand?”
“Yes, Mistress Pain.
“Muhf*cka,” Porsha says, stroking his dick, “you can say what you want. You know you ain’t ever gonna find another set of fly, freaky bitches like us who’ll f*ck you stress free. So you better shut the f*ck up and ask Pain if you can feed us your nut.”
“Pain, baby, may I have permission to bust this nut?”
Persia stops what she’s doing. “You think you deserve to cum, you naughty little F*cker?” she asks, smacking him on the ass again.
“Yes, Pain.”
She walks around to the front of him, grabbing him by the neck, then pulling him into her and forcefully kissing him. I rapidly finger myself. My p-ssy explodes, watching him greedily suck the scent of his ass off of Persia’s tongue. She pulls back from him. “You like how your ass tastes?”
Porsha wets his dick with more spit, then slips it back into her hungry mouth.
“Aaaaah, shit…”
“Answer me, motherf*cker,” Persia says, pinching and twisting his nipples.
“Mmmm, aaaahhh…yes, Mistress. I like how my ass tastes on your tongue. I love it when you eat my ass.”
“Of course you do, you nasty little sonofabitch.” She kisses him again, then walks in back of him, again, and squats down. “Keep f*cking her horny mouth real good and I’ll let you cum.” He grunts as she pulls open his cheeks and blows into his hole. “You want my tongue back in your horny, tight ass?”
Porsha rapidly sucks and gulps his cock.
“Ohhhh, shiiiiiit…yessssss, baby. F*ck my ass with your tongue.”
“Don’t you nut, yet,” Persia warns as she buries her face back into his ass and f*cks him with her heated tongue.
He dips at the knees, grabs the sides of Porsha’s head and face-f*cks her relentlessly, moaning. It is all music to my ears. When he can no longer take the intense dick sucking and ass-licking my sisters are giving him—or watching me play in my wet abyss, his body begins to shake. I watch as his head drops backward and his eyes roll up to the ceiling. He lets out a load, rumbling moan. His body starts to quiver.
It is time.
I smile, wiping my drenched p-ssy with my panties, then get up and walk over to him. I lick his left nipple, pull him by the neck toward me, then slip my tongue into his mouth. I suck on his tongue, his lips. Wipe his face with my cum-stained panties, then stuff them into his mouth. He greedily sucks and chews on them.
“Clean my panties, you nasty nigga,” I say, running my hands along his chiseled chest. I allow my nails to lightly graze across his skin. I whisper in his ear, pulling my panties out of his mouth. I smell them. “Mmmm, my p-ssy smells so good. What do you think my son would say if he caught you f*ckin’ his sister’s pretty little face and watchin’ his mother play with herself?” I reach between his legs and grab his balls while Porsha continues bobbing back and forth on his cock. I roll them in my hand, then lightly squeeze.
“Aaaah, fuuuuck…he’d tell me how f*cked up I am.”
“He sure would. You ready to show him how f*cked up you are?” I ask, dropping down to my knees next to Porsha. He will feed the two of us his milk while Persia eats his ass.
“Oh, yes…aaaaah…” Porsha releases his cock from her throat. He grabs it and rapidly jacks it, moaning. I am anxious to feel his hot cum splash up against my lips and tongue. He has two sets of eyes looking up at him, two wet tongues wagging in anticipated delight, waiting to be drenched by his cream.
Porsha and I both lap at his balls, then pull one into each of our mouths. “Aaaaaah, fuuuck…Yeah, suck them balls…aaah…you pretty bitches got a nigga’s head spinnin’…aaaah, shit…I cummin’…ooohhh…here it comes…open ya mouths …come get this nut…”
He scoots back as Porsha and I open our mouths, and say, “Aaaaaaah”, wagging our tongues, and flicking them at the tip of his swollen mushroom head. His body shudders as he pumps out a gushing stream of hot creamy nut. He swings his dick from side to side, sprays us with his sticky cream. Persia removes her tongue from his ass, then comes around and tongues him down again. He continues stroking his dick, squeezing out more nut, then allows me and Porsha to take turns sucking out the last few drops of his salty and sweet nectar.
“Daaaaaaaaaaaaamn…” he says, trying to catch his breath. “That shit was good as f*ck. Ya’ll got a muhf*cka’s head spinnin’.”
Porsha and I swallow his nut, standing up and licking our lips. We both take turns kissing him, then push him back on the sofa. “We ain’t finished with you, nasty boy,” Porsha says, rolling a condom down on his dick, then straddling him. “You f*cked my mouth, now it’s time to f*ck my p-ssy.” She reaches under for his still-hard dick. She strokes it at the base, allowing the head to brush up against the back of her p-ssy. She will not allow him to enter her until I am in position. I stand up on the sofa and look down into his glazed eyes. The eyes of a man seduced and pleasured by three beautiful women—sisters identical in every way imaginable.
Porsha slips his dick into her smoldering hole, then gallops down on his shaft. Persia is now on her knees sucking on his balls.
He moans.
I straddle his face. Allow my smoldering slit to hover over his seeking mouth. He sticks his thick tongue out, rapidly flaps it back and forth. I lower my p-ssy, barely allowing the tip of his tongue to touch it. He reaches up for me with his hands. I grab them, pushing them up over his head. Pin them against the wall. Then slowly mount his mouth; give him access to my wetness. Grind on his mouth until I cum in his mouth.
Tonight, we have brought this man before us to heightened bliss. We have taken him on a sexual journey like no other. And have allowed him to explore a hidden desire without guilt or shame. Our motto is simple: What one has, the others share—including men. Yes, Porsha, Persia, and I have given this hunk of man a night he will soon never forget. And, together, we are man swappers—three sisters, three insatiable libidos—who share the same man, with one mission in mind. To f*ck him—together, and take him to the edge of ecstasy, taunt him, then toss his ass over.