La Familia 2 (10 page)

I gasped when I felt his lips against me, his tongue digging inside of me. I placed my head back and closed my eyes. My mind drifted off somewhere as he ate me out. I had entered somewhere and wasn't about to leave it, lying in an open glade with this thuggish and gorgeous specimen of a man devouring my pussy like if he needed it to live.

“Aaaah, ugh. Aaaah,” I moaned and gritted my teeth.

His tongue invaded me deep, instantly finding my G-spot. My mind spiraled into a touch of bliss as it felt like he was about to bring an orgasm to me. I kept my body arched and opened, and stop my knees from simply collapsing in sheer, trembling bliss. Tango ate and ate, and ate, like a starving offering. I shuddered in his grasp, playing the carnal tune with my voice. One moment his touch was like feathers, and then it would feel like a wriggling snake with his breath tickling my every nerve.

I clawed his backside as his mouth and teeth nipped at my flesh and in doing so, his hands reached up for my nipples, pinching them softly and cupping them. His full lips supped and suckled my pink folds, tugging, licking, flicking, and teasing without end. He kept my unsuspecting body on the edge of breathless shivering when he fingered both places, and then having his tongue flick back and forth inside of me, and across my throbbing clit. My whole body shook trying not to cum. I was his toy to play with and he was playing well.

“I just wanna taste you. You taste so fuckin' good,” he said between licks and sucks.

“I'm gonna cum,” I cried out.

I was soon lost in this rapturous haze of a mind-blowing orgasm that never seemed to end. I quivered against the sheet and near him like I was having a seizure. My eyes fluttered and Tango worked me in a way that I had never been worked before. As I was coming down from my orgasm, my legs began to release his head, they became like vise grips around him when I was about to explode, and I could feel his tongue lapping up my juices. This man was a freak. I loved it.

He wasn't done with me yet. Before the last drop of me came out, he tossed me into the doggie style position and thrust himself inside of me roughly. His big dick penetrated me like a hot spear. He moaned and grunted as his balls slammed against me and my good pussy almost having him reach the point of no return.

“Damn, ya pussy is so fuckin' good. Oh shit, ugh, ugh!” he grunted.

I had him arched over me, weakened and clutching the white sheets, his dick at full staff with my glorious insides pleasing every inch of him to full throttle. He fucked me, and fucked me, grabbing my ass, cupping my tits, his rhythm dancing inside of me.

From there, he pulled out and wanted me to ride him cowgirl style. I straddled his nice physique with my fiery descent, slamming my pussy down on his dick and fucking him crazily. He gripped my hips as I rode that dick, trying to milk the cum from his nuts.

“Ooooh. Ooooh, shit. Ooooh, shit, ugh, ugh, ugh,” his feral grunts echoed out.

With my hands placed against his strapping chest, I felt this nigga's dick cemented in my stomach. He was about to make me cum again, as I was about to do him the same way.

“I'm gonna fuckin' come,” he cried out.

We both were nearly there to heaven, once again, reaching the point of no return. He had me creaming and dripping wet. I came on the dick, saturating the condom thrusting inside of me. Moments later, he detonated himself inside of me with so much force, I feared he tore through the condom and came inside of me. He was ten years backed up and I couldn't have any more mistakes.

When he was finally done coming, which took like forever, I pulled him out of me, quickly checking to see if the condom was still attached, which it was, thank God, and I fell against my back, breathing hard and sweating. He nestled against me and held me in his arms like I was his.

“That was so good, thank you,” he said.

I was taken aback. It was the first time any man thanked me for sex and held me close afterward. This rough-looking muthafucka was more than met the eye. For a moment, we cuddled in that bare room like a couple. I didn't know him at all, but there was something about him that was truly comforting.

While he held me, he talked to me. I mean, he just literally opened up and started telling me about himself. His name was Tango, but his real name was Andre Clark. Tango was his street name, his nickname. The more he talked, the more he grew on me. He was warm and generous; he was even willing to pay me extra for more of my time.

He asked me about myself. I told him a few things, but not all of my business. I told him about the music career I tried to get into. I even spit a poem/rhyme for him. He was impressed. I mentioned my daughter, my likes, and dislikes. I told him about the shelter and why I started prostituting myself. The funny thing was, Tango looked at me and didn't judge me at all. Most niggas wouldn't be caught dead nestling against a prostitute and catching feelings for her. Tango didn't care at all.

We talked for an hour, until Erica knocked on the door and said it was time for us to go. He didn't want to let me go, but he understood.

“I wanna see you again,” he said.

I smiled.

He added, “I'll pay you. I don't care.”

He was sweet.

“Where do you be at?” he asked me.

“I work Hunts Point,” I told him.

“Okay.”

I got dressed. He didn't. He just sat there at the foot of the bed, remaining buck-naked and looking at me. His eyes lit up. His body was sharp. He was really infatuated with everything about me. Erica continued knocking. “Diamond, c'mon, let's go.”

“I'm coming,” I hollered.

Tango stood up from the bed, dick swinging and all. He reached into his pants pocket and removed a few bills. He handed me a twenty and said, “I ain't got much right now, but you deserve a tip.”

I took it. “Thank you.”

I walked out the room feeling cool. He pleased me and I pleased him. And I wondered if it was all just talk with him, or would he come and see me again.

Erica and I footed it back out into the snowfall with two inches of snow already on the ground. My pussy was still tingling from the experience and I couldn't wait to get back home to my daughter.

“Was he good?” Erica asked me, as we entered into the lobby covered in snow and cold.

I smiled at her.

Tango, he was more than good; he was different.

Brownsville was the worst, and will always be the worst in my eyes. I didn't even know how I let Kawanda talked me into this. I was in the heart of Brownsville, Rockaway Avenue, near the Van Dyke houses. The bachelor party was at this seedy-looking lounge/bar. It was spacious, but it was hood, too hood for my taste. It made Crazy Legs look like some rich white club. Every nigga in the bar/lounge had a blunt to their lips or a bottle in their hand, and everywhere reeked of weed, cigarettes, and funky-smelling niggas. It was only rap music blaring throughout the place; the bitches were ghetto and whack with majority of them having bullet holes or stab wounds, and bad weaves and trashy outfits that they kept off. Nearly a dozen bitches strutted around the party butt-ass naked trying to fuck and suck niggas for one hundred dollars or less. Some bitches were tricking for fifty dollars.

I shook my head at these trashy, low-class looking bitches.

Unfortunately, all eyes were on me. I was the baddest bitch at the party and didn't want the attention. But these hood and thirsty niggas were all over me like I was a star. I strutted around the place in a sexy minidress with a halter neckline with string ties and silver weave for a glittery effect and my clear stilettos. My style was original and I stood out. I was too shapely for these bitches who had stomachs and guts, and sagging tits and weak skin.

I sipped on a drink and chilled by the bar. Three hours in this place and I only made $200. I wanted to go home, but Kawanda and I shared a cab together. I was the only girl in the place who wasn't disappearing into a room with a nigga to sexually please him. I simply made my money by dancing and flirting with niggas. It was supposed to be a bachelor party, but the groom-to-be was so drunk and disrespectful to the dancers and niggas at his party that a few fights broke out with him, and his homeboy had to cool him down and seriously talk to him. This was the man who had the contract with a record label. He wasn't much to look at in my book. He was short and stocky with fuzzy cornrows and dark skin. Everything about him was off. He was also belligerent. When he would look my way, I would turn my head. I didn't want anything to do with the man of the party.

The other thing that pissed me off was there weren't any big-time ballers or rappers at the party. Steele didn't even show up and I heard he and the husband-to-be were supposed to be kin. It appeared to me that all these niggas at this party had struggling pockets. They wanted to have tons of fun on a shoestring budget. And I wasn't a shoestring budget bitch. I had these niggas coming at me left and right, yearning for my attention, craving to see my body in the nude, wanting to touch me in places to get their dicks hard. I was repulsed by everything. The place was nasty and the men were corny.

Kawanda was doing her thang though, making her paper, pleasing these niggas and doing what she did best: sex and being enticing. I watched her grind against someone in the dark corner in the nude and standing erect in a pair of red pumps. She had him against the wall, allowing his hands to touch her everywhere, one hand cupping her tit and the other between her legs. I assumed he was finger fucking her right there in public and she didn't care. She had money spread about on the floor: one-, five-, and ten-dollar bills.

I was glued to Kawanda's freaky actions until I heard someone say to me, “What's wrong wit' you, ma?”

He took a seat next to me at the bar. I glanced at him. He was tall and lanky with a nappy 'fro and looked like he didn't have a dime to spend in his pockets.

“Nothing's wrong with me,” I replied.

“You look nice though. I like ya style,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Can a nigga get a dance wit' you?”

“You got money?”

“Shit, ma, it hurts that you even have to ask a nigga that shit. Yeah, I got paper on me. I know you ain't no free ho,” he said. “You one of them stuck-up bitches 'bout that money and you gonna hit a nigga's pockets to fuck.”

“What?” I replied, screwing my face at his comment.

“I'm sayin', I got eighty on me fo' ya time.”

“Eighty?” My face twisted up with a serious attitude.

He was serious.

“Nigga, you can take that eighty and find you some other thirsty bitch. I don't turn tricks.”

“What? Then why you here, ma?” he asked.

Yeah, why was I there? I should have been gotten dressed and left. But I didn't want to leave Brooklyn by myself. It was late and paying for a cab was too costly from Brownsville to the Bronx.

As if things couldn't get any worse, the drunken groom came walking over with his eyes fixated on me. I noticed him watching me all night, and now I guessed he had the nerve to come over. I wanted to walk away, but I didn't get the chance.

“Yo, B, what's good, my nigga? What this bitch talkin' 'bout?” the groom said to him like I wasn't standing there.

“She actin' brand new, my nigga. She here, but she ain't tryin' to get that money like the rest of these bitches.”

“She actin' brand new,” the groom replied. “What?”

I sucked my teeth out of frustration and rolled my eyes. The husband-to-be looked at me and asked, “Yo, ma, what's ya name? I've been watchin' you all night. You the baddest bitch up in this spot. You know a nigga 'bout to get married soon and I'm 'bout to get put on.”

I wasn't impressed. I felt sorry for the bride. “I'm good,” I told him.

“What?” he replied with attitude, “What you mean, you good?”

“Fats, I told you this bitch is stuck-up.”

“I told you, I'm good.”

“Bitch—”

“I ain't ya bitch,” I spat at him.

“Bitch, you better start actin' right, 'cause this my fuckin' party. I run this shit, bitch,” he hollered.

These fuckin' Brownsville niggas, doesn't anything ever good come out of dealing with them. I shouldn't have come. But I wasn't about to let some short, drunk, ugly, and punk muthafucka scream on me and treat me like shit.

“Your mother's a fuckin' bitch!” I cursed.

The groom done started shit with everybody in the party, so I guessed it was my turn. He stepped to me; I towered over him being in my six-inch stilettos. He twisted his face at me and started becoming belligerent.

“Yo fuck you, bitch! I'm Fats Money; you know who the fuck I am!” he screamed, creating unwanted attention on me and him.

Kawanda noticed the heated incident ensuing and hurried over to have my back. She came between me and him buck-naked with her clothes in her hands. “This my homegirl yo,” she said.

“I don't give a fuck!” he shouted.

“Well, you better,” Kawanda warned him.

“Fuck you too, bitch!” he screamed heatedly.

I was ready to smash a bottle over his head. The problem was, Kawanda and I were the only girls who weren't from Brooklyn. We came from the BX, and these bitches already hated on me and my girl because we stood out. I was ready to fight though, not giving a fuck. I hated when someone disrespected me for any reason at all. And Fats Money, he was the rudest and foulest nigga I ever met.

I felt everyone glaring at me. Fats Money was big time in the Ville. He was an upcoming rapper with a violent street reputation. He was get a money nigga and didn't have any shame on putting his hands on a female. Kawanda and myself, I felt we were outnumbered and predicted coming here was going to be a mistake.

Fats Money continued being belligerent toward us at the bar, but then I heard someone say, “Yo, Fats, you need to chill the fuck out, fo' real, my nigga. Them girls ain't do shit to you.”

Fats turned his aggressive attention to the voice commanding him to be easy and when he saw who it was, his whole demeanor changed. “Yo, fo' real,” Fats started, but the man approaching us looked at him like he was food to eat.

“You already know, Fats, calm the fuck down. I don't wanna embarrass you at your own bachelor party.”

Fats didn't respond. He stood quietly, easily being punked by this towering man who walked with a tiger's stride in the room and his persona manifesting respect and authority. He shut down the problem before it escalated.

“Go fuck with somebody else, Fats, not these two ladies,” the man said.

Fats scowled, but he didn't respond. It was obvious who the real boss nigga was at the party. Fats and his friend walked away, defeated and embarrassed. I was thankful. I gazed at my peacemaker and had seen him before. He was a large man, well over six feet tall and probably over 300 pounds, but neat and well put-together for his size. There was an air of power about him with his ink-black eyes, glistening bald head, and thick goatee.

I noticed the tattoo inked on his neck: YGC. Young Gangster Crew. I immediately assumed he was from Edenwald and a gangster. They all were. Why was he in Brooklyn, I had no idea. But it seemed he had clout there.

“He more bark than bite,” he said to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“They call me Power,” he introduced himself, with a friendly handshake. “I be seeing you at Crazy Legs. You're a beautiful woman and a great dancer.”

“Thank you,” I replied dryly.

He saved me from a whirlwind of trouble, but I wasn't interested in him. The way he looked at me told me he was very interested in me; not to be conceited, but everyone was. He was trying to make conversation, but I was ready to leave. I didn't care if I had to leave alone. It was just too much going on around me.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“No, I'm good. I'm 'bout to leave anyway.”

He lit a cigarette and replied, “Yeah, I understand, I don't fuck with the Ville like that either. It's just business out here for me.”

He blew smoke out his mouth, looked at me, threw up his left hand with his middle finger crossed over his ring finger, indicating an X, and said, “I'm BX for life.”

I smiled, but it was more forced. “It ain't nothin' like the Bronx,” I said, just to be nice.

“Word up, fuck these Brooklyn niggas,” Power said recklessly around Brooklyn niggas. Nobody said a word; not a soul rebuked his rude comment. It indicated how heavy his status was.

I looked around for Kawanda. I was leaving. Power was cool, or seemed cool, but he wasn't my type and I was done dating gangsters. Rico was the Antichrist who ruined it for everyone.

“Listen, it was nice talkin' to you, but I gotta go,” I said.

“It's cool, I'll see you around,' he replied.

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn't, and I didn't care. Power let me walk away without any hassle or trying to get my number. I respected that. He was the classiest nigga in the place, if I said so. I went looking for Kawanda and when I couldn't find her, I figured she was doing VIP or was in the changing/storage room switching up outfits or counting her money. When I didn't see her in the changing room, I immediately knew where she was at. That bitch probably sucked and fucked more niggas than Heather Hunter.

I quickly got dressed and dialed a cab from my cell phone. The way these bitches were glaring at me in the room, I knew I wasn't wanted there. Every bitch was a Brooklyn bitch, and the fact that I was pretty they hated me like I was some Nazi German.

Clad in my jeans, sweater, winter coat, and winter boots, and rolling my small suitcase, I hurried through the growing crowd and rowdy-ass niggas toward the exit. I noticed Power eyeing me from the bar. He smiled, I didn't smile back. I exited the building without even telling Kawanda I was gone. She was taking too long in VIP for me. I already had the cab idling outside. I decided to call her cell phone and leave a message, or somebody would tell her that I left.

I climbed into the back seat and told the driver I was heading to the Bronx. He looked skeptical driving that far at this late in the night. He charged me extra: sixty-five dollars. I had no choice. That fee came out of the $200 I made that night. Pissed wasn't even the word I felt. I wasn't fuckin' with Kawanda or Brooklyn anymore. The night was a complete bust.

The duration of the ride to the Bronx, I pouted and thought about another source of employment because this couldn't be it for me. I refused to keep living like this.

 

 

“Open number two,” the guard shouted.

The thick gray door opened up in front of me and I stepped into the visiting room of Attica prison, walking single file behind so many other women who were there to see a loved one. The spacious gym that had been turned into an inmate visiting area was teeming with inmates enjoying their family: girlfriends, husbands, brothers, and sons, and so on. I gave the female guard my ticket and she pointed to my assigned seat, farther in the back. I walked toward the seating area feeling the eyes on me. I came alone, choosing to leave Danny with my neighbor. It was a constant headache bringing a seven-month-old baby with me.

I was dressed simple in some stylish blue jeans, white sneakers, and a black gathered bust flutter top, which I must admit, did draw attention to my tits a little more. I didn't come to look cute for Rico; I just liked to look cute wherever I went.

I sat in the chair and waited. I wanted to be home with my son, but Rico called me collect the other day and said he needed me to come visit him. It was an emergency. Reluctantly, I was here once more. The chatter in the room wasn't noisy, but it was tiresome to hear, especially when you're alone and waiting. I noticed the fleeting looks my way, some from inmates already seated with their girlfriends and some came from other visitors. I caught even a few male guards staring my way. I ignored the attention and looked at the floor.