The Kat Trap (2 page)

“
L
ay back, nigga, and let me wet your dick with my pussy,” I said, mountin’ my target for the night, then slammin’ my hot, wet snatch down on his long, black cock. I leaned forward, brushin’ my perfectly rounded titties with their Hershey kiss nipples against his lips as I galloped up and down on his brick-hard dick, positionin’ myself so that the shaft of his pole stroked my clit while I rode him down into the hotel mattress. I slowly lifted up, used my pussy muscles to milk the head of his dick, then slammed back down. I repeated it. Up. Down. Up. Down. Bounced and twirled my hips, buryin’ e’ery thick inch of him deep inside me until I had the nigga beggin’ me, until I had him practically slurrin’ his words.

“You like this wet pussy, nigga? You like this pussy grabbin’ ya dick?”

“Uh…uh…Oh, fuck yeah! Oh, shit! Ride that dick, baby.”

I glanced over at the digital clock on the oak wood nightstand. It read 11:42. I had been fuckin’ dude for almost forty minutes and was determined to cum for the third time before I sealed his fate. Murder made me no never mind. I didn’t ask no questions, didn’t want no answers. The less I knew, the better. The only thing I needed to know was: when, where, and who.

Easy cum, easy go,
I thought as I took in my target’s face. The
nigga had the nerve to be fuckin’ fine. Deep, dark chocolate-coated, broad-shouldered nigga with waves that spun so deep a bitch could get seasick just starin’ at ’em. His eyes were slits of lust, his face slick with sweat as he thrust upward, matchin’ my rhythm stroke for stroke, stabbin’ my pussy, stokin’ the fire that ignited inside me. Damn! And the nigga had some good dick. Too bad that in another few minutes it’d be a wrap for his ass. I didn’t give a fuck. Wasn’t shit I could do about it, even if I wanted to. His time on this earth was limited. The mother-fucka was on borrowed time, and didn’t even know it. Oh, well.

The clock ticked in my head. His life meant nothing to me. I didn’t give a fuck whether or not he had a wife and kids, and I definitely didn’t give a fuck how his family’s world would be after tonight. The only thing I cared about was gettin’ my fuck on, bustin’ a nut, and puttin’ this snitch-ass nigga outta his misery. My pussy got hotter and wetter just thinkin’ about my next move. “You ready to nut for me, big daddy?” I asked, clampin’ my pussy around his throbbin’ dick.

“Damn, ma, you got some killa pussy. Ah…uh. Shit. This pussy is mad tight. Yeah, baby. Just like that. Got my dick wetta than a muhfucka,” he said in between his moans, grunts, and groans.

If you only knew,
I thought, smilin’. “That’s right, make my pussy cum, nigga,” I whispered into his left ear. “Fuck this pussy. Give me that nut, daddy. Yeah, nigga, just like that…fuck this pussy…Mmmm, give me that nut.” The lower I spoke, the harder he jabbed his dick in me. “Oh, yes,” I moaned. I sucked on his ear lobe, then stuck the tip of my tongue into his ear. “Oooh, daddy, this dick feels so good. You ready to give me that hot nut?”

“Yeah, baby, I’m ’bout to spit. Oh, shit. Damn, girl.”

I cut my eyes over at the clock again: 11:52. I quickly gazed down at the unsuspectin’ victim beneath me. He was ’bout to
bust his dick milk. I smiled. And in one swift move, I reached up under the pillow and pulled out my shiny black silencer gun.

“Oh, shit! Oh, shit! I’m cuuuuming, baaa—”
Theessrrpp!
Before he could finish, before he could get his nut off, I shot him dead center in his forehead.
Mission complete,
I thought, pullin’ myself up off this dead nigga’s still stiff dick.

I stared at his lifeless body, silently admired his perfectly chiseled abs and his big, black dick, then yanked off the condom and dropped it into a Ziploc baggie. I licked my lips, watchin’ his nut spurt and run outta the tip of his dick. I shook off the thought of lickin’ it up from ’round his big, hairy balls, diggin’ into my Gucci satchel and pullin’ out a bottle of rubbin’ alcohol and a pack of wipes. I started wipin’ him down. Leavin’ a trail of clues that could potentially lead back to me was not an option. I was a stickler for details and there was no room for bein’ sloppy, which is why I
always
did my dirt solo.

When I finished wipin’ all the evidence off the corpse sprawled out in the middle of the bed with his dick slick from his own juices, I pulled the sheets from underneath him, rolled them up in a tight ball, then stuffed them in a bag. I glanced at the nigga lyin’ on the bare mattress one last time before pickin’ the spread up from off the floor, then tossin’ it over his body. I had seen enough, and needed to get the hell outta there. I had about twenty minutes before the “clean-up” crew came through to dispose of the body, or do whatever the fuck else it is they did. I just knew I wasn’t trustin’ no niggas I didn’t know or hadn’t seen before to make sure my fingaprints and pussy juice wasn’t still lingerin’ all over the place.

I went into the bathroom, wiped my soakin’ wet pussy with some tissue, then used several baby wipes to give myself a whore bath. When I was done, I quickly dressed, slipped on my white
gloves, then slid my feet into my Jimmy Choo mules. I straightened my burgundy wig, then applied a fresh coat of burgundy-wine lipstick to my full, soft, made-for-dick-suckin’ lips. Satisfied that everything was dusted off and in place, I shut off the bathroom light, then strutted toward the door. On my way out, I caught my reflection in the mirror and almost didn’t like what I saw starin’ back at me: the slanted, eyes of a cold-blooded killa. I shook the image from my mind, and pressed out the door and toward the elevators.

Growin’ up, a bitch had dreams. I dreamed dreams of bein’ rich. And baggin’ a fine-ass hood nigga with a big black dick and fat pockets who would love me, and fuck me, and get me far the fuck away from the roaches that crawled all over the walls and from all the dirty dishes that overflowed in the sink ’cause my moms was too motherfuckin’ stressed ’bout life and no-good muhfuckas to ever give a fuck ’bout what I was doin’. I dreamed dreams of being loved and wanted and needed ’cause a bitch was special. But then I woke the fuck up and realized that dreams ain’t real, and that love won’t always love you back, and that the only way to keep the dirty-ass nigga with his nasty-ass fingers and grimy-ass hands off ya ass and titties, the only way to keep the duck-ass nigga from smackin’ ya moms up, was to stretch his ass.

Yeah, a bitch had dreams. Bein’ a murderer was never one of ’em. But it quickly became my reality the night I sucked a young nigga on the come up’s dick and gave him some pussy as payment for a gun to kill my mother’s sorry-ass nigga because I was tired of him creepin’ into my room, suckin’ on my titties, and eatin’ my pussy. I guess I should be grateful that the old nigga just jerked his long, black dick while lickin’ my clit instead of tryna run it up in me. But I knew it was only a matter of time
before he’d want to feel my young, tight, hairy pussy wrapped around his dick. And I swore I’d never let that happen. So, I snuffed his ass. And fuckin’ that young nigga and lettin’ him bust this pussy open was far better than lettin’ some nasty-assed nigga steal the little string of innocence I had left.

Say what ya want. In my mind, the payoff was well worth it. I got what I wanted, and dude got himself a taste of some virgin twat. But after it was all said and done, I promised myself that I would never,
ever,
again, suck another nigga’s dick or give up my pussy to get shit again. And I meant that! If I fuck or suck a nigga it’s ’cause I
want
to, not ’cause I need to.

Anyway, I’ma tell ya some foul shit. A part of me thinks my moms knew what time it was, but she wanted to act like she was stuck on stupid or some shit and ignore it. Sometimes I thought I saw it in her eyes when she looked at me. Guilt. The fact that she was tryna pimp me, her only child. Maybe it was regret I saw. Maybe it was just my fucked-up imagination. Well, whether or not there was ever any truth to it—not that she would ever admit it—is neither here nor there. I handled the nigga my way by lurin’ his ass into a darkened stairwell for some pussy, then shootin’ him in his head. His eyes were wide open and filled with shock and panic when his brains splattered against the cement wall. I looked down at his lifeless ass with a smirk on my face, then left him lyin’ in a pool of blood. I was fifteen. At that moment, somethin’ in me changed. It opened my eyes to the power of pussy, and showed me just how far a nigga—young or old—would go to feel it, taste it, and try to possess it. And a bullet to his head is the only thing that would stop his muhfuckin’ ass from tryna claim it.

So, hell the fuck no! I didn’t choose this life—this muhfuckin’
life chose me. I was pushed into this shit. As a result, it has become my callin’, a way of life that has evolved into a way of bein’ for a bitch like me. Don’t get it twisted. I ain’t makin’ no excuses, and I ain’t lookin’ for no sympathy. I accept life for what it is: unfair, with a set of fucked-up rules you either live or die by. And no matter how many dreams a bitch dreams, ain’t shit comin’ true unless ya get on ya grind and make shit happen ’cause life don’t give a fuck ’bout you or no whack-ass fairy tales.

I stepped off the elevator, strutted through the lobby of the Marriott, then quietly slid out the revolvin’ glass doors, unheard and unnoticed. When I reached my rental—a blue Ford Taurus—and was safely behind the steerin’ wheel, I pulled off my wig, took out the blue contact lenses, then flipped open my cell, pressed speed dial, and waited for the voice on the other end.

“Yo, what’s good?”

“I know why the caged bird sings,” I stated, startin’ the car, then pullin’ out of the parkin’ lot and onto the highway. It was the code I used to let him know when a job had been completed.

“That’s what it is. I’ll get at you.”

“Same spot?”

“No doubt. One.”

Click.
I pressed the
END
button and disconnected the call, along with my emotions.

I drove in silence. I didn’t wanna hear shit. The only thing I wanted was a hot shower, some sleep, and to be back on that plane first thing in the mornin’, headin’ to Jersey. I couldn’t wait to get home to collect the remainin’ half of the hundred gees I had comin’ to me for smokin’ that nigga back at the hotel.
Not bad for a day’s work,
I thought, headin’ to my hotel suite on the other side of town.
Murkin’ these crab-ass niggas is as easy as snatchin’ candy from a baby.

The followin’ afternoon, I was home chillin’ in my two-story condo in the suburbs of Jersey, standin’ at the mahogany island in the middle of my walk-in closet, waitin’ for the whir of the countin’ machine to finish totalin’ my money. Snoop Dogg’s “For All My Niggaz & Bitches” blared through my Bose surround sound system.
Oh, hell naw. Somethin’ ain’t right,
I thought. But I knew what I saw. It totaled my paper at forty thousand dollars. I knew shit wasn’t wrong with the machine, but I recounted my money anyway. Nothin’ changed. I stormed outta the closet, snatchin’ up the cell on my nightstand. I punched in his number and waited. The deep voice answered on the third ring. “What’s good?”

“My motherfuckin’ money, nigga!” I snapped, turnin’ down my stereo. “That’s what the fuck’s good. Now where’s the rest of my shit?”

“Yo, chill, ma,” he said, lowerin’ his voice. “I got you.”

“Nigga, chill my ass. I want my motherfuckin’ shit. And I want it today. And I want another ten for you tryna finger-fuck me.”

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, soundin’ like he was ready to raise up. “You buggin’ for real, ma. I said I got you. And that’s what it is.”

“Buggin’ hell, muhfucka! I tell you what, bring me my shit and the extra or we got problems. And
that’s
what it is. This is like the third time you tried some bitch shit on me, and I’m not the one. So, you betta buy a vowel and get a fuckin’ clue. Now what’s it gonna be, ’cause another body don’t mean shit to me.”

“Aye, yo. You tryna write a check you ain’t gonna be able to cash, baby girl. So watch how you come at me. I said I got you.”

I wasn’t tryna hear shit he had to say. I paced the floor, burnin’ a hole in my white Persian rug while clenchin’ my fist. On the real, this nigga really had me swole. My mind was made up. If this fat, black muthafucka didn’t have my money by day’s end, I
was gonna stretch his ass. I didn’t give a fuck how many goons he had in his camp. I’d just lie in wait until the right time—I didn’t give a fuck if it took weeks or years. I would smoke his ass, real talk. There were two things you didn’t fuck over: my money, and my pussy. Try it if you want, and you got hell to pay.

I screamed on his ass. “No, nigga! You watch how you handle ya business. I ain’t one of them sucka-ass bitches you fuck with. My name ain’t Wonder Bread, and ain’t shit soft on me but my ass. Now, like I
said,
I want my shit…
today!”

“Hold da fuck on,” he snapped. I pulled in a deep breath, then counted to ten. I heard muffled sounds in the background as he attempted to cover the mouthpiece of the phone. I welcomed the momentary silence. I knew the nigga really didn’t wanna beef with me. I was the best thing on his squad. Bein’ the only female on his team, as far as I was concerned I was his most valuable asset. And one of the baddest killers he had. Not only was I sexy as hell, I was reliable, dependable, and with the promise of a good fuck and dick suck, I seductively lured my marks into the Kat Trap, then served them the heat—clean and swift. Of course the fuckin’ was a perk he acted like he wasn’t aware of because he’d never confronted me about it. But I knew he knew what time it was. Bottom line, no one suspected a chick like me was capable of slumpin’ muhfuckas. But I was. And I had no problem killin’ again, so dude had better play his position real quick, or he’d be next on the list to get earthed.

This fat, black, six-foot-three, three-hundred-and-thirty pound grizzly bear’s name is Cash. I met his ass at that spot the Brooklyn Café back in ’03. The nigga approached me after peepin’ me mop a bitch’s ass across the dance floor for tryna shine on me in front of some niggas. Wrong move!