Today is one those “don’t-fuck-with-me-’cause-I-got-too-much-shit-to do-and-I’m-not-in-the-motherfucking-mood-for-any-bullshit” days. I’m in my office—at my desk, my fingers rapidly moving, clicking, against the keys of my computer. I am diligently trying to stay focused so I can complete my department’s end of the month status report. But, for some reason, my mind keeps wandering—to Garrett; to Wade. Two handsome, masculine, hard-working men who enjoy fucking me, but want more than what I’m offering—this sweet, gushy pussy. Two men whom I enjoy fucking, but want nothing more than what hangs between their legs—two beautiful, mouthwatering, thick, veiny chocolate cocks, alternately thrusting in and out of my sizzling snatch, consume my thoughts and I don’t fucking know why.
Okay, okay, I do know. Because I’m greedy, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to experiment with more than one dick in my bed at the same time, especially when it’s with two men who equally know how to slay the pussy. Besides, I know them, and I know how much they crave my wet, sticky, cunt juice all over their cocks.
My preoccupation with fucking them both simultaneously, having both of them filling my holes—stretching them wide and deep to capacity—from one end to the other, causes my walls to tighten. I shift in my seat, and squeeze my legs together, trying to pinch away the throbbing in my pussy. I can feel my panties getting moist as I envision having a ménage À trois—two sets of hands, roaming all over my body; two sets of lips, sucking my nipples; two sets of tongues, licking my pussy and clit; two sets of teeth, nibbling on my ass cheeks; two sets of balls for me to suck on, and gargle; two delicious dicks to rub together and deep throat, to mount and ride with reckless abandon.
Mmmm…oh, yes…I can feel my clit swelling.
My BlackBerry vibrates on my desk, shuddering as if it were having its own mini-orgasm, disrupting my own. A tinge of jealousy sweeps through me at the thought. I let out a long, exaggerated sigh. I pick up the device and remove it from its pink leather case, then lean back in my executive chair.
I have received sixty emails from my various email accounts. But the one that is of the most interest to me at this very moment is from one of my old yahoo accounts: Nutcracker69. It’s an email from the screen name DickUdownallnight. I open and read it, slowly scrolling down through its contents.
Hey, baby,
What’s good with you? Just hitting you up to see if I can come through and dick you down and crack this nut down your throat like old times, baby. Hope this is your right email address.
I frown, then reread the lines, trying to figure out who the hell this is. I check out the screen name again. It doesn’t ring a bell. I try to think who had this particular email address. At least fifty, sixty, niggas, I think, shaking my head. But whoever he is, it has to be either someone I met online years ago, or someone I used to date—before I became anti-dating. And, obviously, it’s someone I’ve fucked—and fucked good. I continue reading:
I tried to hit you on your cell, but it’s the wrong number. And I see you done bounced from your spot over on Jefferson Ave.
Jefferson Ave? I think. I haven’t lived there in over four years. Hmmm. I close my eyes and try to narrow down which dudes from my past knew me when I lived in Elizabeth. I sigh, realizing it’s too damn many to try figuring out. I finish reading:
We need to talk, baby. Word up. I miss fucking that throat and pretty ass of yours. It’s been a minute, and I’m ready to tongue-fuck that hot pussy, then bang that fatty out. Holla back!
Marquise? The name’s not familiar. And I’m really not interested in exerting any energy in playing the guessing game. Obviously, there’s a reason why this nigga hasn’t been able to get at me—I’ve moved on. He might have been one of those niggas who my girl Jaguar Wright sings about—a nigga with good dick, but no damn common sense. Humph.
P.S. in case you might have forgotten who I am, I’ve attached a picture to help jog your memory. Hopefully, it’ll get your sweet juices flowing, and have you ready to wet this dick!
Of course curiosity gets the best of me, and I press the little white ball on my BlackBerry, then scroll down to open attachment, and press. In less than a minute a picture of a chiseled torso pops up on my screen, I scroll down to see the rest of the picture. And almost fall out of my chair. In between a pair of muscled thighs is a long, meaty, reddish-brown, shiny dick with a bright red bow tied around the tip of its thick mushroomsized head. Immediately, I start drooling. But, unfortunately, I still can’t figure out who this mystery nigga with the mouth-watering dick is. So, what do I do? I press the button to reply.
I quickly type: Beautiful dick, but I still don’t know who this is. Of course, in my head, I’m wondering if he knows how to use it. I finish typing: A picture of a pretty dick tells me nothing about who you are, boo. So you’ll need to try again. And for the record, I’m not sucking dick, but I am serving up a deep dish of this hot pussy to a man with a long, wet tongue. If that’s you, then you need to hit me up with a phone number. I press send, then toss the device in my Tumi messenger bag.
If he replies back with a phone number, which I trust he will, I might call—and perhaps fuck—him. Then again, I might not. It will all depend on my mood, and what the hell he looks like. ’Cause for me, a nigga with a pretty dick is fine and dandy, but if the shit is attached to someone who looks like a fucking Troll doll or one of the Flying Monkeys, then you might as well keep it moving. I know, I know…we already had this discussion about looks not being everything. And maybe for you they’re not.