Prologue #2
Even though she’d been living in the United States since her father hauled them over at the tender age of seven, you’d think she had never left the motherland.
Her voice held a deep tenor to it that tended to rise up a few octaves when she was excited and lowered when she was aroused, like now.
Her hips began to gyrate as Rema’s lyrics sounded off loudly, as if she didn’t have neighbors and it wasn’t nearly three in the morning.
“Bahati.”
My hands traveled from her thick thighs to her round hips.
Her ass was so big that even though her pussy, which was covered in black lace, was grinding on my stomach, her ass was still directly on the base of my dick.
She’d wanted to get fucked last night, but I was too spaced out for that shit.
Not only had I popped a pill, but I’d had a few sips of lean.
Add that in with the way my mind had been racing, I knew I was no more good.
Still, she showered, oiled down in her favorite homemade shea butter that she had religiously shipped from home, and dressed in a matching lace bra and panty set.
Bahati was any niggas type. Not only was she dark as night, but her waist-to-ass ratio should be studied.
With how thin her stomach was, she had to have some ribs or something taken out.
I’d seen her mother, though, and came to the conclusion that her shit was very much genetic.
She wasn’t rich, even though she often had the attitude of a snobby daddy’s girl.
With what I hit her off with and the overtime she worked at the pharmacy, she was able to live decently.
Above average, actually. I’d never seen her not put together.
Her hair was always braided, her skin was always glowing, and her pussy was always wet.
With her hands flat on my chest, she lowered her body so that she was face to face with me, her hips not missing a beat. “Come here, wetin dey worry you?” Bahati sang while she slow winded.
I could smell the spices from the Jollof rice, peas, and king fish she had eaten before bed on her breath. My plate was still in the microwave and would remain in that motherfucker.
“Bring body make I worry you? I know you senior me. I get money pass your Papa.”
Bahati did shit like this, and like the song, charmed the fucking socks off a nigga.
It was hard to think sometimes around her thick ass.
That’s why I did most of it when she was sleeping.
She was a walking fucking dream. But no matter how sick her body was or how wet her pussy got, she just wasn’t my one. She was simply a piece on my board.
I’d met her at the library. I was looking for a tutor to teach me another language and ran right into her.
I hadn’t been interested in learning Swahili, but thought, Why the hell not?
Two years later, I was fluent and had secured not only some good pussy, but a connection too.
Bahati’s father was a pharmacist, and she was a pharmacy tech while being in school to follow in her papa’s footsteps.
He was determined to milk the USA for everything it offered.
As long as the price was right, he dealt us, making sure to keep his baby girl’s hands clean.
I wasn’t mad at it. Shit was never designed for men with skin that wasn’t pale.
That trip to the library was one of the main reasons my cousins and I managed to keep some money in our pockets.
We had our weed connect, but the shit we got from the pharmacy was the real reason we were eating.
Running her tongue across her pillowy lips, our noses grazed. Just as she was about to pop her ass again, I grabbed her neck. The pressure I applied wasn’t enough to hurt her, and with the way her pussy was heating up on my dick, I knew she liked it.
I knew a lot of shit about Bahati. I damn near lived at her fucking apartment and sometimes went to sleep in her pussy.
I knew she loved a nigga, even though she’d never voiced it.
East African girls were stubborn in that way.
I knew she liked that rough shit, even though sometimes, she complained and ran from it.
I knew she thought she had me wrapped around her pretty little fingers since she was one of the reasons we ate.
She thought she had a nigga on lock, and even though she had the dick the most, that didn’t mean I or it belonged to her.
I’d been clear with Bahati that one day, our arrangement would end.
She would always laugh that shit off. Wasn’t shit funny, though.
I didn’t like no motherfucker feeling like they had the power to feed or starve me. That’s how I felt when it came to Bahati.
“Run that back,” I instructed with a firm squeeze.
“What, bebe?” She grinded.
Instead of answering, I squeezed her neck.
“I know you senior me. I get money pass your Papa,” she sang.
“Yeah… that. I get money pass your Papa.”
Her body rose a few degrees. “Yeah, bebe.”
“I’m not getting more money than your pops—”
“Bebe, it’s just a song—”
Squeezing, I halted her sentence. Letting her neck go, she sat up straight and kept on dancing.
Rema’s lyrics were as exotic and exhilarating as Bahati was. If I didn’t know any better, I would think that he wrote the song just for her.
Still not missing a beat, her hips swayed hypnotically to the beat.
Any other nigga would have been entranced.
But Shio Cuppacio wasn’t any other nigga.
I was a fucking king, even if I was living slightly above that of a guard, because I damn sure wasn’t a peasant.
The throne was mine for the taking, and unfortunately for Bahati, I wouldn’t be sweeping up the princess in order to be crowned.
Nah, I was straight snatching that shit, even if the current king’s head had to come with it.
Running my hand down the middle of her perky breasts, I let my fingers glide down to her taut waist and didn’t stop until I got to her lace panties. Scoping them to the side with my index finger, her glistening box stared back at me, leaving a sticky mess all over my abdomen as she danced.
I’d never run inside of Bahati raw, even though I knew she was clean as a whistle. The last person who had my dick without a barrier had been too old to be fucking me and had been the one who introduced me to the world of sex. Tonight, though, she'd get what she'd been begging for.
Tugging harder, I ripped her panties right from her bottom, making her gasp in surprise. “Those were Victoria’s Secret, bebe.”
I’d more than likely bought the motherfuckers. The way I saw it, she’d worn them for me, so that meant I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to them.
Lifting her by the waist like she didn’t weigh a hundred and seventy pounds, I lined my dick up with her pussy, and dropped her down on my throbbing dick.
“Ohhhh! Bebe… you know meeehhh,” she half-sang and half-remixed the fucking song as I filled her up.
Keeping my expression neutral, even though she was squeezing the fuck out of my dick, I let my head hit the pillow as she did the same thing on my dick as she did on my stomach.
“So, so biiiiig, bebe.”
The song repeated while she twisted her lower half.
With the way Bahati was working the dick, she could have asked for anything, and a nigga would have gone broke giving it to her, except I wasn’t just any nigga.
If I hadn’t learned anything in the last few months, I’d learned discipline.
It was the only way I was going to be able to get where the fuck I was trying to go.
I couldn’t just think for me, I had to think for the fucking team.
She was so fucking wet, so fucking tight, and her sing-song voice, along with the sweet smells of her arousal, was enough to send a nigga into overdrive. While the dancing was cute, I needed to fuck.
Hooking my arm around her waist, I lifted us from the bed, her legs locking behind my back, and then pinned her down.
I stepped completely out of my pajama pants and grabbed her ankles.
Her eyes were more slanted than they normally were—another thing that she did when she knew she was about to get her fucking back broken.
I pushed her legs so far back that her ankles now were next to her ears.
Hearing one of her bones pop in the process, I gauged her face for any indication of pain.
Shifting my eyes, I looked down at her pussy dripping and her booty hole winking at me.
She looked good enough to eat, but none of that would be going on.
As bad as I’d wanted to taste it over the years, I refrained.
She wasn’t endgame—I’d always known that—so I held back.
Now that I know what I know, I’m glad I haven’t let her burn my fucking head.
She was a piece on the chessboard, and I controlled the center.
“Bebe.” She brought me back. I’d zoned the fuck out.
“Keep them legs back, Bahati,” I demanded.
Placing my hand back around her neck, I sank into her wetness, pussy sucking me in like wet sand.
Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as her pussy flowed like a fucking river.
With her mug contorted, she was making the ugliest faces even though she’d been blessed in the physical department by the Most High.
Trying to concentrate on the feel of her pussy so that my near flaccid dick could stay hard, I was almost losing the battle.
I wasn’t one of those young niggas that couldn’t get his dick up.
I knew most of the niggas from around the way were too drugged out to fuck, but that wasn’t me.
Did I do drugs? Yes, every fucking day, but that didn’t affect my performance.
The only time I couldn’t fuck was when I was processing, and if I was processing, that meant a motherfucker had fucked up.