Chapter Three
SYNTHIA “JUICY” brOOKS
My heart shuddered, causing ripples to course through my body.
There was no denying that Romelo had a big ass dick, and he knew it.
God gives the most ain't-shit niggas the cockiest tools to flaunt around.
His aura reeked of big dick energy all the time because his word held weight and he walked on bowed legs like God's gift to him was too heavy to carry around.
Now, with my hand wrapped around his dick in the steamy shower, I was frightened because I didn't know God made dicks this damn big. I watch porn—lots of it, if I'm being honest—and those Mandingo dicks are huge. But Romelo had shamed them all.
Do you know what you're doing?
The answer was simple: No. I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
But for some reason, I felt this spark, this courage to be bold. Our conversations about dick—the teasing, the innuendos—had led me here. The utter yearning feeling, like I had something to prove, held me hostage. Part of me wanted to stop acting so chickenshit and get it over with.
Romelo wasn't forcing me to do shit.
I wanted to suck his dick.
Gaining the courage, I started to bend down, my knees hitting the wet tile, but he stopped me.
"Uh-uh. Not like that."
He reached over and turned the shower water off. The sudden silence was deafening—just our breathing and the sound of water dripping from our bodies.
Mist from the water had fogged up the shower doors and walls. The smell of his body wash—Dove Men+Care, teakwood scent—permeated the air, mixing with the steam.
"Sit over there on that bench," he directed, nodding toward the wooden shower bench.
My head turned to see it—an eco-style teak bench positioned under the shower caddy, adjacent to the door. The shower was massive, big enough to house four people comfortably.
What would one man need with all this space?
But I already knew the answer. Everything about him was big. Big money. Big dick. Big pockets. Big house. Big dreams.
Everything big.
On wet heels, I sashayed over to the bench, and when I walked, my ass made a clapping noise because my booty and thighs were slick with water. I heard Romelo mutter something behind me—something low and guttural that I couldn't make out.
I cocked my head to glance at him over my shoulder, and his eyes were glued to my ass. He bit down on his bottom lip, his gaze hungry, possessive.
Obeying his earlier command, I sat down, my heart still pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. My eyes traveled over his naked body, taking in every detail.
He was so tatted. I didn't know all of his artwork existed until now.
His body was a walking canvas—colorful, shaded tattoos that held symbolic meanings I'd probably never fully understand.
There was a lion on his chest, a clock on his ribs, Roman numerals on his forearm, praying hands on his shoulder.
Romelo was toned too. The defined ridges of his six-pack, his toned calves, his muscular arms. He'd always looked athletic since I'd known him, but seeing him like this—vulnerable, exposed—was different.
"You still nervous?" He chuckled, his baritone voice thumping against the tile under my feet.
"I never said I was," I lied.
He shrugged. "You ever seen a dick this big?"
"Maybe," I answered, real snooty-like, wanting to cover up the truth.
"In person?"
"Why does it matter?"
"Shit like that makes a nigga feel special, in a way. Believe it or not, when women admit to not being used to shit—or niggas ain't got this and that—then she meets a nigga with this and that..." He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.
I shrugged, looking away, not really knowing what to say. I'm sure this cocky ass nigga would enjoy being the first of everything for me.
"I've never been the type of girl to make a nigga's head bigger than what it is," I said, trying to sound unbothered. "If they have small dicks, I don't sugarcoat it. If they give good head, I don't brag about it. Shit is what it is."
"Hmph. Is that right?"
"Yup." I nodded.
"You're an asshole, you know that?" He sneered, but there was humor in his eyes.
I giggled, then threw my head back, erupting into laughter. He was getting a taste of his own medicine for a change.
"Takes one to know one." I poked my tongue out at him.
"Mane, fuck all this bullshit. Is you gonna suck this dick or what?"
Glancing up, I felt a flicker of offense at his bluntness. He continued to rant, his tone playful but demanding.
"You got a big ass dick in front of you and you're doin' all this chitter-chatter. Rule of thumb: when my dick is out, you either gon' suck it or open ya legs so I can put it in you. It's goin' somewhere, but one thing it ain't goin' to is waste."
My breathing hitched as Romelo grabbed his meaty, thick dick and stroked it—just like I had been doing moments ago. Pleasure was written all over his face as he stroked his member with ease, his eyes locked on mine.
"Open ya mouth, Juicy, and let me teach you sum'."
Just a tad, I opened my mouth and leaned forward, meeting the tip of his dick—his mushroom head, pink and glistening with precum.
"Open a lil' more wider for daddy. Don't be scared to put those pretty ass lips around this dick. Suck it like you know what you doin', baby. Don't try to prove shit to me. Just don't use your teeth, Juicy. You should know that."
I closed my eyes, blocking out everything except the feel of him. My hands gripped the edge of the shower bench for leverage so I wouldn't fall. Though my weight was balanced, I needed something to hold onto until I was comfortable enough to grip him.
Obeying his command, I opened my mouth wider, facing darkness because my eyes were shut. His mushroom tip sat heavy on my tongue, under the roof of my mouth, between my teeth. My head bobbed back and forth slowly, taking in just the tip at first.
I knew I had a lot more to go, so I opened my mouth wider, trying to take more of him. I felt competitive—like I had something to prove—even though he'd told me not to.
Then it happened.
I gagged.
His dick hit the back of my throat, and I nearly threw up. My eyes flew open, watering instantly, and I pulled back, coughing.
"Uh-uh," he spoke to me like I was a child, his tone gentle but firm. "Don't take no more than you can handle. You ain't got shit to prove to me, Juicy. You'll be labeled in my phone as a certified dick sucker as time goes on, but don't humiliate yourself trying to prove a point, baby."
I pulled back completely, not wanting to suck dick anymore. My mouth ached from holding it open, and embarrassment flooded through me.
I can't even do this right.
Pleading guilty, I've watched porn videos—way too many of them in the last few days.
So many that if Romelo could see my search history, he'd probably call me an addict.
He was way more experienced than me, and the more we took it to these heights sexually, the more I wanted to appear like an experienced rookie.
But that was impossible.
Honestly, I don't know how women in porn suck on these gigantic Mandingo dicks with deep satisfaction. I haven't come across a woman who enjoys sucking a big dick—it hurts, and it's way more complicated than it looks.
"Now I'm embarrassed," I admitted, pulling back and speaking through my closed mouth. My shoulders dropped in defeat. "I'm just gonna—"
I stood up on semi-wet feet, unable to face him after that. I wanted to leave—to hide—rather than hear him loathe over my mistakes later.
But Romelo released his dick and grabbed my arm before I could take another step. I heard his dick slap against his thigh behind me.
"Where you goin'?"
"I shouldn't have come in here and bothered you in the first place. You seemed stressed, and I wanted to relax you. That's all." I pleaded my case, my voice small.
"You think I'm trippin' 'bout that shit?
That wasn't shit but a hiccup, Juicy. I don't expect you to be bussin' out the gate sucking dick like a porn star.
Truth be told, sucking dick ain't even all that.
I don't enjoy that shit because I don't cum from head, so you'd be doin' yourself a disservice.
" He admitted, still gripping my arm gently. "Turn around and look at me, Synthia."
His tone turned soft—softer than I'd ever heard it—so I turned around and faced him, still riddled with shame.
"I'll get my nut off from other shit," he continued. "Like eating your pussy, or tongue-fucking you in the ass, or being deep inside of you. Don't do this shit to yourself no more."
We stared at each other for what felt like forever. Then he walked away and turned the shower water back on, the sound filling the silence between us.
Part of me wanted to leave—still struck by the depth of my humiliation—but I stayed. My feet were planted on the shower floor as soap suds tickled under my feet and between my toes.
My eyes followed his body as he moved. Romelo was all man. There was nothing little boy about him. He was sculpted like a Greek god—chiseled, strong, powerful.
I'm sure if his body was a work of art in a museum, women would line up just to stare. If his body was for sale, I'd be the highest bidder.
He deserved things. Hot meals every night—not leftovers, but fresh, home-cooked food made with love. He deserved massages, foot rubs, manicures every two weeks, pedicures. He deserved to be taken care of.
Day in and day out, Romelo took care of business. Two homes. His brothers. Trecee's siblings. His employees. Everyone.
When the house was quiet and I was settled in bed at night, I'd hear him shuffling around downstairs, taking care of business on the phone, demanding orders, handling shit.
He was a family man and the hood's finest. Masculinity reeked from his pores, but deep beneath his skin—underneath those intricate tattoos—I saw that he was being drained.
Millionaires have a thousand problems that aren't financial. If you asked a broke nigga what his wish was, he'd say: Win the lottery.