Sex in the Hood Saga (29 page)

Duchess felt wobbly as she and Duke stepped into the elevator to go down to the party. The music in the garage was so loud, even from here on the tenth floor the relentless bass beat was actually vibrating the elevator. It was making it even harder to walk on legs still tremoring from the meteor that had just shot up into her pussy and sprayed intergalactic stardust so thick she couldn't see straight.

“You obviously don't know your power,” she snapped at Duke, whose eyes were as tense as his face. “You should be smilin' not stressin'. It's your birthday.”

They were both facing the mirrored wall inside the elevator.

Dressed alike in snug, black leather jeans, black leather boots, and cream tops, Duke towered beside her. His beautiful, dark chocolate face, neck and bald head were clean-shaven and radiant. He had put his little silver hoop earrings back into his ears.

“I gotta look gangsta cool at the party.” His tone was flat.

His eyes focused on the piece of lint he was plucking from his chest.

“I loooove the way we look together,” Duchess said, extending her left hand to his crotch to squeeze. Her fingers were trembling, just like every other muscle in her body. Even her lips felt like she was shivering in the cold, but her soul was smouldering in heat.

So, why wasn't his? There was no way in hell he could be nonchalant about the cosmic sextravaganza that just exploded in their bed. She pulled her hand from his nonresponsive crotch.

“Duke, why you stressin' on your day? I'm the one who should be scared, the way you were battenin' down the hatches, calling to check on me, putting bodyguards—” She crossed her arms.

Her eyelids felt heavy. She let them fall as a fresh quiver shot through her body. It happened every time she thought of that first dick-stroke. Why was this time different? Did he take some kind of dick-growing endurance drug? He didn't need it.

“Duke, tell me you don't use drugs.”

“You the one who look drunk,” he shot back, turning to face her. “An' we ain't even at the party yet.”

“I'm tipsy on Timbo,” she whispered, giggling.

“Baby girl, you trippin'.” His jaw muscles flexed as he stared down hard at her. He was looking at an entirely different person than the scared girl he had plucked out of urban hell and delivered into this twenty-four-hour-a-day temptation.

“Duke, you need to chill an' enjoy.”

“My gangsta chill for my public, an' the private Romeo chill I show you, they two different looks.”

She cut her eyes back at him. “Duke, you got more than a look goin' on. It's a vibe. An' it ain't pretty, baby.”

He glanced down at the phones on his belt, flashing red, flashing blue.

And she looked past him at her reflection because that black sounding voice that just came out of her mouth sounded like someone else.

Staring at herself, she saw the same eyes she arrived with, but they were now painted with thick black liner like Cleopatra.

She saw the same face, but bronze now, thanks to the tanning booth. Same hair, but with straight bangs on her forehead. Same necklace, but with gold serpent bracelets around the upper arms. Same voice with a new cadence. Same body, same lust, but now addicted to ghetto-licious black dick and pussy. Same mind?

Celeste was laughing, cackling, roaring with laughter. That big black dick got so high up in your brain, it made it as mushy, as wet and as insatiable as your pussy. You just wanna get fucked!

“Hell no!” Duchess said aloud.

Duke, who was on the phone speaking in code as usual, looking wide eyed with stress, made a “ssshhh” gesture with his index fingertip to his sucka lips.

She turned around, pressed her ass into Duke's hard thighs, her back into his chest. Her stiletto-heeled boots stood between his black cowboy boots. She pressed his open palm to the front of her leg. She nuzzled the back of her head into the body-fitting long-sleeved shirt over his chest, inhaled the sexy cloud of his Black Cashmere cologne mixed with her Cashmere Mist perfume.

He raised the bottom of the phone and said, “Yo' I'ma freak comin' out in full effect.” His free hand rose up to grip her tits, which were raised in a chiffon camisole with flowy fabric that danced over the top of her pants. Like a reflex, she arched her ass harder into him, loving the hard outline of that big, hot tree trunk in his pants.

“When my tongue hit that pussy, you knew it ain't no turnin' back. That sayin', ‘once you go black, you never go back,' got a whole new meanin' fo' yo' sexy ass.”

“Yeah,” he said into the phone then flipped it down, clipped it back to his belt. “Baby girl, it's gon' be a couple Barriors watchin' you at all times. Can't risk nothin'.”

Duchess spun to face him. “What risk? I know you don't let undercover FBI or the media or anybody else into your party!”

“Milan got out.” His words hit the air like darts.

“And?”

“We gotta watch yo' back in the crowd. She crazy.”

Duchess crossed her arms, tilted her head. “I been meanin' to ask you, Duke, which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

Her Ebonics accent was just right. “I mean, was Milan crazy when you met her, or did you make her crazy?”

Duke smiled. “There you go! Baby girl, sista-certified.”

She stuck her head forward slightly. “Answer my question.”

“Baby girl, when I introduce you tonight, talk like that. Don't be talkin' like Victoria. You The Duchess now. Say a few words, but you gotta sound cool.”

“Look at my forehead.” She lifted her bangs. “The word ‘clueless' got erased in Streetology 101 class. So—” She tiptoed, wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed his lips soft and slow.

“Happy birthday, baby,” she purred. “I'm so glad you came back so I could give you some Celeste-cake.”

That kaleidoscope of color and texture in his eyes shifted in a strange way. The rich, dark chocolate hue of his cheeks turned gray.

“That shit was supernatural,” Duchess said, smiling as she hugged him and pressed her cheek into his chest. “The best ever. I swear we been fuckin' so much it pumped up your dick muscles. 'Cause Timbo felt like he grew an inch wider and an inch longer. I'm still shakin'.”

Wait, hold up. That shit can't be true. Ain't no way in hell any nigga, even one as cool as Knight, could pull that off. He couldn't sneak past all the security cameras in the building, including the terrace, the elevator entryway and the bedroom.

But what about that drunk look on Duchess' face when he came back to the penthouse and she was just getting outta the shower? She took two showers, or one long one? It was at least ninety minutes between when he called and when he came back.

And she was walking funny across the room to get her leather pants, like she did after he had banged her booty for an hour straight. When he asked her about it, she just giggled in a way like, you know the answer, silly rabbit!

Duke closed his eyes. He couldn't turn into some Othello motherfucker, overanalyzing every little detail, letting his imagination slip down into a stinking slop jar of suspicion and jealousy. Maybe Duchess was so tired and so overwhelmed by the past week of fucking, eating pussy, seeing Milan, and everything else, she just dreamed that he was fucking her bigger and better than ever. Maybe now she liked fucking so much, she was hallucinating about it. She was the kind of girl who kept liking it more and more. Some girls would fuck once and say, ‘Oh, I had enough dick for the week.' But Duchess, it seemed like every bang just cranked her appetite up to a higher notch. And she had a wild way of thinking, so maybe she wanted it so bad tonight, she imagined she got it.

“Baby girl,” he whispered, grasping her upper arms and pulling her back so he could look at her face. But MANDINGO DICK AFTERGLOW was stamped all over everywhere. Her cheeks were extra pink, lips were blood-red, ready to smile when nothing was funny. Eyelids were heavy, but her eyeballs were dancing in the wet memory of that dreamy dick-down.

Unless she liked it better.

Duke ground his teeth so hard it hurt.

The elevator doors opened.

“C'mon, baby girl, this party is on!”

She was in freeze-frame, staring out with spooky big eyes that were even bluer in the glow of the neon light tubing around the elevator. Here, there, everywhere, the garage was crammed with dozens of guys and girls fucking, sucking, dancing, bouncing, licking, drinking, and giving off a cloud of vapors of cigarette and marijuana smoke, expensive perfume and cologne, booze and the salty-sweet smell of sex.

Duchess coughed. He wouldn't have heard her if he hadn't been staring right at her, because the Bang Squad was stupid loud down on stage. They were doing their hit, “Dick Chicks.” Duke looked down at Duchess as she stepped in front of him to walk on legs that might still be trembling from taking Knight's giant dick. Now she was shaking her whole body with the beat, making her ass say “kapow!” in her tight black leather pants.

Duke's mind flipped to a filmstrip of her riding Knight like she did Duke in the Cleopatra Suite. What if she saw Knight at this party? Could she smell or feel that it was him who gave her that extra big dick upstairs?

Now she probably thought she was a dick chick, specializing in Johnson dicks. She was looking straight ahead at a chick taking three dicks—one in her mouth, one in her ass, and one in her pussy. Two other girls watched the action and stuck out their booties like, “Gimme some too!”

Duchess wasn't wasting any time trying to leave this elevator.

Milan hid behind Flame's huge body as he fucked some girl on the table. It was so dark over here in the corner of the VIP balcony, none of the Barriors had noticed Milan.

Not one person had recognized her behind these big gold glasses and this wig. She shook her shoulder to free her elbow from a tangle of brown ringlets, which caught on the studded belt securing her green leather Daisy Dukes. The long hair covered her bare titties so Duke and Beamer and anybody else who'd seen the unique slope of her breasts and the points of her nipples couldn't identify her.

She coughed, which wrenched up a heave. The thick fumes of smoke, sex, and booze wrapped around her neck like a deadly python. A coughing fit made her double over, holding one hand to her gagging mouth, the other hand to her nauseated gut.

But losing Duke to some light-skinned bourgeousie bitch that he picked off the six o'clock news would kill her anyway.

He won't even talk to me long enough to find out that I'm pregnant.
She smirked.
But I'm a high class dick chick
.
Always have been. Always will be. I'm the one who deserves to be treated like royalty. I know how to handle it. How to keep it. These people need a leader like me, who ain't scared to let her true bitch reign. They'll see.

It pissed her off to see Duke walking so tall and proud as the tangle of bodies parted like the fucking Red Sea for him to lead that tacky-ass Cleopatra wannabe up to the silver throne. The throne where Milan Henderson should have been sitting.

Soon as Duke and his cream puff sat back and enjoyed this circus, all those freaks down in the garage would see a surprise trapeze act starring the death defying Duchess with no trapeze.

Duchess felt like she was stepping into a giant, X-rated rap video called ‘'Urban Babylon.” The music was so loud, it vibrated her body. The beat was so hot, she couldn't help but snap her fingers and rock her body to the beat as Duke led her past Barriors three deep on each side of the elevator.

“We stayin' here in VIP,” he shouted in her ear as two Barriors guided them through the crowd. “We got the bomb balcony spot.”

Familiar faces dotted the mass of bodies: Lee Lee, India, Beamer, and Honey, who blew a kiss. Duchess stopped. “Duke, I'm not ready for an orgy.”

His seductive eyes smoldered down at her. He looked like he was about to kiss her. His eyes were lusty, lips parted, head coming down, but his left hand rose up to the top of her camisole.

He yanked it down. Her titties popped out. He sucked both of them, hard, and squeezed her crotch.

Then with a hot, open mouth, he breathed intoxicating fire into her pussy and her soul. His kiss sucked the strength from her knees. She gripped his rock hard arm to keep steady on her spike heels. He pulled back.

She moaned, loving that melting butter sensation from her head to her toes, making her pussy a throbbing, soaked mess.

“Now you ready,” he said with bad ass Duke style.

They walked past boobs, butts, big dicks of every size, shape, and shade. He led her to the silver railed edge of the balcony where two silver thrones sat on a raised platform overlooking the party below.

“This the shit!” Duke exclaimed into her ear, the last word rising to a pitch that was a good two octaves higher than his usual deep voice. “An' I'm rulin' all of it! The Duke!”

Why was his whole body trembling behind her? What was he scared of? And why did he sound like he was trying to convince himself that he was in charge?

“Baby girl, let's toast.”

He turned back to take gold goblets from trays held by their attendants, two girls and two guys who stood on each side of the thrones. The guys were both in that first sexercise class that drove Duchess to carnal indulgence just five days ago. Now they were wearing gold sandals, wrist cuffs, and short, white loin cloths with gold belts around their six-pack abs. Their thighs bulged under the flowy skirt fabric, which was open about two inches in front, like white curtains around a window display of cocks for sale. They were semi-hard, but both dicks stood at attention as Duchess stared. She squeezed her throbbing pussy that only got hotter and wetter as she checked out the females.

They were styled with Egyptian jewelry. No clothes, just turquoise and gold yokes that came down to their naked nipples. A similar style adorned their waists and hips. They wore about a dozen gold necklaces, connected at the sides of the waist and draped in C-shaped arcs across their abdomens, from their belly buttons down to their bare shaved pussies Peacock feathers sprayed up from the girls' short, straight black hair and bangs. They batted thick, black fake eyelashes and extended gold braceleted arms, offering gold goblets to Duchess and Duke.

“After I present you to the masses,” Duke said, handing Duchess a cold goblet, “we gon' sit an' watch niggas an' hoes fuck like it ain't no tomorrow.”

Duchess let him clink his goblet to hers as he said, “You always gon' be mine, baby girl.” Something hard glinted in his usually tender stare. The possessiveness in his tone, like she was his property, made the cold gush of bubbly taste bitter against her tongue.

She steadied herself by grasping the rail and pressing her right shoulder into his left tricep as they surveyed the orgy below. A wild sexcapade filled every inch of the huge garage, from the stage with the live rap band to a wide-open space for sex-dancing. There were rows of men and women fucking on Hummers and sports cars. Neon blue tube lights across the length of the ceiling cast a smoky blue haze that illuminated bare asses, bouncing boobs and big, hard dicks glistening with cum and saliva on plush couches and satin green pool tables.

Dancing on the bar, strippers popped big, bare butts against silver poles. A guy stood spraying bottle after bottle of champagne, making their nipples, butts and bare skin glisten in the blue light. On stage, members of the superstar rap group Bang Squad, whom Duchess knew from the videos Brian was constantly watching and mimicking, strutted back and forth across the stage. Some of them fucked girls on pink, round beds inside giant acrylic champagne glasses. The lead singer was screwing a girl who was standing and touching her toes. He pulled out, yanked off his condom and squirted cum toward the crowd. It dotted the stage. A girl near the stage had white-looking skin and short, straight black hair, stuck out her tongue as if to catch a white glob with as eager a smile as if it were a snowflake falling from the sky.

That girl made Duchess imagine herself acting like that, losing all decorum, self-respect, dignity, becoming a certified hood ho, fiending for any scrap of sex spewed her way. Disgust cramped her stomach, even though her pussy was gushing. How could it not amidst this flesh-pounding, mind-numbing sexual chaos?

She could not look away from the woman on stage who was facing one of the rappers. It was Honey's sister.

Duchess' pussy was so hot, wet and swollen, she could cum with just a couple of squeezes of her pelvic muscles. She wanted to make love with Duke like they did a little while ago. But not in front of all these people.

“Duke! I wanna leave!” she shouted over the deafening music. “Duke!” He did not look up from an electronic pager. He was frantically pressing buttons. She grabbed his arm.

The music stopped.

Everybody in the garage turned toward them, up here on the balcony, as if she and Duke were the stars of a concert. Except most of them were either naked or had glistening dicks sticking out of peeled back jeans or had big nipples pointing up from open jeans jackets.

Beamer came out of the mass of bodies behind them and handed Duke a cordless microphone. Beamer stood beside Duke.

“Yo, y'all!” Duke shouted into the mic. “Ha y'all doin'?”

Wild screams pierced the air.

“E'rybody know Duke da boss. And when Knight come back, he gon' be right back beside me, buildin' Babylon to conquer the world.”

The crowd roared.

“Is gon' be three of us.” He raised Duchess's hand. “The Duke foun' his Duchess. Y'all got to bow to her jess like you bow to me.”

The hundreds of faces below were solemn and silent, some nodding slightly. A guy shouted, “You need a real sista!”

“She black as you, baby!” Duke bellowed. “The rest o' y'all, just know she ain't white. So zip dat shit now. Duchess a sista jess like y'all.”

“Y'all be nice, now!” the lead singer of the band shouted into his microphone on stage. “Don't judge a book by the cover you can't even see through yo' own hate.”

Cheers and boos shot up from the crowd.

“So, all y'all plantation mentality ma'fuckas,” the singer, Jamal, shouted, “thinkin' about you stuck in the cottonfield of life while that long-hair, light-skin bitch livin' large up in the big house wit' Massa Duke!”

“Yeah!” too many people shouted.

Jamal laughed. “You right! An' ain't shit y'all can do about it 'cept love this sista like she one o' us. 'Cause she is.”

The band played a deep chord. Smiles and smirks rose up from the crowd.

“Preach that shit!” Duke shouted. “Yeah!”

Duchess shivered. Had she been taken from a normal day in her past life and transplanted to this spot, she would faint. So would everyone else she knew back then. Even Brian. This would scare the shit out of his punk ass. He thought he was so tough, knowing all the latest rap, blasting it in his Porsche and Land Rover. But his hip-hop clothes and backward baseball caps were fake. He was such a punk deep down that once when a black guy walked up and asked directions to the nearby bookstore, Brian was trembling afterward, saying, “Man, I thought he was gonna whip out a gat and car jack me.”

That's how too many girls were still glaring up at Duchess now. Ripping her to shreds with their stares.

And Duke wanted her to say something? The last time she addressed a crowd, besides all those wicked reporters, was to introduce the debate team at the awards ceremony at the yacht club. But this here wasn't the time for the traditional “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Victoria Marie Winston's white girl cadence would spark an uproar of laughter, or worse.

No, this was the official unveiling of The Duchess. Even though half the people down there were staring at her like she was Marie Antoinette and they were the citizens of France who wanted to haul her off to the guillotine out back.

But how to connect through the hostility?

“Find common ground,” Daddy used to always say. “Disarm your enemies by finding common ground. Then, don't just extend the olive branch, hand 'em a fondue fork with the juiciest chocolate-dipped strawberry you can find. You'll have 'em in the palm of your hand forever.”

Duke was already on the subject, with his deep voice booming through the huge, silent space. “Think of her as the male version of me,” he told the crowd. “Anybody thinkin' about tossin' up some hate gon' face the same brute as if you messed wit' me. Duchess in charge, so e'rybody make her feel welcome at Babylon.”

Duke handed her the mic. She wrapped her hot, damp palm around the metal.

She took a deep breath and looked out at the sea of faces.

“A sista inside,” she said, deep and sultry, “who been tryin' to hide . . . won't be denied.” She stepped in front of Duke, raised a knee to one side, and ground her hips into the side of his rock-hard thigh. “My sexy ride.”

The crowd exploded. Duke's beautiful, white teeth sparkled down at her as brightly as his eyes. She spun back toward the rail. “Look in my eye, a butterfly, broke out a white coccoon, flutter to black so soon . . . singing a new tune.” Her tone and cadence were perfect spoken word sista-girl.

“From suburban to urban, virgin to vixen, caucasian to mixin' the black”—she turned so that her side was toward the audience then pressed her titties into Duke's arm—“to the top o' my stack. Step back before I attack”—he strutted in front of him, grinding her ass into the tree trunk in the crotch of his leather jeans—“and jack, your dick.”

The guys and girls in the audience shouted, “Yeah!” as they thrust fists up.

“My slick candle wick, you stick in my swirl of melted mix-race girl . . . vanilla-chocolate squaw in us all . . .”

She strutted back and forth along the rail, holding the mic and cutting a flat hand through the air to emphasize her words, just like Jamal did while he rapped. Duke crossed his arms, with a quick point down to Jamal, then nodded to her beat.

“In life's game, we're all the same by any name,” she said as a bass beat boomed up from the band. The crowd started dancing, rubbing, and kissing.

Suddenly, with the sexy music and the cool vibe from the crowd and the potency of Duke's eyes and the power of her pussy that was wild and free now, she was having a mind-gasm, loving this! She shivered with the thrill of it as she rapped her rhymes.

“I can't blame those lame ma'fuckas who wanna tame my fame and shame . . . me.” She stopped, turned to Duke, let her eyes slowly devour him from his boots to the top of his sexy bald head. “You see,” she teased toward the audience, where some guys and girls were back to fucking. She ground her hip into Duke's thigh.

“Do dat!” a guy shouted amongst cheers.

“Sexy and free.” She turned her butt to the crowd, smacked the round of her ass and said, “A certified Double D.”

The crowd whooped.

“So let me shout, this sista comin' out! Beside your Duke, it's no fluke, up in this juke joint. Make a point to anoint yo'self with Babylon juice. Get wild and loose!”

The sea of people roared. The music got louder. Jamal punctuated her rhymes with a deep “Fuck, yeah!”

“Get hot,” she said. “Do not waste a drop of that sweet treat . . . from yo' meat. You gotta beat in this heat 'til yo' feet curl, girl, make yo' mind swirl, 'round the world.”

Several girls extended their arms into the air and clapped to Duchess' beat.

“Get yo' sex on, chick. Flex on that dick, yo' slick joy stick.”

She pressed her ass back into Timbo, who was pointing straight out of the open zipper of Duke's pants. The black satin flesh against the leather and brass zipper made Duchess' pussy shoot steam. She would be on that in a minute.

“You can lick and do your trick. Get yours, give 'im his and don't miss,” she almost whispered, “a single kiss.”

She turned around, kissed Duke's sucka lips. The noise of the crowd could blow off the ceiling, screaming, cheering, clapping, and fucking.

Duke took the mic, raised Duchess' fist in the air and shouted, “Duchess, baby! Babylon, rock on!”

The band cranked the bass. Bodies twisted back together.

And something, someone, knocked Duchess to the floor.