Sex in the Hood Saga (31 page)

The shock of this moment, as Duchess sat speared through the pussy by Duke and speared through the soul by his brother, knocked her brain into an Alice in Double Pleasureland tailspin.

Knight and a whole crew of Barriors and B'Amazons were marching this way. Knight and his boys could pull a Scarface style gun battle right here in the middle of an orgy. He could blast his brother to bits, and all the bullets would have to make Swiss cheese of Duchess' booty, back, and brains first.

Or, if Knight was going to be more chivalrous with his plan of attack, because there was no doubt in his eyes that this was a siege, then he'd use words and wisdom to wield his power over Duke.

And I'll use words to wield my power over both of these sex gods. Then I'll be queen of Babylon.
Of course they wouldn't know that. She'd let them think they were both in charge, or keep them in an endless race where they each jockeyed for top position. That would be their distraction while she reigned supreme.

As Knight got closer, Duchess almost smiled as her vision came to mind. Yeah, Cleopatra down, with Duke and Knight at her sides as she walked into the Moreno meeting or the West Coast negotiations, working it just like Duke envisioned.

As the music continued to blast, and as she sat frozen-stiff on Duke's dick, the air was suddenly so thick with hostility and suspicion, she could slice right through it. Knight stood right behind them now. His voice was deep as he said, “Victoria, I need you to excuse yourself so me and Li'l Tut can talk business.”

He said “business,” not “bidness.” And that was the first time anyone had called her Victoria in nearly a week.

She stared wide eyed into his coffee bean brown face, a richer roast than Duke. His eyes were more serious, more mature, and so potent, her vision blurred with the sunburst that flashed when he made her cum at first stroke. Her pussy got hot and wet. It squeezed from the inside out, pushing Duke's limp dick out like a squishy little wet fish.

“Aw, hell naw!” Duke shouted into the still blasting music.

Suddenly Duchess was spinning. Duke was still holding her, but he pivoted so she could look at both beautiful, dangerous men.

“Pick one!” Duke shouted. The veins on the sides of his neck bulged. His eyes were glassy.

She smiled. I know he's not serious, 'cause if he is, he'll kill me before he lets me get wit' Knight
.

“Pick which Mandingo stud ma'fucka named Johnson you want for Duchess.”

“Oh baby, you're no fun,” she said playfully. “What if I want both?”

Duke's voice went down another octave. “Whoever you pick, he get to run Babylon.”

“You so silly!” Duchess tightened her legs around his waist.

“Don't just sit on my dick here lookin' dazed!” Duke shouted. Craziness glowed in his eyes. “I said pick one!”

Knight's laughter boomed over the loud bass beat. He put an enormous hand on Duke's bare shoulder.

“Listen up, Li'l Tut. My name is not eenie, meenie, miney or moe. And nobody's gonna catch this nigga by the toe. So, Victoria, if you'll please leave us to talk.”

“She about to say somethin',” Duke said. “Now.”

“I'll run Babylon myself.” Duchess tilted her chin up to hide the earthquake of fear inside her. “You two,” she said with a strong, serious voice, “can be my board of directors. We'll actually all make decisions together. But e'rybody know,” she said with all the charm, sensuality and power of Cleopatra, “Duchess da boss!”

Duke felt like a million big, black scarab beetles were eating him alive. He gripped Duchess' thighs hard to keep her juicy booty as a cover over his naked ass.

The look in Knight's eyes said it all. He looked disappointed, excited and too much more for Duke to figure out all at once.

He was just standing there like the new fuckin' sheriff in D-town.

All six-foot-seven inches of his ass looked ready to take back all of Babylon. One look into that bigger, better mirror image of himself set Duke's brain off on a game of emotions; tossing his brother around, shouting “Love” and “Hate” all at the same time.

Right now, the “Hate” was screaming so loud, “Love” had almost left the game.

Duke wanted to find out right away by going with Knight to a quiet spot to talk. But he couldn't just put down Duchess, who was shaking like she was naked in the snow. He wasn't about to flash the smaller, weaker mirror image of whatever the fuck Knight had between his legs!

The music stopped. The sounds of sex continued; moaning, groaning, nasty talk, skin slapping skin. Then that stopped too.

“Happy birthday, Li'l Tut.” Sheriff Knight's voice boomed like a cannonball through Duchess' backside then through Duke's chest. Babylon felt like the dusty street in an Old West movie, where everybody froze in place to watch the showdown.

Two cowboys.

One turf.

A girl in the mix.

Only here, it was the two baddest urban cowboys this side of the Mississippi. And they were blood brothers. The only thing funny about the whole situation was to see Duke standing there butt ass naked while Knight was fully decked out in brown leather outfit... Would it be a happy reunion? Would they hug and rule together like they were supposed to? Or did big brotha come back to D-town for a hostile take-over from Li'l Tut?

And how could Duke draw a gun if all he was wearing was a butt-naked Duchess?

“I said happy birthday, Li'l Tut.”

“Happy birthday to you!” Jamal shouted up from the stage.

Then the band played the funkiest birthday song ever, and everybody in Babylon screamed along at the tops of their lungs.

Duchess, she stayed curled up around his waist, pressing that hot pussy into his stomach, hiding Timbo with her plump ass.

While the song rocked the house and Knight's deep voice sang along, Duchess pressed her pretty lips to Duke's cheek. “I love you, Duke, baby.”

The song ended. Silence.

Jamal's amped voice boomed through the garage. “We all know the birthday boy one o' the baddest cats in town, but now big br'a in'a howooose!”

The bigger, badder, blacker version of himself stared hard into Duke's eyes. They were still at the edge of the balcony, so the masses of people were watching them.

“Welcome to the new Babylon!” Knight's voice blasted through speakers. A cordless mic was clipped to his lapel! No doubt, this siege was orchestrated in advance, in secret-with the band, the Barriors and B'Amazons. Maybe Duchess was even in on the plan of attack.
E'rybody knew but me.

His brother announced, “The Duke's been han'lin' things, but it's time for The Knight to rule again!”

The crowd exploded. The band played the Babylon theme song. Knight unclipped the mic, handing it to Big Moe. Then the huge brown leather tubes that were Knight's arms came down with long fingers spread on giant hands. He almost looked like a robot the way his arms both moved down at the same angle toward the back of Duchess' waist.

Knight clamped down on her baby-soft flesh like he was about to pull her off and leave Duke standing at his own party with his wet, limp dick in his hand.

Knight pulled, making Duchess' legs unwrap from around Duke's hips. He lifted her up and off, causing a cold wind to hit Duke's dick.

And Knight said, cool as a ma'fuckin' cowboy, “I got Babylon and yo' bitch.”

The Queen shivered with a “powergasm” as she surveyed the hundreds of women and Studs who were fucking and sucking on every plush surface of The Playroom. “Damn, I love my job.” The words floated over her hot, parted lips and blended with the blasting sound of her own voice singing nasty lyrics over the funky electric beat of the
Dick Chicks Party Mix,
which she had recorded with the Bang Squad as the signature hip-hop album for all Babylon sex parties from New York to Los Angeles.

“Couldn't be nothin' sexier than this on the whole planet right now.” She loved the way the relentless beat synchronized with her excited heartbeat and the rhythm of so much fucking around her. “And all hail The Queen up in this mug.”

All around the huge industrial loft of this converted warehouse building overlooking the Detroit River, nude bodies writhed on rows of giant beds. “Yeah, lick those pussies,” The Queen said, glancing to her right. In the soft pink haze, a dozen Studs knelt before as many women who were lying spread eagled on the edge of a long, low couch. “Love that shit.”

The lyrics, which she had written, were a musical tribute to what she watched and craved.

The Queen moaned, squeezing her pussy muscles to make her clit throb. Damn, the black satin of her thong was marinating in hot cream, but Knight would suck it dry later on. For now, she was loving the way the wet sling of fabric massaged her pussy as she swayed slightly with the beat of the music.

“Love it,” she whispered, as female clients and Studs twisted into “fucknastics” on the leopard-print benches and Cleopatra style chaises.

Against the exposed brick walls sat giant framed mirrors, which rested on the floor and angled slightly upward, and reflected a multidimensional freak frenzy. Oversized swings hanging from the exposed beams and pipes of the high ceilings allowed couples to fuck face to face as they swung back and forth.

“Oooh, pound that pussy!” a sista shrieked from just a few feet away. On a huge white mink pillow, the woman convulsed with orgasm as a Stud named Antoine jackhammered her so hard. “Damn,” The Queen whispered.

Antoine was gorgeous, but nobody could compare to her beautiful African god named Knight. If she weren't so happy in love, she would definitely get a taste of some of that creamy milk chocolate called Antoine.

He glanced up at her, and the lust in his brown eyes made her shiver. He was a big piece of candy, from those cheeks and lips, down to a perfect dick that didn't quit.

She'd seen his long, fat, big-headed hose in “sexercise” class, but everybody knew Knight would kill a muthafucka who even thought about competing with his lead pipe. The last one who tried, well, nobody even remembered his name, since he had disappeared. Never came out how Knight found out. But Knight knew everything.

Antoine is up to somethin',
whispered Celeste. And Celeste was never wrong.
That was just
too
bold the way Antoine looked at you.
The Queen cast a “don't-even-try-it” look down at the Stud and mouthed to him, “Fuck on.”

Antoine smiled, flipped his long braids over his shoulder, and banged that booty even harder.

The chrome points of her stiletto heels and her long legs in black leather pants made her feel a mile tall, which intensified her sense of being the baddest bitch in charge of the most erotic enterprise ever heard of in D-town and beyond. And nobody but the right folks would hear about it. Nobody would know who she was, where she came from, or where she was going, even though her sexy rhymes with the Bang Squad were blazin' up the music charts and every hip-hop media outlet wanted to know who The Queen was. But they would never find out who she used to be, who she was now, or how she planned to rule this sexy underworld forever.

The Queen smiled as she remembered how much life had changed over the past year.

I'm The Queen now. Black, blingin', and bold as hell. Rulin' with my Knight to the infinity.
The Queen turned as her assistant, CoCo, approached.

The five foot three inch, cinnamon-hued nymph wore a white leather mini-dress and pointed thigh high boots. That were as sharp as her business minded brain. Her short, curly hair smelled like coconut shampoo.

“Queen,” CoCo said close to her boss' ear, “these bitches don't play. They all paid up. Three hundred K, plus the fee.” CoCo tapped her pink rhinestone-covered ink pen on the white papers on her clear pink clipboard. A red light flashed at the top of her pink rhinestone-covered cell phone, whose holster hooked to the top of the clipboard. “We got the full half-mil tonight.” CoCo's sharp eyes, framed by black awnings of fake lashes, scanned her list of names and payments. Pink circles on her cheeks highlighted her round face not because she wore blush, but because the excitement of her job gave her a natural glow. Chanel set diamonds sparkled in the big gold hoop earrings Jamal had given her.

“Check wit' Mikki at HQ,” The Queen ordered. “See if everybody over there paid up.”

“It's done.” CoCo shot a look at the two B'Amazons and two Barriors at her sides.

The Queen glimpsed all the bodyguards positioned throughout The Playroom, which was the entire top floor of this building known as The Playhouse. Every B'Amazons and Barriors wore a ninja black uniform.

The ones at the door were making sure the line of women still entering each wore a pink wristband and a health card. When scanned through a small black machine, a computer chip inside, confirmed that the client had been checked downstairs at the clinic for pregnancy, major health problems, and all sexually transmitted diseases, including HIV.

They didn't want any pregnant women up here risking their baby's safety with wild sex. Other health problems they needed to avoid included weak hearts and neurological problems. One ground-shaking orgasm, and a bitch could fall out or drop dead. And Babylon didn't need any ambulances pulling up to the pussy party.

Near the entrance, another door led to the locker room. There, Lee Lee Wilson glanced up and winked at The Queen. The chief B'Amazon was gorgeous tonight, with her wild mane of curly black hair that was highlighted with maroon streaks around her dark, slanted eyes, button nose, and full cheeks. Hip and sexy, Lee Lee had a sort of
Bride of Frankenstein
look, but her glamour didn't stop her from being tough as she oversaw the B'Amazons, checking in every woman's purse and giving her a key to a locker for her clothes. The B'Amazons also waved each woman's nude body with a metal detector; no weapons, phones, cameras, recording devices or other electronics were allowed in the party, for privacy and security reasons. If anything went wrong, a deafening alarm would ring. That would put all Barriors and B'Amazons on red alert lockdown until the culprit was caught and dealt with accordingly.

“I just did a security check,” CoCo said. “Lee Lee handled one little disturbance with a chick who wanted to bring her cell phone into the party. Turns out it had a built-in camera. She wanted a picture of herself fuckin' Flame 'cause she heard the legend. We took it, an' she changin' right now.”

“Keep an eye on her,” The Queen said.

“It's done, Queen.”

CoCo turned to the four bodyguards with the money. Each held a small gold treasure chest, which they inserted into large Coach leather bags that hung diagonally over their shoulders and chests. All of them rested one hand on the bag, the hand on the opposite side, gripping the black metal shafts of gun power strapped to their solid muscle thighs.

“We on schedule,” CoCo said, meaning that the money would be delivered as planned to the vault down on the third floor.

“You always on point, girl.” The Queen stroked CoCo's bare shoulder.

Trust was hard to come by in this business, but CoCo and The Queen were tight; they had history.

What a pleasant shock it was for The Queen to see CoCo at Babylon's HQ, about a year ago when Knight took charge, asking if she could work for her. The twenty-six-year-old had said that the feds had questioned her about Dan Winston's work and The Queen's whereabouts. But rather than snitch on the family that had saved her life, CoCo's loyalty had taken her straight to The Queen's side; literally and lustfully.

CoCo's eyes locked to the right. “That Stud wit' an attitude, Flame, he cuttin' a look that ain't right; we betta check that shit.”

The Queen loved the way CoCo's maroon-glossed lips looked so soft and sparkly in contrast to the hard tone of the words shooting up out of her mouth. “I'm 'bout to splash Flame's ass with some ice water. Make that muthafucka show some respect.”

CoCo burst out laughing.

“What, girl?” The Queen asked playfully.

“If your daddy could see you now. You did a 180 into your dark side, and you all the way there now, like you could do a TV show called
Extreme Black Makeovers.”
CoCo laughed.

The Queen did too.

“Sometimes I forget you little Victoria wit' the preppy school uniform and proper English.”

“Love it,” The Queen said. “Remember all those suited business people in Daddy's office? If I saw 'em now, I could say real prim and proper, ‘Hi, I'm The Queen. My product is pussy and dick. My service? All the orgasms you could never even imagine, in a secure, confidential, and medically safe environment.”

CoCo laughed as she and the money bags went to make a deposit in the vault on the third floor.

The Queen felt a sly smile raise the corners of her mouth as she scanned the bare asses, the flailing legs, the titties of every size, the spread-open pussies, and the perfectly manicured toes pointing up over the Studs' shoulders. These beautiful body parts belonged to some of the most powerful business women in America.

“Girl,” a naked sista shouted into The Queen's ear, “I been dreamin' of this since the day my law degree started turnin' every man I meet into an intimidated, domineering, or social climbing prick. Dicks for hire! Now this is a way for a sophisticated sista to get her freak on, no strings attached.”

The woman, whose face was well known as a legal analyst on Global TV News Network, kissed The Queen's cheek. “You need to do this from coast to coast; I'll help spread the word.”

The Queen loved the raw, wild pleasure in the eyes of every woman in this room. Including this famous face.

The well known anchor, Trina Michaels, now wore a birthday suit instead of her usual TV business attire, a sheen of sweat highlighting her sleek, toned body. One of her nipples, which pointed out from big, perky boobs like chocolate kisses, brushed The Queen's bare arm.

Damn, Celeste is soakin' wet. Can't wait to slide down on Knight's lead pipe and ride into morning.
The Queen wondered how many other women in the room named their pussies and let them come to life to the point that they had conversations with
all
that woman power between their legs.
Probably none.

“Just don't call me when my network does a story about the latest craze,” Trina said. “I can hear it now: ‘A new epidemic strikes women across America. A rabid addiction to sex from the hood.'” Trina laughed. “I'm not tryin' to get featured on my own show as the legal chick who broke the law by soliciting for prostitution!”

The Queen smiled. “Here at Babylon, we provide a service that clearly”—she waved her right hand over the crowd—“is making the world a better place by giving pleasure to those who crave it. And this is much safer than picking up a random dude in the bar. Here, you know our Studs are clean, it's supervised; the perfect hook-up.”

“Fantastic!” Trina exclaimed. “And as fucked up as our economy is, you're giving our fine brothas from the neighborhood some phenomenal employment opportunities.”

The Queen smiled as dozens of naked Studs walked around with platters of martinis, champagne flutes, and raw oysters. Others carried trays offering silver bowls to collect used condoms and neatly rolled, warm, white washcloths to clean up after sex. All in a day's work.

The girls from the hood were cashing in too. Right now, a hundred of Babylon's best sluts were enjoying the same employment boom at Babylon HQ. A major rap group was holding its concert after party in The Garage and on the club balcony. They were “orgifying” the very place where, one year ago tonight, The Queen had connected face to face with her soul mate and said good-bye to the man who'd saved Alice from Ghettoland.

The Queen scanned Trina's beautiful body. “This is my purpose in life, to help you and everybody pursue their pleasure. No shame, no worries, no double standard bullshit. Just wild, free fucking.”

Trina ran her fingertips over the chiseled, caramel and charcoal hued chest one of the Stud's. “It ain't free at all.” She tugged on the silver hoops in the caramel dude's nipples.

“No, baby, but you get what you pay for,” The Queen said, giving a subtle nod to the Studs, who immediately led Trina to a nearby giant bed.

“It's all for you, baby,” The Queen whispered as the darker Stud with waist-length braids laid back, his cock pointing up like Cupid's arrow.

Trina stood over him, squatted, and speared herself down on it. His dick disappeared between the two arcs of her pretty little ass.

For a split second, The Queen wondered if the TV star had any clue that her hostess tonight was the fugitive whose face had appeared many times on GNN. Trina had even done an in depth report on the mysterious suicide scandal of Dan Winston and the ensuing federal investigation, and the disappearance of his bi-racial daughter in Detroit's worst ghetto.