Sex in the Hood Saga (48 page)

The water was pitch black as Knight pretended his body was dead weight, sinking deeper and deeper into the iciness of the Detroit River. His chest felt like it would explode if he didn't suck down a breath of air. But he couldn't go up to the surface. Because he was dead. Or at least pretending to be dead, for the sake of this exercise.

Ping, in a black scuba suit and flippers, wrapped his arms around Knight and dragged him up toward the light shining from the bottom of the cigarette boat. Ping struggled to pull Knight's six foot, seven inches, and 275 pounds of mostly muscle.

Nearby, Pong was having no problem pulling the five foot, eight inch, 125 pound body of The Queen. So he deposited her, then returned to help Ping pull and lift Knight's limp body.

Finally, the brothers had pulled both Knight and The Queen up into the cigarette boat, and they sped away toward the golden lights of the Ambassador Bridge. They'd take the Detroit River to Lake Erie, where they'd transfer into a bigger boat. Then they'd sail through the Erie Canal to the Atlantic Ocean, then down to the Caribbean. Just like they would do on their wedding night, after everything played out the way that Knight had secretly scripted it, starting with the love scene. And he knew from previous conversations that The Queen would play her role perfectly, so that they could enjoy their final act together in paradise.

Everything was in place including the decoy bride and groom who would ride away from The Playhouse in the limo and the second decorated wedding yacht. And nobody had a clue, not even The Queen.

Guilt clenched like an angry fist around his chest.

Trina Michaels shivered with a mischievous sense of adventure and revenge and spoke with her long-time FBI source inside her office at GNN in Washington. “Not only can I hand deliver Victoria Winston to you,” Trina said, pointing to The Queen's picture on her computer screen, “but I can lead you into the hottest prostitution ring you'll have to see to believe.

“I'm ready to deal.” Rick Reed, a Baltimore native and former classmate from Georgetown, ran a hand over his close cropped fade. His gold wedding band shone as he straightened his tortoise shell glasses. In a khaki pantsuit with a white shirt and Burberry plaid tie, he sat with his legs crossed, so that one of his penny loafers almost touched Trina's bare calf. “Sounds like we can both score on this.”

“Exactly.” Trina scooted her chair closer to his, in front of the TV. “But I need your help.”

Rick drew his thick brows together and leaned forward. His glasses magnified his light green eyes that looked bright in contrast to his round, brown face. “I'm all ears.”

“Security at Babylon is like Fort Knox,” she said. “They've got all these barbarian looking guards who are armed and dangerous. Men
and
women!”

Rick nodded, letting his gaze roll down the front of Trina's navy blue dress. She had deliberately worn this today because it hugged her body just right, and pushed up her titties into two creamy brown mounds in a way that Rick could not overlook. She wore it as insurance, just in case he needed any convincing to help her land
the story
of the century.

“Now,” Trina said, grasping his arm, “the only obstacle I have is their super tight security. They don't even allow cell phones into the parties. Everyone has to pass through a metal detector, even if you're naked. Can't even hide a tiny camera in there,” she pointed to her crotch, “If you know what I mean.”

Rick's serious stare melted into a lusty gaze that focused on her crotch. “So what do you need from me?”

“Well, I want this to be a win-win situation for all of us. You're an ambitious man, with your sights set on advancing to the director's chair at the FBI, right?”

“That's no secret.”

“If you ask me, you got robbed last time the chair was open. You deserved it.”

“Why, thank you. Tell me more.”

“Well,” Trina said seductively, “I know you've been looking for a high-profile case to thrust you into the headlines. And that would help you get named and confirmed as leader of this institution.”

Rick leaned closer. Nodding, he ran a manicured hand over his close cut beard. “So what do you need from me, Trina?”

“I need Rip Masta Mac.”

Rick's eyes became as big as jumbo green olives. Shaking his head, he pulled off his glasses.

“Don't be surprised,” Trina said, loving the power of the inside information she had raked up from various confidential sources.

Trina thought about The Queen, and the way her tongue had worked her clit with expert precision. She shifted in the chair, arched her back, and poked out her chest. Trina shivered, and that made her nipples harden under the lace of her Victoria's Secret bra.

Rick's gaze fell to her chest.

“I know all about the plea bargain that you so brilliantly crafted with Rip Masta. If he testifies against Mix Meister in that deadly embezzlement case that killed three innocent white people and a baby, then you'll grant complete immunity to Rip Masta and his boys. You can imagine that type of story will not gain a lot of support for Rick Reed in the hearts and minds of Congress or middle America.”

Rick shook his head. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. “How'd you—”

“A great reporter has her sources,” Trina said playfully. She traced his knuckles with her fingertip. “So if you want to keep your little deal with Rip Masta a secret, and be the force behind the capture of Victoria Winston and a raid on the wild sex underworld of Babylon then—”

“What do you want?”

“Rip Masta and his crew are friends with Knight and the folks at Babylon,” Trina said. “The next big event there is like the sex Olympics. I heard them talking about it when I was in Detroit. It's called The Games.”

“Tell me something I don't already know.” Rick took her hand and put it on his crotch.

“I've been there,” she moaned, rising up to sit on his lap, without taking her grip off his dick. “I've seen it. Felt it. Now I want you to help me get video inside The Games, before you do the raid. But I can't go.”

“Why not?”

“They know me and it sort of ended badly,” Trina said. “Rip Masta, however, is one guy they'll be glad to see. And he'll want to go visit his homies in the Motor City to take his mind off his legal troubles.”

She stroked his dick in case his mind wasn't grasping all her ideas. “All I need you to do is to promise Rip Masta that if he gets us secret video of The Games, then you'll convince the Federal prosecutors to cut him the sweetest deal ever.”

Rick's dick went limp for a minute. “I wanted an exclusive on this. I don't know if—”

She slid to her knees, dropped her face in this lap. She sucked that little spongy soft link sausage into her mouth, and slurped on it until it swelled into a fire roasted jumbo bratwurst. It was like a microphone pointing at her mouth as she pulled away to speak. “Wire Rip Masta and his crew with hidden cameras. He and Knight went to school together and they're still friends. So they'll be able to get past the metal detectors. We get video, they come out, and boom! You do your raid and I get my story of the century. Works out for both of us.”

Rick's dick swelled bigger and harder.

Trina stood and lifted up her dress, revealing a navy blue lace garter belt that held up her thigh-high stockings and no panties.

Rick's eyes glazed as he stared at her bald pussy, which was just a pull away from his dick.

Trina thought about taking a slide down on it right then. And when he gripped the sides of her hips to pull her closer, she felt dizzy with lust. But no, for once she would have some control when faced with a big, juicy dick.

“This is your reward when we celebrate the fruits of our teamwork. I can write my own ticket as the hottest TV journalist in America, and you'll be director of the FBI. Deal?”

Rick stood, turned her around and bent her over her desk. He quickly rolled on a condom. His dick slammed up into her love starved, power hungry pussy. “Deal,” he said with a deep groan. “It's a deal, Miss Michaels.”

The Queen's head throbbed as relentlessly as the driving bass beat blasting through the gym. Here on the second floor of Babylon HQ, just one floor above The Garage, her entire being ached with questions about why the fuck Knight and that Slut had come strutting out of the offices in The Garage in the middle of the day.

Celeste answered,
Hell no.

But a hurricane of questions still ripped through her mind as The Queen surveyed the hundreds of beautiful bodies that were fucking in sexercise class on the red floor mats. All around them, even more men and women were pumping, sweating, and cycling on silver and black weight machines and rows of cardio equipment.

“Three minutes!” Noah stood in front of the class with a silver whistle.

The Sluts' pretty, muscular asses slammed down on the dudes' stomachs. Their titties—big, small, firm, floppy, bounced with the force of their thrusting. Tiny beads of sweat rolled between their breasts and down their muscle-toned backs. Some of them glistened with perspiration from head to toe.

The Queen glanced over at Knight as he watched the action. What was he thinking? Did he feel powerful knowing that all this is his? This all-you-can-eat buffet of fresh pussy meat was steaming 'round the clock with any flavor or variety that his appetite craved, so that when he got his fill of her white chocolate, he could spice it up with some peach or licorice or cinnamon.

But watching all that raw booty in action threatened to bring back the barrage of images of Knight and Reba that had been torturing her mind. And it made that horrible feeling creep into her mind again.
Everybody turns on you eventually.
And on top of that, she was still worried about Knight's health. If something was really wrong with Knight's health, besides the stress that The Queen believed was stealing his color, his breath, his strength, then what if he had decided to get as much pussy as he could before he died?

The dizzying image of Knight walking through this fucking field and plucking out the juiciest bitches to fuck, made The Queen's head hurt even worse.

She hardly heard CoCo, standing beside her, ticking off names and events on her clip board. “Sheila and James won the three top events at The Games last year, but”—tender expression washed over CoCo's face—“Queen, you aw'right? We can take a break if—”

“Let's work.” The Queen still wasn't showing any reaction, but she knew Knight was aware that she was all twisted up inside. Because she could hear him telepathically urging her to calm down and believe what he had just explained to her, in the elevator, that what she had just witnessed, was all business, and that Reba was an important link to Li'l Tut's takeover plot.

But Duke had HIV. And if Reba was fuckin' Duke, and screwing Knight, then that three letter death sentence would spray right up into The Queen's heart, soul, and bloodstream too.

An overwhelmingly protective urge made her every cell feel like it was exploding with rage. She wanted to march over to Knight right now as he stood beside the superstar Stud named Bam-Bam who was training for The Games. Yeah, The Queen needed to just get it out. She'd scream to that muthafucka that if he wanted her for life, he'd better put on a hazmat suit before he even talked to rank bitches like Reba.

Now Knight stood about twenty feet away, touching that Slut, Pebbles, pretty arching back as she and her husband Bam-Bam did lunges. That bitch fucked other men for a living, so being married didn't make her off limits to Knight either.

Some horrible rage bubbled up so wickedly inside The Queen, it propelled her forward, toward Knight. If he didn't act right, she'd take this rock on her hand, transfer a lot of money out of Babylon accounts and into a private one somewhere far away, and escape the insanity of this morally corrupt world of erotic abandon. She and Knight needed to live, love, and raise their baby far and away, in a safe, normal place.

Suddenly the gym felt as mind blowingly scary. Did she want all that for the little baby growing in her belly? Hell no. But was Knight crazy to think they could be a family in the middle of all this?

Her feet stomped over the spongy floor. Her mind went
rattat-tat
with the bullet-words that she was about to shoot up at the man she thought was different from all the other lying, cheating muthafuckas of the world. Her chest rose and fell with the kind of overwhelmingly heavy breathing that helped a bitch go off. Her heart pounded.

Daddy's voice boomed through her mind.
“Anger is only one letter away from danger.”

Pick your battles,
Celeste warned.
Give Knight the benefit of the doubt 'cause your little arsenal is a BB gun compared to his mighty battalions.

The Queen turned her back to him and quickly walked toward the locker-rooms, as if she had to pee urgently. She did, actually. Her stomach was still flat, but her bladder was working overtime; this headache was wicked, her titties felt sensitive and sore like just before her period, and her mind, maybe the extra hormones were giving her this paranoid whack attack.

As she stepped into the locker-room and went to the bathroom, her thoughts reeled at the disastrous outcome she would have created by riddling her beautiful fiance with the vile words and ideas that had poisoned her mind. They had what everybody else in the world wanted. Showing anger toward Knight here in the gym with all these witnesses who could be Duke defectors, would be dangerous. Like Reba conniving to trick Knight into thinking she could play spy, when her real goal was to seduce him and oust The Queen. Or rouse some type of gratitude in Knight that would, in her distorted mindset, make him feel obligated to succumb to her seduction. So if Reba saw or heard about an argument between The Queen and Knight, it could fuel her man stealin' quest.

Plus, The Queen had to keep her cool as a test of wills with Knight. She had seen too many examples of women turning into jealous, suspicious bitches because they claimed to love their man so much. But ultimately their possessiveness had the opposite effect pushing their man away, right into the conniving arms of the bitches who were trying to hook their men.

“Never let anyone see your anger,” Daddy would say. “Never let 'em see you sweat or you'll lose.”

The Queen took several deep breaths. That fresh oxygen and slow breathing calmed her nerves. Then she walked back out into the gym, where Knight was watching sexercise and talking with Big Moe.

The Queen returned to CoCo, who was checking off names on her clipboard.

“With training like this,” CoCo said, “Babylon will win every event in The Games, hands down. Check out Bam-Bam and Pebbles.” CoCo nodded toward the muscular couple as they held dumbbells in each hand and did multiple sets of lunges. They both grimaced because that shit hurt when you extended one foot forward then lowered your other knee to the floor over and over.

Bam-Bam cast a loving glance at Pebbles as sweat poured down their temples and their pulses throbbed in their neck veins.

CoCo smiled. “Check out the champs. Pebbles and BamBam are the projected winners of the top three events. Longest Fuck, Longest Slut on Top, and Longest One-Knee Stud Fuck.” Now that The Queen had calmed down, her perception of Pebbles and Bam-Bam was different. They looked like a loving couple who was working hard to master their craft.

The Queen shivered. “Love that.”

“Look like you lovin' that shit or you out,” Noah shouted down at one of the women..

Peaches bit down on her bottom lip in a way that could be construed as an expression of pleasure. And she pumped and pumped some more.

The whistle blew. Noah shouted, “Okay, ladies, on your knees!”

“Gentlemen, three minutes.” Noah blew the whistle.

The men lined up in perfect alignment with the women. They thrust forward in unison while the women sucked and slurped in sync. The Queen felt dizzy. Her pussy creamed. And all that lust melted away her headache.

Noah's whistle blew. He shouted, “Switch!”

The women laid down and spread their legs. The men got on their knees and dove face first into steamy, hot pussies.
I need that now.

The Queen shivered with the need to feel Knight's tongue stroking her insides.

She looked around the room until she spotted him. Knight's back was turned to her as he talked with Noah and surveyed the class. But why were his shoulders moving up and down like that? The Queen hurried over the pathway between the cardio machines and the mats. Knight looked up at her reflection in the mirror as she approached.

He looked gray. He was breathing quickly and holding his chest with one hand.

She stepped toward him.

“Excuse me, man,” Knight said to Noah, who nodded.

The Queen walked him to the men's locker-room. She pushed through the white door. She guided him to a long bench.

As he held his chest and struggled to breath she sat beside him, stroking his back. “Knight, baby, what is wrong?”

He was looking down. “Knight?”

He turned slightly.

She gasped at the expression in his eyes fear.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “All the tests turned out normal at the doctor. It's just panic attacks. So attack it back. Say, ‘I am a warrior. I am a warrior. I am a warrior.'”

Knight sat up straight. He inhaled deeply, making his broad shoulders rise and fall.

“There you go,” she whispered as he gripped her hands in his trembling fingers. “I am a warrior.”

The Queen had researched panic attacks on the internet. Turned out, they could make somebody feel like they were having a heart attack: squeezing chest, struggling to breathe, racing thoughts of doom. Some people fainted. And others rushed to the hospital fearing they were about to have cardiac arrest and drop dead. But it was just a reaction to stress. Or a person allowing stress to take hold of the mind and body.

What The Queen didn't understand was how a person like Knight who meditated and carried himself with cool, calm confidence at all times, and practiced positive affirmations, could allow himself to fall victim to this invisible beast called stress.

“Knight is a warrior,” she whispered in a soft lullaby mantra. Her hand stroked gentle circles on his back. “My Knight baby is an African god warrior.” Her mind spun in an effort to make sense of this. A panicky feeling burned in her gut, too. Because what if something was seriously wrong with Knight and the doctor's tests just hadn't found it? What if he were to just mysteriously drop dead? What would she do? Where would she go?

“Knight, baby?”

“Yeah, baby girl.”

“You know that Psalm you love so much? ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning'?”

Knight nodded.

“Well, I believe that this, whatever it is, this weeping may endure for my Knight, for a minute, but joy is about to
cumeth
in the morning, in our favorite way.” She let out a sexy laugh as she realized her play on words. “But seriously, let's make like the morning is now. The weeping is over. We got each otha, to the infinity. We can't waste another minute feelin' anything less than hype in love and all we got.”

Knight's beautiful onyx eyes sparkled back at her. He pulled her into his arms and held her like she was a swaddled infant. With her behind on his lap, he wrapped his arms around her and cupped his giant hands around hers, her cheek resting on his shoulder. “Baby girl,” he whispered softly but happily, “thank you.”

She smiled slightly, staring up into the black jewels that were his eyes. “For what?”

“For loving me for me. For letting me let my guard down and show that I ain't perfect. For loving me even more when I hurt.”

The tenderness in his glassy eyes made The Queen's throat burn. His face blurred as hot tears stung her eyes. All those ridiculous, paranoid thoughts about Reba dissolved under the intense heat of this karmic connection with her soul mate. All that internal drama she'd just experienced about Knight plucking a new Slut from the luscious fields of Babylon, all that dissipated under his loving gaze too.

She squeezed out the tears and stared deep into his eyes. “I love you to the infinity,” she whispered, knowing that there would be no life for her without this other half of her soul.

“Love you to the infinity,” they said in unison.