Halfrican Heat

You had been feeling it all morning. That deep, primal pull—hormones surging, body thrumming with an urgency you couldn’t shake. 

You’d woken up wrapped around Onyankopon like a second skin, breathing in his scent—motor oil and cedar from his cologne still clinging to him despite the shower he took before bed.  

But today? Today wasn’t about you.

Your husband had spent the whole week at the shop—late nights replacing transmissions, arguing with picky customers who didn’t understand why their "quick fix" wasn't actually quick. Then last night? He gave y'all everything he could—dinner downtown where he let you steal bites off his plate while he sipped bourbon as slow as molasses; holding Asaan until the baby boy fell asleep drooling on his shoulder.  

And now? All your man wanted was some peace. His PlayStation controller in hand, headset half-cocked over one ear as Kev from down the way screamed about some nonsense through the speakers. But instead of letting him breathe? You were pouting. Hip cocked against the doorframe of his man cave, you watched him like a stalker. 

“You ain’t hear me calling you?” 

You asked this sweetly—almost too sweetly—fingers tapping along your pendant like a metronome counting down to attitude.

Onyankopon barely glanced up from headshotting some zombie midgame. 

“Nah, baby. ‘You good?”

Even if he asked that, his tone was flat. Finality lacing those couple of words because he’d told you already. Yet here you were, lip poked out thicker than a punished child because ovulation had your brain scrambled and patience nonexistent.

“I’m okay,” you murmur softly, “‘Was gonna’ lay out a little blanket for me and Asaan—have breakfast on the lawn since it isn’t too hot.” 

You continuously rub your fingers against your pendant, “Did you wanna join?”

His shoulders were hunched forward, thick arms flexed and tense as he gripped that controller like a vice. He didn’t look up as he spoke—just responded with a soft grunt, “I’m cool, Mama. Gon’ head and enjoy breakfast without me.” 

Why were you upset? You knew damn well he wouldn’t be leaving the man cave until he finished this round. Then the next round. And the one after that. Because the game? It was his peace. One you hated interrupting.

Onyankopon looked dangerous like this though—shirtless, durag tied over his cornrows, tattoos winding over every inch of his skin. The bold ink along the side of his temple only made him seem more intimidating to anyone who didn’t know him—but you? You knew the truth. That beneath all that muscle and ink was a man who melted when Asaan giggled, who kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep.  

Your gaze flickered downward for half a second—just long enough to catch that thick outline pressing against those grey sweats before snapping back up just as fast.  

And then there was Asaan—your little caramel drop with chubby cheeks and Onyankopon's deep set eyes, crawling straight toward the man cave like he could sense Daddy was in there avoiding responsibility today. You scooped him up quickly before he got too close to any wires or controllers, balancing him on your hip as you stepped inside fully this time.

"Daddy ain't tryna be bothered right now,” you cooed lowly at Asaan, looking back at Onyankopon with those doe eyes that always worked on him in moments like these. 

You then murmur, “But maybe if we ask real nice, he'll take ten minutes and eat with us—yeah?” 

You saw it before it happened. His jaw tensed just slightly, fingers tightening around that controller again as frustration simmered under his skin because damn, hadn’t he earned some uninterrupted time? 

But Asaan then let out one of those drooly baby laughs and stretched his tiny hands toward him—and just like that, he paused mid game without hesitation—despite Kev yelling through the headset about zombies closing in.

He took Asaan from you effortlessly—the baby immediately gripping onto one of father’s face tats because infants had no concept of pain tolerance—but instead of stepping out behind y'all after kissing his son’s curls? He handed him right back.

“Gon’ eat, I ain’t starvin’.” 

His brown eyes locked onto yours while muscles flexed under tension; not angry, just pleading politely for what should've already been given freely. 

Space.

You allow Asaan to become easily distracted by your necklace, tugging at the golden jewelry under the blares of the TV’s lighting.

“‘You on the phone with Kev?”

Onyankopon let out a slow breath through his nose—the kind that came when he was trying not to let irritation seep into his tone.  

“Yeah,” he clipped, adjusting the headset slightly as Kev’s cackling about some grenade mishap crackled through the speakers. His thumb hovered over the unpause button, but you were still standing there like a lingering shadow—Asaan now gnawing on your necklace like it was a teething ring.  

He finally unpaused the game just to stop Kev from yelling louder and spoke without looking up this time.

“Baby.” 

One word, thick with finality.

You slammed the door behind you with a little more force than intended—Asaan giggling in your arms like getting tossed around was some kind of new game.  

In the kitchen, you juggled Asaan on your hip while yanking open the fridge—the cool air hit your flushed skin as you grabbed raspberries and pomegranates, knife chopping fruit a little harder than necessary before you dumped it into a bowl with some honey drizzled over top.  

Outside, morning sunlight draped over your shoulders as you spread out that quilted picnic blanket—the one Onyankopon’s grandma made you as a wedding gift. You plopped down in the grass, robe slipping dangerously high on caramel thighs while Asaan latched onto your nipple greedily, previously covered by the loose pink silk of your robe. It barely held anything in place after pregnancy did wonders on your body. 

And through all this? That damn window stared right back at you—man cave curtains cracked just enough for Onyankopon to glance outside if he wanted to—but he didn’t.

Until this. 

“Afternoon Mrs—whoa.” 

Mailman Claude nearly dropped his satchel when he hopped out of the truck, rummaging through his bag as he made his way towards your porch—his eyes snagged where silk gapped around milk heavy tits—before snapping up quick like god himself might strike him down for looking too long at something so sacredly tempting. 

You smiled sweetly though; shifting Asaan higher to cover the brown of your nipple. 

“Mornin’, Claude.”

Your voice came out syrup thick without realizing it—Southern hospitality mixed with no awareness made every word drip like molasses off your tongue, dark curls bouncing wild around freckled cheeks. 

Your voice is smooth, entrancing.

“Èske ou oke jodi a? They have you out here pretty early.”

Dear god, was your accent a weapon. 

Those soft, honeyed words had a way of making a man fall hard and fast. Claude shifted under your gaze, the heat in his cheeks having little to do with the humidity already sticking to his skin. He could've sworn he'd heard a voice like that come from heaven; sweet as Tupelo honey, as smooth as the best whiskey. 

“I—uh—” His voice cracked like a teenager, eyes darting everywhere, “Yeah, it’s—it's early, but I—I don’t mind it.”  

You reached up—still oblivious—to push a stray curl behind your ear, giving that warm Southern smile.

“Hopefully the weather stays nice. You want some breakfast to take with you? I have some fruits—milk, fresh to go.”

Claude practically choked on air when you leaned forward slightly to wipe Asaan’s mouth with the edge of your finger—your breasts just barely covered as they swayed freely under thin silk, before you tugged the fabric back into place like an afterthought.

“No ma'am! I mean—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head fast enough for his hat to nearly slide off, “Appreciate it but uh—gotta’ finish my route in due time.”

Your brow furrowed slightly—just a hint of confusion playing at the edges of that pretty smile as you tilted your head, robe slipping just a tad lower off one shoulder when you shifted.  

“It’s really no worry," you teased with a little giggle—sweet and light as morning dew— "Don't be shy. Ain't no harm in takin' some fruit or somethin' cold for the road—”  

But then, a voice like the devil had risen. Onyankopon’s deep timbre cut through like thunder rolling across quiet skies. 

“Claude.” 

One word. One warning.

The man nearly tripped backward over his own boots, scrambling away fast enough to leave skid marks in the grass—“Y—Yes sir! I was just leavin’. Right now.” 

His mail bag slapped against his hip as he practically sprinted back to his truck without another glance your way.

You blinked after him, turning toward your husband standing there bare chested in those loose sweats, watching you with an expression carved from pure steel. 

"Bring yo’ ass inside.” 

You scooped up Asaan with one arm, grabbing your bowl of fruit with the other before heading inside—still completely clueless as to why Onyankopon was suddenly looming over you like a storm cloud.  

"What's wrong?" 

You asked this innocently, adjusting the baby on your hip while stepping into the coolness of the house.  

“What’s wrong? ‘You outside in that lil’ ass robe with yo’ fuckin' titties out like it ain't nothin’."  

Your eyes narrowed, “What? I was just feeding ’San, you know that.”

He looked down at that innocent face cradled against your shoulder, that irritation still simmering as he ran a hand over his durag. 

“I know baby, I know. But you ain't even realize just how you’ was lookin’— Like you was tryna’ get the nigga attention.” 

You raise a brow, “You’re mad cause the mailman thinks I’m attractive?”

Onyankopon’s jaw locked tight, nostrils flaring as he exhaled through his nose like a bull about to charge. 

“‘San sleep yet?” He asked instead, ignoring your question completely.  

You hesitated before shaking your head no—because what kind of stupid ass question was that? The baby was wide awake, slapping fat hands against your collarbone like a drum while drool dripped down his chin.  

Onyankopon moved fast then—one tattooed arm snatching Asaan right out of your grip before striding toward the nursery without another word; leaving you standing there holding nothing but attitude and a half-eaten bowl of fruit.

But no, he wasn’t getting off that easy.

Your bare feet slapped against the hardwood as you stormed after him, that silk robe flaring against you like a warning flag.  

“Oh, now you wanna play daddy of the year?” 

Your voice came out sharper than intended—laced with enough venom to make Onyankopon pause mid step at Asaan’s nursery door. 

“You was real quick to ignore me all mornin’—but soon as a nigga look my way, you’re mad?” 

The words tasted childish even as they left your mouth—petty, bratty and deliberately meant to dig under his skin like a splinter. But did you care? Absolutely not. Maybe if he hadn’t been glued to that game for hours, leaving you starved for attention, none of this would’ve happened in the first place. 

Onyankopon turned slow—brown eyes flickering over your face like he could see straight through the act; he could smell the frustration rolling off your skin in waves alongside vanilla perfume and breastmilk.

“Ain’t got time for this back and forth shit,” he muttered, “Either tell me what’s really botherin’ you or drop it.”  

Your lips pressed into a thin line—because no, you weren’t about to admit that your hormones had you climbing the walls, craving him so bad it made you act foolish. Instead, you scooped Asaan right back up and marched out without another word, leaving Onyankopon standing there like a statue carved out of pure irritation.  

An hour passed. 

The house was quiet except for the faint hum of male voices rumbling from the man cave—Kev and whoever else laughing at something dumb through the headset while Onyankopon gave low chuckles in return. 

Asaan was finally asleep in his nursery after fighting naps all morning—leaving you alone with your thoughts, and guilt that felt stupid now that the heat of pettiness had faded.  

So barefoot and silent, you slipped back into the man cave without announcing yourself. Arms looped over his shoulders, face nuzzling into warm brown skin between ink stained neck tattoos as if nothing had even happened between you two earlier in the day. 

And despite himself? He exhaled, leaning himself into your smaller frame.

Your face still hides within the middle of his back—you ask softly, “You winning?”

His broad shoulders rose with a deep, rumbling sigh—all that annoyance from before fading with each second he felt your body pressed against him. Instead of responding to the question, his only answer was an arm stretching back to grab your free hand—long fingers gently lacing between yours before pulling you farther into him like he couldn't get enough.  

You buried your face within his throat opposite of the microphone, softly murmuring, “‘Tried giving Asaan a bottle. He wasn’t too pleased.”

He chuckled at that—low and warm—feeling your lips against his neck, soft as butterfly wings. 

“Lil’ man ain't got a sweet tooth for that plastic shit yet. You know he want’ the real thing.”

You pressed a kiss to the microphone before speaking sweetly into it—voice dripping like honey through its southern lilt, “Y'all better not be feedin’ my man bad ideas while I'm not looking.” 

Kev’s exaggerated cackling crackled through the headset—“Oh shit, we got company. This nigga Onyankopon in trouble!” 

Then you slid right onto his lap, hips rolling slowly against him as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Onyankopon groaned immediately, thick fingers gripping your waist to steady you while still trying to focus on the screen.  

“Shawty, c’mon—a nigga can’t see nothin’ like this.” 

His voice was already rough with warning as your lips brushed teasingly against his once…twice…before he deliberately turned his face away with a grunt, “Baby.” 

But when that tongue darted out? Tracing along the seam of his lips before slipping inside? He kissed you back for a short moment, pulling his mouth away as he murmured, “Chill.” 

With a dramatic little huff, you slid off his lap—but not before nipping at his earlobe just to hear him suck his teeth. Plopping down beside him instead, your hands immediately found their way to the rigid tension in his shoulders.  

“Mwen te manke ou anpil jodi a, renmen. Poukisa mwen pa ka manyen ou?”

You murmured that into the curve of his neck, words soft, taunting. 

Kev’s voice crackled through the headset again—this time louder and laced with amusement, "Damn, nigga! ‘What she sayin’?” 

Onyankopon didn’t answer immediately; just tilted his head back slightly against your touch—eyes drifting shut for half a second while he muttered under his breath, “Nothin’, nigga. She talkin’ shit."

Your freckled cheeks flushed pink as your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweats—giving a slow, testing tug while staring up at him with those big brown eyes that knew exactly what they were doing.  

Onyankopon’s grip on the controller tightened—his glare sharp enough to slice through steel as he gave you a warning look.

But even then—you dipped your fingers below the material, tugging the thick tip of him between your fingers. Your eyes awe at the sight, feeling the weight of him in your small palm as he was hard. 

You whimper softly, so low you know the microphone can’t hear—“Lemme’ suck it, baby.”

You didn’t miss the hissing breath through Onyankopon's teeth at that—low and throaty as he shifted slightly in his seat. His voice came out strained under his breath, "Mama.”

"Y'all good over there or what?” 

"’We good," Onyankopon bit out—the tone sharp enough to cut off any other questions from his friend. His eyes were dark as he stared down at you, jaw clenching.

“Quit playin’, girl.”

But you weren’t. And to show you weren’t? You drop your tongue out as you flatten it, stroking along his tip.

The second your tongue flicked out—warm, wet pressure sliding just right along the swollen head of him—his entire body tensed. A deep, growling “Fuck,” rumbled in his chest before he could stop it.  

And his friends? They were immediately back in the chat, voices full of amusement and suspicion. 

“Bruh—‘fuck was that noise?"  

Onyankopon’s fingers tangled roughly in your curls, grip tightening as he tried to keep his breathing steady while glaring down at you.

"Ain't shit.”

He found a way to lower his face just inches away from yours, heat behind his stare as he grunted, “Slurp my shit up since you want a nigga so bad. Make that bitch nasty as fuck.” 

And of course, you obliged as if you hadn’t touched your own husband in centuries. 

You begin by rotating your tongue in gentle circles around his tip, before the swell of your lips suck the thick head within your mouth, tongue grazing his slit each time he slides back in the hallowed confines of your cheeks. Then, you’re opening your throat, shoving him past the back of your tongue, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you gag—you whimper at the vibration rumbling through your entire body, jaw working up and down as you find a rhythm.

He looked like he hated you in the way he stared. His brown eyes locked onto yours like a starving man—watching the flush of your face intensify as you took him deeper. Those pretty lips, they began to swell and slick from drool. 

"Yo, bruh—you’ still there?” 

Onyankopon had to clear his throat before answering—voice thick with strain, “I’m hearin’ you, nigga. Y’all ready for another round?”

His fingers tightened in your hair—not enough to hurt, but enough to control the rhythm as you bobbed your head over his dick—which was beginning to disappear between your lips, schluck, schluck, scluck. 

"Look at you,” he growled low, thumb swiping at a string of spit connecting your mouth to his tip before pushing it back between your lips, “Fuckin’ nasty ass bitch. Why you—doin’ allat’,” he groans, hearing a soft giggle that shudders through his entire body, your little whine thrumming as you begin slamming his tip against the back of your throat. 

You were nasty in fact—you tug him from your mouth as you arch your ass within the air, lapping your tongue against his balls, sucking the veins of his tip between your mouth like a filthy routine. 

You’re lazily rotating your fingers against the heavy length of his dick, a schlack, schlack from the saliva between your palm. You’re stroking your tongue on his balls again, wagging your hips as you whimper, “‘Dick so fuckin’ fat, baby. ‘Taste’s so good.”

Your husband's breathing had gone ragged, his grip on the controller so tight the plastic groaned in protest.

"Goddamn.” 

His voice was a gravel-rough growl, barely above a whisper as he watched you worship him—those plush lips swollen, shiny and wet, drool smeared across your chin and clinging to your collarbones. The way you moaned around him sent vibrations straight up his spine, forcing another curse lowly through his lips, making his dick grow within your mouth. 

"Why yo’ ass just standing there getting shot? MOVE, NIGGA!” 

Onyankopon didn't even blink, too busy staring down at you with half-lidded eyes darkened by pure lust. His free hand tangled possessively in your curls again—forcing eye contact as he dragged you back onto him with a rough grunt, “‘Muhfuckin’ jaw prolly’ hurt, knowin’ my shit too big for you to swallow down. But gon’ do it for me, huh?” 

The wet pop of your lips separating from his tip echoed as you nodded—you’re pouting, but it didn’t stop you from trying either way—you took him deep enough to make tears well in those pretty brown eyes, hollowing your cheeks like a woman starved. You whimper as you feel his palm release from your curls, thumbing the controller to look at if he was doing something. 

All while? His other hand grazes at the fullness of your thighs as you arch into his lap—your body shudders as you feel his palm thwack the flesh of your ass. His fingers tug back the frilly lace at the edges of your robe, eyes rushing across the round globes of your ass cheeks. Onyankopon swipes his entire hand against your folds—and he groans—because he knew you were nearly dripping onto the couch from how wet you were.

The contact has you quivering—you take him deeper into your mouth, the ridges of his tip jerking in and out between your lips—but you can barely focus, as he’s just smacking, smacking your ass with repeated grunts. 

“‘Pussy wet as fuck just from puttin’ a nigga in yo’ mouth,” he sneers, “You ain’t give a fuck how you had this dick. Jus’ wanted it.”

And you did. You wanted it bad.

Your cheeks bulge as your nose brushes at his abdomen—your eyes roll as you gag loudly this time, your mouth quickly tugging him between your flushed lips as you pant. Your doe eyes flicker up to him as you whimper, “‘Want your nut all over my face, Papa.”

The game was forgotten. The controller hit the couch with a thud as Onyankopon's grip in your hair tightened when he found it once more, his other hand sliding down to cup your chin—forcing you to look up at him with those teary, submissive eyes.  

"Yeah?" His voice was a growl, “You want this nut on yo’ pretty ass face?” 

You whimpered around him—nodding as best you could with his dick lodged halfway down your throat for proof of your desires, spit slick lips stretched tight. 

He yanks himself free and drags the swollen head against your cheek—painting streaks of precum across freckled flesh while staring down like he owned every inch of you. 

“‘Keep yo’ mouth open.” 

And when you did—tongue out like some desperate little thing? He pumped himself slowly over your face just to watch the way arousal flickered in equal measure behind those brown irises, letting loose thick ropes of white right onto your waiting tongue.

You didn’t realize how much worse you were making things for yourself. Because then, your husband watched you lick his nut clean off sticky fingers like dessert after dinner. You giggled, rubbing your palms along his stomach affectionately—your mouth was innocent, “Did so good, baby.”

Maybe you weren’t paying enough attention, though. 

Otherwise, you would’ve realized how his dick hardened seconds after he nutted. You were still giggling, the soft kiss you laid against his chin sweet as a doll.

“Aight’, nigga—Imma’ call y’all back.”  

He stands to shut the door fully—seconds later, his monstrous frame looms over you.  

“Baby—“

 “Nah, baby nothin’. Assume that muhfuckin’ position.” 

You knew exactly what he meant—knees sinking onto the plush carpet as you turned around slow; robe slipping off caramel shoulders while hands braced against the floor within an arch so perfect, so familiar, that he groaned just looking at it.

“Goddamn, girl.” 

Cheek pressed against the fluffy rug, you just feel your pussy keening—the gummy folds shine beneath the dim lighting of the loading screen from his game, your thighs nearly quiver as you feel him—heavy, girthy—it smacks on your pussy from behind, making your hips tense, a low whimper passing your swollen lips. 

"Gon’ learn why playin' with me gets yo' ass fucked up.” 

Thankfully, he was nice enough to slide his tongue across your clit for a while. Your eyes flicker over your shoulder as you watch him, able to hear his mouth sucking and lapping at your pussy. 

You, “O—Ooh,” a tremble between the wet noises, sitting yourself up halfway—you wag your folds on his face, a small whine of pleasure releasing as Onyankopon’s head rotates in a circle, dragging his lips all across the entirety of you.

The sound of his tongue on your pussy is filthy. Wet, rhythmic schlick, schlick noises fill the room as his head knocks up and down, lapping from your clit all the way down to your dripping entrance before swirling back up. 

Your quivering thighs squeeze together instinctively, the pleasure too intense—but he doesn’t stop, just groans against you, vibrations making you attempt to lift up—

"Lay yo' ass back down," he grunts, “I ain’t tell you to move.” 

Your arms tremble as you try to lower yourself onto the rug again, hips still raised so you can peer back at him from beneath fluttering lashes. You pant softly—hand reaching behind blindly in a weak attempt to slow his mouth. 

“You ain’t listenin’. Now you gotta’ tuck them hands where they belong.”

He doesn’t ask things twice. 

Your toes curl at the loud slurrrp of his mouth, "Try movin’ me again and see what happens.” 

And god help you if that dominance doesn’t make the heat coil tighter in your stomach—leaving nothing but shaky whimpers and slick thighs pressed together helplessly. But you oblige, tucking your hands between your slightly parted thighs, allowing him to bury his face within your pussy. 

"You feel my tongue workin’ yo’ shit, huh?”

You nod frantically, breath hitching as his mouth 

takes you—but the second your response comes out too quiet, his palm cracks down on your ass hard enough to make you whimper again.  

“‘Hear me talkin’ to you," he growls, dragging his tongue back up in one long, slow stroke that has your thighs shaking.  

“…Y—yeah, feelsgood, baby.” 

You manage to mewl that out, voice shuddering under the weight of pleasure already coiling in your stomach—your legs tremble where they’re pinned beneath, tears gently beginning to well at the corners of your eyes. You were already overstimulated. 

“Ony, ’M sorry—“ The apology spills between whimpers—but he doesn't even let you finish, “Ain't tryna hear all that shit right now. Just keep puttin’ that pussy on my tongue.” 

 You drop your clit across his mouth, sliding and soaking his lips with it—Onyankopon’s tongue strokes until your apologies dissolve into nothing. They’ve dissipated into breathless cries against rug fibers beneath your cheek pressed flush to the floor.

"Ony—Ony, wait—"  

You gasp his name between shuddering breaths, hips instinctively trying to pull away as the pressure builds too fast, thighs clamping around as if that’ll stop him. But he knows.  

He knows.  

“Nuh Uh, C’mon.” 

Your body betrays you—shaking violently, thighs twitching as you clamp your fingers together beneath your own weight, trying to hold back. 

“Give it all to me,” his deep voice echoes in your ears, “Don’t be doin’ allat. ‘Fuck you holdin’ back for? Gimme’ that shit.” 

That's all it takes. The dam breaks—your entire body seizes up before collapsing into violent vibrations, a desperate cry tearing from your throat as warmth gushes uncontrollably over his waiting tongue, squirting all over his goatee. It’s all so loud and wet, you tuck your face within the rug, cheeks hot as you shy away from your own orgasm.

Onyankopon doesn't let you hide, of course. 

His strong palms hold your body with satisfied grunts, keeping you locked in place as he laps up every last drop—his mouth works slow, like he's savoring the taste of your weakness. 

"’Gon head an’ take this dick now.”

His voice is low, "Don't act like it's too much when yo' ass was beggin’ for it earlier."  

He was right and wrong all at once—because yeah, maybe you did start this mess by teasing him first. But now? That thick tip was already pressing blunt against your swollen folds, still throbbing from being tongue-fucked raw—it feels impossible to take. 

Onyankopon leans forward, wrapping his palm against your throat from behind, tugging you backwards to capture soft cries between rough kisses—all the while, he’s sinking himself inside inch by punishing inch. His tip is only in, and you gasp on his mouth, eyes rolling back—you whimper, “UghOny, f—fuck.” 

He doesn’t move—just holds you there, his thick girth stretching your walls to the point where you can feel every ridge, every vein pressed against your fluttering insides. Your moans are swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you deep, messy—tongue tangling with yours while your body jerks and twitches around him like a live wire.  

"Shut that shit up,” he growls against your lips when another pathetic whimper slips out, "’S what yo’ lil ass wanted, ain’t no need for all them’ tears now.” 

Then suddenly? You're being manhandled back into that perfect arch—ass up, face down on the rug. One hard smack lands on each cheek before he finally starts moving—“Gon’ take it slow,” He lies, because within seconds those slow rolls of his hips turn ruthless—each snap forward making you gasp louder than before.

Each thrust makes slickness gush out your folds like some kind of floodgate broke open inside of you. To make matters worse, you were loud.

And oh, you were losing it.  

"Ony—Ony. Mmmphfuck, baby.” 

Words dissolved into nonsense slurs against the rug—your entire body jerked with each brutal snap of his hips, all while that thick dick of his pistons inside you ruthlessly. You could feel your own cream coating him messily, your pussy clenching around him in desperate pulses as he forced orgasm after orgasm from your trembling body.  

The sound? Disgusting—wet schlicks, flesh slapping against flesh with every deep stroke, mixed with the obscene squelch of your arousal dripping down his balls and onto your thighs.  

“Pussy talkin’ so much shit, huh?” 

He taunts you in a breathless grunt, delivering another sharp smack to your ass cheek—“The bitch singin’ to me.” 

Each spank only made you cream harder—gushing around him like a broken faucet while nonsensical whimpers spilled past swollen lips—“Fuckkk, Papa. Oh my god.” 

When the pleasure turns too much, your voice cracks into something sweet—tiny, desperate whimpers slipping between shaky breaths. 

"M'sorry, Ony. I love you so much, Papa. Ughn…” 

You mewl it, your body arching prettily—but Onyankopon wasn’t taking any of that softness right now. Not when he knows just how nasty you really are under all those tears.  

"Bounce this big ass back on me,” he growls, “Hands stay where I put ‘em." 

And despite the ache in your thighs? You obey. Your hips roll back against him with slow, deliberate grinds at first—until the pleasure makes you lose control and suddenly? You're fucking yourself desperately onto his dick, bouncing, choked out moans as if he’s splitting you in half every time he bottoms out. Tears well in those round eyes again as another orgasm rips through your core—gushing around him like some broken faucet while drool slips past swollen lips.

Your walls flutter, gushing around him in slick pulses while long, shuddering moans spill from puffy lips. He watches you unravel like it's entertainment for him—not moving an inch except to lazily spank your ass when your rhythm falters. 

“This my muhfuckin’ pussy,” a rough palm smacking down, “Ain’t no nigga alive gon’ touch what belongs to me.”  

The threat is casual, but lethal in its delivery before he clutches the flesh of your ass in his palm, tugging you back on his dick like you weighed nothing—“‘Fuck ‘round and find out how serious I am.”

Your moans tremble out in long, warbling notes—sounding like some broken melody as your body quivers around him. Onyankopon’s gaze burns into where your pussy stretches obscenely around his girth, watching slick drip down his shaft with every sloppy thrust.  

“You hear that?” 

His voice is echoing, taunting as he slows his hips just to make the lewd squelch even louder—your own cream makes a filthy mess between your thighs, “That's yo’ shit talkin’ to me.” 

You squeeze him, as that’s all you can do. 

“Relax, Mama. Damn.” 

His command is harsh but laced with something darker, possessive, “Stop fightin' my dick.” 

And when you finally do? When those tight walls flutter weakly before relaxing, letting him sink balls deep in one brutal stroke? His head tips back with a ragged groan—listening intently as you sob beneath him, taking every inch like it was made for you.

“I love you, Ony…”

It’s muffled between the press of your cheek against the rug—so soft it almost gets lost under the wet slap of skin on skin. Onyankopon doesn’t pause his slow, deep strokes—just tilts his head down to watch where your body takes him so well before grunting out a rough—“I love yo’ ass too, girl.”

And then—just to ruin you further, “‘Always got me, even when you feel like you don’t.” 

The confession hits harder than sex ever could. Tears spill instantly; fat and hot down flushed cheeks as you push your hips back against him desperately, taking him even deeper with a choked sob, bouncing messily against him.

“Cum in me.” 

You whimper this, nails digging into the rug beneath you like it’ll ground you from floating away from pleasure alone, “‘Want another baby—want you.” 

“Gon’ give you a baby,” he grunts, “Ain’t no fuckin' way I'm pullin' out now." 

The words rumble against sweat slicked skin before he buries himself one last time—holding himself inside, unloading deep until warmth spills between trembling thighs and onto shivering stomachs pressed together messily, he’s moaning with you. 

As he was still buried inside you, he suddenly yanks you into a rough kiss—your lips part instinctively as his tongue swipes against yours, swallowing every last one of your breathy apologies like they were sweet nothings.  

You twist in his arms, straddling him with trembling thighs—your hands immediately cup his bearded face as you press desperate kisses to the corners of his mouth between whispered confessions.  

"’Love you so much," your voice is hoarse from crying out earlier—but it doesn’t stop the way those words tumble past your lips as you meant them.

“You know I love yo’ ass too.”  

Then? The baby monitor crackles to life—tiny coos and giggles echo through the speaker.

The both of you burst into exhausted laughter; foreheads pressed together as breathless chuckles fill the air around tangled limbs and messy bodies.

“‘Gonna try giving him another bottle,” you murmur, stroking your tongue along his mouth, “Might put a lil’ milk on his pacifier.”

Onyankopon's rough chuckle vibrates against your lips, “‘Can’t be kissin’ on me like that when we’ supposed to be done.”

Your giggle is soft against his lips as you nudge him playfully, “I need to shower and clean up first before feeding him.”  

“We can shower together,” he murmurs, “Then I’ll handle Asaan ‘fore you come in. Papa might get him to take the bottle, you gon’ see.”

The shared shower is warm—steamy air clinging to your skin as playful kisses are stolen between soapy touches and hushed laughter. But when he steps out first to tend to the baby, you take your time under the water, letting it rinse away the lingering heat of hours before, finally wrapping yourself in an oversized tee before padding toward the nursery.  

When you peek inside? There’s Onyankopon—big hands cradling tiny Asaan with surprising gentleness as he finally gets him to latch onto the bottle after some fussing. The sight nearly makes your heart burst. His broad frame hunched slightly over your son while murmuring low assurances like, “There go my lil’ man. Drink up.”

You lean against the doorframe with an endeared smile, watching them until Onyankopon glances up.

“Whatchu smilin’ at?” 

His tone is all faux grumpiness, but his eyes soften when they meet yours across a dimly lit room; sweet, love filling the air.

"Didn’t mean to interrupt," you reply softly, “Just watchin’ my two boys."  

“Ain’t never a bother, Mama.”

For a moment, silence settles—just the soft suckling of Asaan drinking at his bottle.

Then, hesitantly—

“You sure about wanting another baby?" 

You press, “I know in the moment we say…things. But with your schedule and—and how much you value your space sometimes…I don’t wanna assume—“

"Baby. Look at me." 

When your eyes finally meet his? There's nothing but certainty staring back at you, “If I didn't want our second baby, a nigga would’ve said sum’.”

His thumb brushes over Asaan’s cheek absently as he continues—“Ain't no assumin' when I'm tellin' yo' ass straight up what I want.”  

The reassurance is blunt—so very him. But when his free hand reaches out to tug you closer by the end of your shirt, strong arms wrapping around both your son and you—That says enough on its own, too.

You press soft kisses against his chin—a shy, “Okay,” passing against his skin in return. You press your finger against Asaan’s cheek, smiling at the little gurgle he does as he’s finished off his bottle. 

"You think Papa’s gonna join us outside for lunch this time, hm?” 

“I can't trust yo’ ass outside without me no more. Don't even know why you askin'."

You flick his temple, “That’s not my fault Claude acted like he’s never seen breasts before!” You pout, “They’re just a little bigger.”

Onyankopon scowls instantly at the mention of Claude.

 “Yo’ ass better stop sayin’ that nigga name if you want him to keep breathin’.” 

The growl in his voice is only half serious, before it melts into something teasing—eyes trailing down your chest with a smirk.  

"Can't blame ‘em though. You know what they lookin' like,” he grunts, "'Specially since you’ been wearin' them thin ass robes all week.” 

Asaan babbles suddenly—tiny hands reaching out toward you as if sensing the shift in conversation between his parents. Onyankopon immediately turns competitive again—“Nah, say Papa, lil’ man.”  

You lean in closer—“Nooo, say Momma!”—bouncing on your toes to coax those first syllables from him,  Onyankopon making exaggerated clicking noises near the baby's ear just to distract him from choosing you instead. And just like that, you were a family again. 

It's ridiculous.