bxby_andy💫

A grounding aroma of simmering okra, garlic, and the earthy sweetness of turnip greens filled the atmosphere of the Moore household. Annie moved through the kitchen with grace, her plush figure draped in a soft, cream-colored robe that clung to the generous curves of her hips and the heavy swell of her breasts. She was preparing for her evening bath, her mind drifting toward the quietude of the water. 

That’s when she heard the heavy thud of the front door echoing through the house. 

She didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was Smoke. She could feel him, the way the energy in the room transitioned, a wave of cold, hard steel crashing against the warmth of her sanctuary. 

When he stepped into the kitchen, he looked like a man who had walked through hell and brought some of the soot back with him. His Gatsby cap was pulled low, shadowing eyes that were vacant and haunted, his jaw set in a line of rigid tension. He didn’t speak; Smoke rarely did when the weight of his work was pressing down on his shoulders. He simply stopped in front of her, his presence towering and oppressive, yet desperate.

Annie didn’t ask about his day. She didn’t ask who he had broken or what he had seen. She simply opened her arms, Smoke collapsing into her, his large frame sinking into the softness of her body. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of magnolia and vanilla that radiated from her dark skin. His arms wrapped around her waist, his large hands squeezing the lush meat of her hip, anchoring himself to the only thing in the world that felt real. Annie let out a soft, humming sound, her arms winding around his broad shoulders, her fingers digging into the tension of his upper back. 

“You home,” she whispered, her voice a velvet balm. 

He groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure exhaustion, and pulled back just enough to capture her lips in a kiss. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was hungry and possessives. A silent demand for grounding. He tasted of stale tobacco and something metallic, but Annie met his intensity with a patient, nurturing heat, her full lips molding against his. 

Slowly, she began to peel the world away from him. Her soft hands reached up to take the cap from his head, setting it aside. His slicked hair came into view, neatly parted and still in place despite the way he was feeling. She slid the heavy wool suit jacket off his shoulder, gunpowder residue clinging tenaciously to the fabric. Then, her fingers moved to the buttons of his dress shirt. One by one, she popped them open, revealing the stark white tank top stretched tight across his massive chest and the hard ridges of his abdomen.

“Sit,” Annie commanded gently, guiding him to the heavy oak kitchen table. 

Smoke obeyed without question, his movements sluggish. He sat, his large hands resting flat on the table, gaze fixed on her with an intensity that bordered on worship. 

Annie ladled a steaming bowl of gumbo, thick with okra and seafood, and placed a generous slab of golden cornbread and a heap of turnip greens beside it. She didn’t leave him to eat; she stayed. As Smoke began to eat, the warmth of the food slowly thawing the ice in his veins, Annie stepped behind him. She placed her palms on his shoulders, her fingers finding the knots of tension that lived permanently in his trapezius muscles. She leaned in, the weight of her breasts pressing against his back, her warmth seeping through the thin cotton of his tank top. 

She began to massage him, her thumbs digging deep into the muscles, kneading away the violence of the day. Smoke let out a long, shuddering breath, his head dropping forward as he focused on the taste of her cooking and the feeling of her hands. A dangerous man being brought back to life by the woman who owned his soul. 

Annie leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. She spoke in a low, melodic whisper, the ancient tones of Yoruba flowing from her, the words a secret language of devotion and healing that only the two of them shared in the sanctity of their home. She pressed a lingering warm kiss to the side of his neck, her lips molding to his skin, leaving a mark of ownership and peace. 

Annie moved around the table, sliding into the chair beside him. With practiced, nimble fingers, she reached for his tobacco and rolling papers. Smoke watched her in a heavy glazed silence, his gaze tracing the way her breasts swayed beneath her cream-colored robe as she worked. She rolled the cigarettes with precision that was almost meditative, her movements fluid. When she finished, she set the hand-rolled cigarettes on the table and stood, gathering his empty plate. 

As she moved to the sink to clean the remains of gumbo, Smoke reached for one of the cigarettes, the familiar ritual grounding him. He stood and walked out to the back porch, the screen door clicking shut behind him. The night air was thick and smelling of rich, black earth baked by sun. River water from bayous, creeks, and drainage ditches. Corn, sorghum, and vegetable gardens. Cypress and oak after rain. Mule sweat. And humidity itself. 

Smoke leaned against the railing, the orange-cherry of his cigarette glowing in the dark. He inhaled deeply, the nicotine mixing with the lingering scent of Annie’s vanilla and magnolia that clung to his skin. He stared out into the blackness of trees, letting the silence of the Delta swallow the noise of the violence he had dealt with earlier. He stayed there until the cigarette was a mere stub, then crushed it out with a slow motion of his thumb. 

When he stepped back inside, he washed his hands in the basin, grabbed some water from the icebox to wash down his food properly, and headed to their bedroom. Past their bed with an iron frame that produced loud squeaks whenever Smoke pounded into his wife. He removed his shoes, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his feet. 

Annie was there, waiting. She had already begun to prepare for her bath, the room warm and humid. She didn’t say a word. She could feel the residue of his burdens, the tight coil of stress that still lived in the base of his spine and the hardness in his eyes. She knew the hunger that came with his exhaustion—a need not just for sex, but for the raw, scant-driven surrender that only she could provide.

Her gaze locked onto his, dark and knowing. Slowly, Annie reached beneath the hem of her robe. Her fingers hooked onto the waistband of her cotton bloomers, and with a slow, teasing slide, she stepped out of them. 

The fabric was damp, clinging to the lush, heavy curves of her thighs and saturated with the concentrated essence of her womanhood—the musk of her heat, the sweetness of her skin, and the deep, earthy scent of her arousal. 

Annie stepped closer to him, her eyes never leaving his, and dropped the warm, scented fabric directly into his large, calloused hand. The bloomers felt heavy and humid against his palm. 

Annie gave him one last, lingering look, then she turned and walked away, leaving him alone. 

Smoke stood frozen, his chest heaving slowly, his large hand tighter around the fabric. For Smoke, this wasn’t just a fetish; it was a grounding ritual. A way to purge the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of gunpowder that seemed to permanently stain his soul. 

Slowly, he brought the fabric to his face, closing his eyes as he inhaled the intoxicating, pungent cocktail of her natural musk, the sweetness of her fragrance and the salty, primal scent of her arousal, the only thing capable of truly silencing the noise on his head. He didn’t just sniff them; he pressed the fabric deep into his nostrils, molding the cotton against the bridge of his nose and cheeks, sealing himself off from the rest of the world. 

Smoke took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent with a violent intensity. The smell hit him like a physical blow. It was the scent of home, of safety, and of an overwhelming, earthy femininity. It was the smell of Annie’s plush, heavy thighs and the deep hidden folds of her pussy. The aroma was rich and fermented, a heady mix of vanilla, magnolia, and the raw musk-heavy scent of a woman in her prime. 

As the scent filled his lungs, Smoke’s eyes drifted shut, his heavy lids fluttering. A low, guttural groan vibrated in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders since dawn finally snapped. The ghosts of the men he’d killed, the screams, the suffocation of the Delta night—all of it was drowned out by the intoxicating potency of his wife. 

His body reacted instantly. Beneath his dark slacks, his thick, heavy dick surged to life, straining against the fabric. It throbbed with a demanding pulse, the head of his dick curving to the right, pressing hard against his thigh. He could feel the pre-cum leaking, wetting his underwear as his mind conjured the image of Annie’s full-bodied plushness, the way her heavy breasts would sway and how her wide, lush lips would feel beneath his palms. 

Smoke repositioned his grip, rubbing the fabric of the bloomers against his lips, tasting the faint, salty residue of her sweat and heat. He inhaled again, deeper this time, pulling the scent into the very depths of his chest until he felt lightheaded. The musk acted like a drug, stripping away his discipline, leaving only the raw, possessive hunger of a man who belonged entirely to the woman who wore these clothes. 

Smoke pressed the cotton harder against his face, breathing becoming ragged and shallow. He imagined he could feel her presence in the fabric—the warmth of her skin, the softness of her curves. He was anchored now, pulled back from the edge of the darkness by the scent of her womanhood. 

Smoke stood there lost in the sensory overload. His large frame trembled slightly. He was a deadly man, a killer feared by many, but in the solitude of this room, clutching a piece of damp cotton, he was nothing more than a devotee at an altar, completely consumed by the scent of the woman who had held his heart and his sanity in her hands. 

Annie stood by the edge of the clawfoot tub, the steam beginning to curl around her ankles, leaving her completely exposed in the dim lighting of the bathroom. She was a masterpiece of abundance, a landscape of deep, ebony skin that flowed with a soft, natural luster. Her breasts we’re heavy and lush, hanging with a natural, weighted grace, the dark wide areolas peaking through the mist. Her waist dipped inward, creating a dramatic curve that led to the magnificent expanse of her hips—wide, fertile, and sweeping. Her belly was soft, a gentle rounded swell that spoke of warmth and nourishment, leading down to a thick, neatly groomed mound of curls that guarded her honeyed heat. Her thighs were pillars of plushness, rubbing together with every slight movement of weight, and her rear was a heavy, rounded bounty that seemed to defy gravity, shaking slightly with the motion of her hips.

Just as she prepared to step into the water, the door creaked open. Smoke stood there, his silhouette filling the frame, his presence instantly sucking the air out of the room. His eyes—dark and predatory—swept over her nakedness with a hunger that was almost violent. His gaze locked onto hers, his face a mask of hard, disciplined desire. 

“Don’t wash yet.” He commanded.

His voice wasn’t a request; it was a low, guttural vibration that seemed to echo in the very marrow of her bones. It was primal, stripped of all civility, carrying the weight of a man who spent the day dealing in death and now craved the only thing that could bring him back to life. The sheer dominance in his tone sent a jolt of electricity straight to Annie’s core, making her clit twitch and jump against her thighs, a sudden, wet pulse of arousal that left her breathless. 

“Get back in this room.” Smoke commanded 

“Why?” Annie questioned, although she knew why. Like she didn’t just hand over her draws soaked in her pussy. 

“Cause I said so.” Smoke replied with finality. 

Without a word, Annie obeyed. The submission was instinctive, a response to the raw power radiating off him. She turned and walked back into the bedroom, her heavy hips swaying, her plush thighs brushing together with a soft shuck-shuck sound. When she reached the vanity, she gripped the polished wood and leaned forward, bending deep at the waist. She poked her ass out, offering herself to him, her massive, rounded cheeks framing the hidden entrance to her heat. 

Smoke approached her slowly, his feet silent on the floorboards. He didn’t touch her at first, he simply stood behind her, his predatory gaze devouring the sight of her bent-over posture. He could see the way her skin stretched over the fullness of her rear, the deep dimples at the base of her spine. 

He reached out, his hands spanning the width of her cheeks. He began to stroke her, his palms sliding over the velvet softness of their skin, kneading the heavy flesh of her ass with a possessive grip. Then, with a sudden, firm movement, he hooked his fingers into the crease of her thighs and pulled her cheeks apart. 

The sound was visceral—a wet, tacky schlick as the suction of her plush cheeks broke, the skin peeling away from itself with a moist sliding noise. 

As Smoke pulled her open, the view was breathtaking. The stark contrast of his rough fingers against her glowing skin highlighted the vulnerability and the invitation. Her pussy was revealed in all its glory. A plump, swollen slot of deep pink and mauve, glistening with a thick layer of translucent arousal. The outer lips were heavy and lush, pushed aside to reveal the tight, pulsing opening of her canal and the hooded, engorged pearl of her clit, which was weeping with desire. 

Smoke sank to his knees with a heavy thud, his breath hitching. From this angle, he was staring directly into the heart of her. He was blown away by the sight—the sheer, fertile abundance of her, the scent of her musk hitting him in a concentrated wave, mixing with the smell of the room. He looked at the way her heavy thighs trembled and how her pussy pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a raw, opening invitation that promised total consumption. Smoke stayed there for a moment, frozen in awe, a predator captivated by the absolute beauty of his prey. 

“Lines to a Nasturtium.” Smoke whispered, breathy and full of desire.

Up close, the sight was hypnotic. Smoke watched with a predatory intensity as her clit, a swollen, engorged m pearl of deep mauve began to twitch. It was a frantic, involuntary pulsing, jumping against the hood of her pussy as it sought a friction that wasn’t there yet. The sheer anticipation of his presence, the raw dominance of his command, had pushed her body into a state of desperate readiness. 

Below the twitchy pearl, her creamy canal was reacting in kind. Smoke could see the plush walls of her opening clenching and releasing, a hungry contraction that gripped at the empty air. Her pussy was breathing, the tight ring of muscle pulsing in a desperate attempt to pull him inside, the walls sliding against one another in a wet, sliding motion that produced a faint, squelching sound. 

The longer he stared, the more her body surrendered to him. The arousal became a flood. A thick, translucent trail of clear cream began to seep from her depths, glistening under the light. It pooled momentarily on her labia before gravity took hold and a single, heavy drop of nectar began to slide slowly down the curve of her clit, tracing a shimmering path toward the floor. Smoke’s dark eyes followed the drip with a focused, singular intensity, his pupils blown wide, tracking every millimeter of its descent as if it were the only thing that existed in the world. 

Smoke leaned in closer, his face just inches away from her. The scent of her—that heady, musk-heavy aroma of a woman in peak arousal—bit him like a physical blow, making his thick dick throb violently against the fabric of his slacks. Smoke didn’t touch her yet because he wanted her to ache. He wanted her to feel the void where he should be. 

Annie’s palms were pressed flat against the cool wood, her spine arching beautifully. The position thrust her wide, plush hips back, offering her full, rounded ass and plump pussy to him like a feast. The deep dark crease where her cheeks parted. Swollen pussy lips just between them. 

He leaned forward, his warm breath ghosting over her sensitive flesh, sending a fresh wave of shivers through her plush thighs. His tongue caught the dripping trail as it spilled like warm honey. He savored the flavor on his tongue before licking his lips. When he spoke, his voice was a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to hum directly onto her clit. 

“I’m a lick every bit of this sweetness…” Smoke rumbled, his voice a low, a deep vibration. “Bury my tongue deep in ya and lap you clean ‘til you screamin’ my name.” 

Without waiting for a word, Smoke pressed his face flush against her, his tongue sweeping in one long, wet stroke from her opening all the way down to her clit just hanging there begging for attention. 

Annie let out a sharp, strangled gasp, her fingers clawing at the vanity as her back arched further. The sound of it, the wet slapping noise of his tongue meeting her drenched folds filled the space. 

Smoke groaned deep in his chest, the sound primal and hungry. He began to lap at her greedily, his tongue broad and rough, mimicking the motion of a dick. He focused on her clit, swirling his tongue around the swollen bud before sucking it firmly into his mouth. 

Annie’s legs trembled, her knees nearly buckling as she let out a loud, guttural moan. She was soaking him now, her juices coating his lips and chin, but he ain’t give a fuck. He wanted every drop. Smoke pushed two fingers deep inside her, feeling the tight, hot walls of her pussy clamp down on him in a frantic, come-hither motion like he was exercising his trigger finger, all while his tongue continued to punish her clit with relentless pressure. 

Smoke was possessed. Driven by a primal hunger that had been simmering since he first pressed her scent-soaked bloomers to his face. The smell of her—that heavy, musk-laden sweetness—had snapped something inside him, and now he was taking it out on her pussy with a predatory vigor. He didn’t just lick her; he devoured her. With Annie bent over the vanity, her plush cheeks spread wide by his bruising grip, Smoke buried his face deep into her flower. He was eating her like a starving man, his thick tongue working with a relentless force that left no inch of her untouched. 

Smoke started at her clit, his broad tongue sweeping upward in long, wet strokes that slurped up every drop of her arousal. The sound was visceral—a loud, wet, lapping noise, the sound of his lips slurping her open. Smoke was sucking her pussy clean, lips sealed tight around her swollen folds, pulling the sensitive flesh into his mouth and creating a suction that made Annie’s entire body shudder. 

“Goddamn, you taste like heaven…” Smoke growled against her skin, his voice a vibration she felt deep in her womb. “I’m a drink every last drop of you, Annie. Every single fuckin’ bit.” 

Smoke shifted his focus, his tongue becoming a weapon of ruin. He began to lap at her clit with a frantic, greedy energy, swirling around the engorged bud before sucking it deep into his mouth. Smoke slurped at her, his tongue flicking rapidly, wet, tongue thrashing sounds mixed with her arousal, driving her higher and higher. He was trying to clean her out, his mouth working tirelessly to lap up the thick, creamy juices that were flooding from her. 

Annie was a mess, her fingers digging into the wood of the vanity, her head hanging low as she let out uncontrolled moans. Every time he sucked her in, she felt a jolt of electricity shoot through her spine, her wide hips bucking against his face.

Smoke pushed his face harder against her, his nose pressing right up against her rear entrance, inhaling her intoxicating scent while his tongue—dripping with so much saliva it clung to his goatee—continued to punish her, the wet sounds of his gluttony filling the air—slurp, lap, suck—as he worked his way from her clit up to the very entrance of her canal, licking her clean with a possessive, ritualistic gusto. He wanted her tasted, drained, and completely claimed. He used his thick tongue to probe the opening of her pussy, licking deep inside, tasting the salt and sweetness. He was eating her with a desperation that bordered on violence. 

When that thick, wet muscle slapped against her clit and slurped at her opening with a primal greed Annie was seeing stars. 

The world had shrunk down to the sensation of Smoke’s mouth devouring her. She had been rendered speechless for several long minutes, her breath hitching in jagged gasps, her mind a blur of white heat. But as he continued to suck her—pulling her folds deep into his mouth and creating a seal that felt like it was drawing the very soul out of her—she finally broke.

“Smoke…oh, Smoke…please…” she whimpered, her voice shaky and thin. 

She didn’t know what to do with herself. Her hands, which had been gripping the vanity, began to claw at the wood, then wandered blindly, one hand reaching back to clutch at his head, the other pressing flat against the mirror, leaving a smear of sweat and her fingerprints. She was completely at his mercy, her heavy breasts swinging beneath her, rounded belly trembling with every sound she made. 

Smoke didn’t answer with words. He answered with a deep, vibrating hum that echoed through her entire pelvic floor, a low grunt of satisfaction that vibrated against her clit. He was eating her like she was the only thing keeping him alive, his nose buried in her musk, his tongue flicking with a frantic expert precision that drove her toward the edge. 

The sensation became too much—a tidal wave of pleasure that crashed over her. As the first spasm of her orgasm hit, Annie’s head snapped back, her eyes rolling. In the height of her release, she gasped out a phrase in Yoruba, her voice a melodic, breathless moan. 

"Olúwa, mo n'íyìn rẹ...mọ́ mọ́ mi..."

The words were a prayer and a plea. A surrender to the raw power of the man between her thighs. Her plush body began to shake violently, her wide hips bucking uncontrollably against his face. Her pussy clamped down hard on his tongue, pulsing in thick waves, flooding his mouth with a fresh surge of creamy, hot arousal.

Smoke didn’t give her a second to breathe. As she came, he doubled down, sucking her clit, slurping up the overflow of her climax with a greedy, wet sound. He grunted into her, his face drenched in her juices, his tongue continuing to lap and probe her twitching twat even as she shuddered. He wanted to feel every single contraction, wanted to taste the very peak of her pleasure, refusing to stop until he had drained her completely. 

Smoke finally eased back. He stood at his full, imposing height, his chest heaving slightly, dark eyes clouded with lust. Annie turned and leaned against the vanity, her legs trembling, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches as she tried to gather the shattered pieces of her composure. She was drenched, her own juices and Smoke’s saliva slicking her thighs. 

Annie watched, mesmerized and breathless, as Smoke reached up and gripped the hem of his tank top, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric clung to his sweat–slicked skin before falling to the floor, revealing the raw power of his torso—broad shoulders, a hard, carved chest, and abdominal muscles that rippled with every breath. Smoke shrugged off his pants and underwear with a disciplined efficiency, letting them drop.

Annie’s eyes widened, her throat going dry. There it was—his massive, thick dick, fully erect and pulsing with a heavy vein wrapped around the shaft. It was a formidable piece of meat, long and heavy, with a distinct aggressive right hook that curved slightly at the top, promising to hit every sensitive spot deep inside her. It stood proud and rigid, a dark, swollen pillar of desire that made her pussy react with a sudden, renewed emptiness. 

Smoke stepped forward, no words said. He reached out and gripped her hips, his large hands nearly meeting around her waist with a sudden, commanding strength. Smoke didn’t give her time to adjust. He hooked his arms under her plush thighs, muscles digging into the plush flesh, and hoisted her up, lifting her heavy ass off the vanity. 

Annie gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her ankles locking behind his back to keep herself anchored to him. Smoke slammed one of his palms down onto the vanity, gripping the edge of the wood so hard his knuckles bulged, anchoring them both. 

Then, he drove into her. 

Smoke didn’t ease in. He aligned that right-curving head with her opening and buried himself deep inside her in one brutal, thumping stroke. The impact was seismic. Annie’s head snapped back, a loud moan escaping her as her tight walls were stretched to their absolute limit by his girth. He buried himself to the hilt, his balls slapping hard against the cuff of her cheeks that spilled over the edge of the vanity. 

Smoke began to move, delivering relentless, thumping strokes that were more like beating down than lovemaking. Each thrust was deep and punishing, the curve of his dick hooking and grinding directly against her G-spot with every plunge. The force of his movements was so powerful that Annie’s plush body was damn near bouncing off of him, her heavy breasts swaying wildly, soft belly slapping against his hard abs with a wet sound. 

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

A raw, carnal percussion. 

Annie was rendered completely speechless, her mouth hanging open, her breath hitching in her throat. She couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t even scream. She could only cling to him, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back. 

Through it all, Smoke never looked away. He kept his gaze locked onto hers, his dark eyes boring deep into her soul. There was no softness in his expression, only a fierce, possessive intensity. He watched her face as he fucked her, watching her eyes glaze over and her lips tremble, savoring the way she broke under the weight of his masculinity. He was claiming her, marking her from the inside out, his silence more commanding than any word he could have spoken. 

He didn’t let up for a second.

His grip on her thighs tightened as he grounded his weight, folding Annie’s plush body even further. He pressed her back against the mirror of the vanity, her spine arching as he tucked her legs deeper over his muscular arms. Her feet dangled in the air, bouncing helplessly with every thumping drive of his hips. The impact was delivered with ferocity, the sound of his heavy balls slapping against her like a wet drum. 

Annie was lost in it, her head tossing from side to side, her voice breaking as she cried out his given name. 

“Elijah…ooh, Elijah!”  Annie wailed, the sound raw. She rarely called him that, but in the heat of this collision, she needed the man. Not the ghost. Not the enforcer. Her Elijah.

 As she looked up at him, her vision blurred with pleasure, she saw the evidence of his hunger. Her own thick, sweet cream was smeared across his dark mustache and glistening on his full lips, a messy trophy of how he had just spent the last thirty minutes eating her out. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris, leaving only two dark, predatory voids that stared into her with an intensity that made her feel like she was being consumed. Inside her, his dick felt like a rod of heated iron, so stiff and thick that it stretched her walls to the breaking point. 

Mid-thrust, as Smoke drove himself deep, burying his length to the hilt, Annie’s hand shot out. Her fingers brushed the surface of the vanity, snagging the lace of her discarded bloomers. She gripped the fabric tight, pulling the scent-soaked garment toward him just as he lunged forward again. 

She pressed the damp cotton directly against Smoke’s nose and mouth, muffling his heavy breathing with the concentrated scent of her own arousal. 

Smoke froze for a split second, the sudden olfactory attack hitting him like a physical blow. The smell of her filled his lungs. It was the scent of his woman, his home, and his obsession. A low, growl ripped from his throat, vibrating against the fabric. 

The scent triggered something feral in him. His eyes darkened even further, and he stopped the thumping, instead grinding his hips in a slow, agonizing circle, twisting that curved head deep inside her at all angles. Smoke inhaled sharply through the fabric, sucking in the essence of her while he stared down, his nostrils flaring. 

“You tryna drive me crazy, Annie?” Smoke rasped, his voice a deep, shaky rasp.

“I ain’t gotta try…you already there, baby.” 

Smoke grunted, bit down on the bloomers, holding the fabric between his teeth, saliva dampening the fabric further and returned to the brutal pace. His strokes becoming even more forceful. He fucked Annie with a renewed, desperate hunger, his body slamming into her plush curves with a force that threatened to knock the vanity over, claiming every inch of her as he chased the edge of his own release. 

“Fuck me, daddy.” Annie moaned, gripping his sweaty biceps. 

Smoke’s pace didn’t slow. If anything, the scent of her on his breath and in his nose had pushed him into a state of pure, focused aggression. He was hammering into her, thick, right-curving dick grinding non-stop over her G-spot with a wet thud that shook the vanity. Annie’s breath was coming in jagged, shallow hitches, her fingers digging into his arms. 

“Get, it, daddy. Get it. Fuck ya’ wife’s pussy. This Smoke’s pussy—ahhh!” Annie gasped. “Tire ni, tire ni, tire ni baba.” 

She could feel it building. A tight electric coil winding up inside her belly, radiating down into her drenched pussy. Every time he bottomed out, her internal muscles clamped tight around him, milking him instinctively. Her voice began to tremble, the words shaking as the pleasure reached a fever pitch. 

“Elijah…I’m…I’m gonna…” Annie gasped, her voice wavering, thin and needy. “I’m ’bout to break, baby…I’m comin’…”

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. 

He let her draws fall from his mouth.

Smoke let out a low hum of approval, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He leaned in, his chest crushing her plush breasts, his lips grazing the shell of her. 

“Then break for me, baby,” Smoke rasped, his voice a dark, commanding rumble. “Give it all to me, let me feel every bit of it on my dick.” 

Thwack…thwack…thwack…thwackthwackthwackthwack—

“Sweet Jesus, please!” Annie wailed, her voice shaking violently. “Right there…just like that…oh, baby!” 

Smoke groaned. He repositioned his angle, driving his hips forward with a grinding force that pinned her further against the glass. 

Thwackthwackthwackthwack—

“You feel how that pussy hug on my dick?” Smoke grunted, his breath heavy against her neck. “You fuckin’ drenched, woman. Squeezin’ me like you never want me to jump out this pussy—” 

“I don’t!” Annie cried out, her voice cracking. “I want you…I want you deep…right on that spot!” 

“I’m right here,” Smoke growled, his pace becoming a blur of friction and deep-seeded desire. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Now cum for your man. Cum on this dick, Annie. Let it go.” 

The command was the final trigger. Annie’s body stiffened, her toes curling as a violent wave of orgasm crashed over her. Her pussy walls began to spasm, clamping down on his thick shaft in punishing pulses. Annnir let out a long, shaky moan, her voice trembling with the power of her explosive orgasm, her entire frame shuddering against him. 

Thwackthwackthwack…thwack. Thwack. THWACK—

Smoke let out a loud, triumphant roar, his own control snapping. He leaned back, grabbed two fistfuls of her heavy breasts, and drove himself in one last time, burning his length to the absolute hilt, his balls slapping hard against her as he began to unload. Smoke groaned, a deep, primal sound of surrender as he pumped thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside her, filling her to the brim while she continued to shake and sob beneath him, completely undone by his strength. 

It wasn’t just hot.

 it was a wet, clinging weight that soaked through cotton shirts in minutes, making clothes stick to skin like a second, suffocating layer. The Mississippi sun was hateful this particular early evening, beating down on the dusty crossroads outside of Clarksdale until the red earth cracked and the horizon shimmered with a dizzying mirage. The only sound that dared to break the oppressive silence was the relentless, screaming drone of cicadas, a noise that felt like it was drilling straight into the skull. Horse flies flew too close because of the donkeys that wandered. Mosquitos feasted happily on any inch of exposed skin it could find. 

Smoke stood by the rusted fender of a Ford Model A, his frame a hard, unyielding silhouette against the bleached-out landscape. He was dressed for business, despite the weather. He wore dark slacks held up by heavy leather suspenders, a wool coat draped over his broad shoulders that he refused to shed, and his cap pulled low, casting a deep shadow over his eyes. His face was a mask of neutral stone, but beneath the surface, he was vibrating. 

In the back of the truck, crates of corn liquor were piled high, hidden under coarse, grit-covered burlap. Gasoline and stale, sharp whiskey wafted up, mixing with the smell of hot dust and the metallic tang of the gun oil on his fingertips. The drivers from the north were jittery, their eyes darting toward the road every time a bird flew over, terrified of a federal raid or a knife in the back. 

Smoke’s jaw was clamped so tight it ached. He didn’t like the way this deal was dragging. He didn’t like the nervous sweat on the drivers’ brows or the way the wind carried the faint, distant sound of a dog barking. Or even how the few bushes across from them moved in a particular direction. Every second they sat exposed at the crossroads was a second too long. The law or the klan—no difference—the pressure was building in his chest, a primal, violent urge to just start shooting until the silence returned. 

Smoke needed to ground himself before he snapped and painted the red dirt with someone’s brains. 

Without a word to the men, Smoke stepped away from the truck, his leather ankle boots crunching on the dry earth. Smoke retreated into the shade of a sprawling cypress tree, its limbs draped in ghostly curtains of Spanish moss that swayed in a breeze that offered no coolness. The shade was dim and damp, smelling of rotting vegetation and ancient water. 

He reached into the inner pocket of his wool coat, his gloved fingers brushing against a piece of soft, white cotton. Smoke pulled it out. It was the bloomers Annie had worn the night he’d claimed her on the vanity, the fabric still holding the ghost of her shape.

 Smoke closed his eyes and pressed the cotton hard against his face, burying his nose in the fabric. He inhaled with a sharp, greedy lungful, hunting for her. 

There it was.

The concentrated, raw musk of her. The salty, pungent tang of her pussy. The deep earthy scent of the root herbs she worked with and the underlying sweetness that belonged only to his Annie. It was a scent of warmth, of plush skin and hidden depths. A stark contrast to the grit of the Delta. 

As he breathed her in, the tension in his shoulders dropped an inch, and the red haze in his vision cleared. Smoke clung to the fabric, his nostrils flaring, feeding on the essence of his wife to keep the monster in his blood at bay. The scent of Annie’s pussy was the only thing that kept him sane.

The spell was broken by the sharp, clack-clack-clack of polished oxfords hitting the hard-packed dirt. Smoke didn’t jump, he wasn’t the type to startle, but his hand snapped shut over the white cotton, shoving the bloomers back into his coat pocket in one fluid, violent motion. Smoke stepped out from the cypress shade, his face returning to that impenetrable slab of granite, just as a flash of cream-colored linen emerged from the heat haze.

Stack strolled toward him, looking like he’d just stepped off a street corner in Chicago rather than a dusty road in the Delta. He wore a tailored three-piece suit of pale cream that defied the grime of the crossroads, a silk tie the color of bruised plum knotted perfectly at his throat. A gold pocket watch chain looped across his vest, glinting aggressively under the harsh sun. He walked with a loose, swinging gait, a smirk playing on his full lips, his fedora tilted at a rakish angle that screamed confidence. 

“Lawd have mercy, Smoke,” Stack called out, his voice a smooth, honeyed drawl that vibrated with amusement. “You look like you fixin’ to bury a body or start another war. Why you standin’ in the shade lookin’ all moody? You gon’ let the heat rot ya’ brain.” 

Smoke just stared, his deep brown eyes tracking his brother’s every movement. The two of them stood there, identical mirrors of the same blood and bone but where Smoke was a closed fist, Stack was an open hand, ready to steal whatever wasn’t nailed down. 

Stack stopped a few feet away, smelling like expensive cologne and imported tobacco, clashing with the smell of corn liquor and horse manure in the background. Stack leaned back, hooking his thumbs into his trouser pockets, his gaze drifting from Smoke’s rigid posture to the sight.

A tell-tale bulge in the inner pocket of Smoke’s coat. 

Stack’s eyes sharpened. He knew that look. He knew the way Smoke’s nostrils flared when he was trying to hold onto something that didn’t belong to the world around them.

“You got a little secret tucked away in that coat, don’t you?” Stack teased, his voice dropping closer, invading Smoke’s personal space with a playful boldness. “Sum’ sweet. Sum’ that smell like home and magnolia. You lookin’ all stressed out, but I reckon you found a way to keep your temper from boilin’ over.” 

Smoke’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek. 

“Get ya’ head right, Stack. We got a shipment to move.” 

Stack laughed, a bright melodic sound that felt out of place in the oppressive silence of the crossroads. He reached out, his fingers grazing the lapel of Smoke’s coat, a daring, risky move that would have gotten any other man’s arm snapped. 

“I’m just sayin’, brother…you holdin’ onto that scent like a dyin’ man hold a prayer,” Stack whispered, his eyes dancing with a forbidden curiosity. “Make a man wonder just how sweet Annie’s been lately. Make me wonder if she still wearin’ them little lace things that make her hips look like a damn miracle.” 

Smoke’s hand twitched toward the grip of the pistol at his hip, his gaze darkening into something predatory. The brotherly bond was there, but beneath it lay a jagged edge of possession and rivalry. Stack didn’t flinch, he simply grinned wider, his eyes locked on Smoke’s, savoring the danger. He loved pushing Smoke. Loved seeing the disciplined enforcer struggle to keep the beast on a leash. 

“Move the crates, nigga.” Smoke commanded, his voice a low, guttural warning.

Stack winked, stepping back with a flourish of his linen jacket.

“Whatever you say, Big Brother. I’ll handle the drivers. They shakin’ like leaves in a storm and I’m just the man to charm ‘em into movin’ faster.” 

As Stack turned to lean the jittery men back to the Ford, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. He didn’t see the bloomers, but he could practically smell the musk of Annie clinging to Smoke’s clothes. A hunger ignited in Stack’s gut. Not just for women, but the thrill of taking something that belonged solely to the most dangerous man in the county. 

The shipment was handled with frantic energy that only comes from men who know the law—or worse the mob—is breathing down their necks. Stack spent the next hour orchestrating the chaos, his voice cutting through the humidity like a whip, directing the drivers and the muscle with a practiced, theatrical flair. He looked every bit the pretty gangster, leaning against the fender of a black Model A, flicking ash from a gold-tipped cigarette while his eyes never truly left his brother. 

Smoke was a ghost in the midday sauna, moving between the crates with a heavy, focused routine. He pointed, shoved, and stared. But Stack noticed the way Smoke’s hand stayed glued to the pocket of his coat, his fingers that were once gloved twitching against the fabric. It was a tell. Smoke was anchored to something, tethered to a scent and a memory that made him dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with the pistol on his hip. 

Once the last crate was loaded and the dust from the departing cars settled back into the red Mississippi clay, the stillness of the crossroads beat down on the twins. Stack watched Smoke wipe grime from his forehead with a handkerchief, the muscles in his broad shoulders bunching under his coat. 

He’s starving for her, Stack thought, a sudden, sharp hunger clawing at his own gut. 

It wasn’t just about the woman. It was the possession of her. 

Stack had always been the one to charm the gals in juke joints, rent parties, dance halls, and Chicago clubs alike. The one who could slide into a bed and out of it before the sun rose, leaving nothing but a scent of expensive cologne and a broken heart. 

But Annie…Annie was different. She wasn’t a gal; she was a force. He remembered the way she looked the last time he’d seen her, that midnight-brown skin glowing, her hips swaying under a heavy cotton skirt, the sheer, plush weight of her body promising a blaze no city girl could mimic. 

Stack pushed off the car, his polished oxfords crunching on the gravel. He walked toward Smoke, his gait loose and predatory. 

“You practically vibrating, Smoke,” Stack drawled, his voice a low, teasing vibration. “I can see it in your eyes. You ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout the money or the liquor. You thinkin’ ‘bout gettin’ home to that woman. Thinkin’ ‘bout how she feel when she pressed up against you. All soft…heavy skin…”

Smoke stopped dead, his gaze snapping to Stack. The look was murderous, a warning that the leash was fraying. 

“Shut ya’ fuckin’ mouth ‘bout my woman, Stack. I swear to’ god that’s my last time warnin’ ya’.” 

Stack didn’t shut it. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes dancing. “I bet she smell like heaven and earth all at once. I bet she got that musk on her now that get in a man’s blood and stays there. I can smell it on ya’, brother. You drenched in her.” 

The admission sent a jolt of electricity through Stack’s spine. He imagined Annie in the house, perhaps stripped down to her shift in the midday heat, her large breasts straining against the fabric, thick thighs rubbing together as she moved through the kitchen. He imagined the scent of her—that floral, herbal musk with the raw, salty tang of a woman’s sultriness. 

The thought made Stack’s own dick stir. A thick, heavy pressure building behind the fly of his cream-colored trousers. His dick, curving to the left, throbbed against the fabric, demanding release. He wanted to know if she tasted as rich as she looked. He wanted to know if her pussy was as plush and tight as the rest of her body suggested. 

“You outta line,” Smoke grunted, his voice a guttural warning. He stepped forward, his massive frame looming over Stack even though they were the same height. “You gon’ earn a spot next to our daddy if you keep talkin’ slick ‘bout Annie.” 

Stack just grinned, the expression sharp and hungry. He didn’t fear his brother, not technically, he thrived on the friction. He loved the idea that they shared everything. The same face, the same blood, the same hunger translated differently. If Smoke could have her, if Smoke could keep a piece of her tucked in his pocket to sniff like a gahdamn dog, then Stack wanted a taste. He wanted to steal a moment, a scent, a touch. He wanted to see the look on Smoke’s face when he realized that some things were too delicious to be kept by one man alone. 

“I’m just appreciatin’ the finer things, Smoke,” Stack whispered, his eyes flashing. “And Annie…she the finest thing in this whole damn state. Hell, this whole damn South. Ain’t no woman touchin’ Antoinette. Just givin’ my sis in law her praises, Big Brother. After all…I’m the least of ya’ worries. Heard some niggas in town talkin’ bout her.” 

Smoke grit his teeth. Jaw working.

“What they sayin’? Sum that’s gon’ get ‘em bumped off ain’t it?” 

Stack took a hit of his gold-tipped cigarette before passing it to Smoke. “Fed to the eagles.” 

Smoke clocked it. Filed it away. He walked off, his stride heavy and possessive. 

Stack followed a few paces behind, his mind racing, the seed of a dangerous desire now fully planted. He wasn’t just looking for a thrill anymore; he was hunting. He wanted those bloomers. He wanted the scent of her arousal. He wanted to slide his hand where Smoke’s had been, to feel the weight of her hips and the heat of her skin, and to do it all while the most dangerous man in Mississippi was just within earshot. 

The black Model A roared, kicking up a violent cloud of red dust that coated the roadside weeds in a fine, rust-colored powder. Stack sat behind the wheel, one hand draped casually over the top of the steering wheel, his gold rings glinting in the harsh Mississippi sun. He looked every bit of city slicker, his silk shirt open at the collar to let the breeze hit his chest. He glanced over at Smoke, who sat rigid in the passenger seat. Smoke was a statue of tension, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as if he could force the car to move faster through sheer will. 

“I’m tellin’ you, Smoke, I gotta stop at that stand up ahead,” Stack drawled, his voice smooth as bourbon. “I got a hankerin’ for some tamales. Real ones. Those things they try to sell up in Chicago? Pure cardboard. Ain’t nothin’ like the taste of home to settle a man’s nerves.”

Smoke didn’t even turn his head. His voice came out as a low guttural rasp, stripped of any patience. “Annie’s got a pot of greens and corn pone on the stove. You can eat at the house.” 

Stack let out a short, sharp laugh, a glint in his eyes. He shifted gears, the engine whining as he pushed the car harder. He could feel the heat radiating off his brother. The raw, pulsing desperation. Smoke wasn’t thinking ‘bout no food. He wasn’t even thinking ‘bout the successful drop-off or the stacks of cash tucked away. 

Stack watched the way Smoke’s thick fingers gripped the leather upholstery. He knew that look. He knew the way Smoke got when he’d been away from Annie for too long. Like a starving dog finally seeing the door to the kitchen. 

He ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout no corn pone, Stack thought, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

He could practically see it in his mind: Smoke bursting through the front door, not even stopping to take off his hat before he had Annie pinned against the wall. He knew Smoke had been sniffing those bloomers like a lifeline all day, but the cloth wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted the real thing. The dripping scent of pussy that only a man who owned her could truly savor. 

“You in a mighty big hurry, ain’t ya’?” Stack teased, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a provocative whisper. “I can practically smell it on you, brother. You ain’t worried ‘bout my belly. You worried ‘bout gettin’ your face between them thick thighs ‘fore the sun go down.” 

Smoke’s head snapped toward him, dark eyes flashing with a warning that would have sent any other man running for cover. “Tired of putting your face in sour, street rat pussy, Stack? Ain’t my fault you so stuck on being up North while you missin’ out on some real pussy. Since when you had fresh cooch? That watered down, industrial muff got you sayin’ shit that’ll get you tore up. I don’t play ‘bout Annie.” 

Stack grinned, leaning back into the seat, feeling his own dick throb against the fabric of his trousers. “Why you think I’m back? I miss home, Smoke. Miss my southern gals with sweat on they backs and a hot pussy.” 

The though of Annie and those wide hips, heavy breasts…fuck. The way she always smelled like magnolia and raw woman. It was starting to coil in his gut like a snake. He didn’t want the tamales anymore. He wanted to see the look of possessive rage on Smoke’s face when he realized that Stack was thinking ‘bout the exact same thing.

“I’ll skip the stand,” Stack conceded, his voice humming with a dangerous kind of excitement. “I’m startin’ to get hungry for somethin’ a bit more…substantial.” 

The car crunched to a halt on a path, the engine giving one final, shuddering gasp before falling silent. The house didn’t just sit on the land, it seemed to emerge from it. It was tucked away behind a curtain of weeping willows and towering magnolias that shielded it from the prying eyes of the road. 

To get to the house, one had to pass by Annie’s shack—a small, weathered structure with the fragrance of dried sage, sulfur, and old earth. It was a place of business and mystery, where the locals came for root-work, protection charms, and cured for ailments the white doctors wouldn’t touch. The shack was cluttered with bundles of hanging herbs and jars of murky liquids, a stark contrast to the sanctuary that lay just beyond. 

Smoke’s home was a testament to his silent, disciplined nature. He hadn’t just built a shelter, he had carved a fortress of peace out of the Delta mud. It wasn’t a typical sharecroppers house with a sagging porch and a leaking roof—what they once lived in. This was a sturdy, wide-planked house made of deep-grained cypress and heart-pine, the wood polished. Smoke had built the porch deep and wide, with heavy railings that could support a man’s full weight, overlooking a lush garden of collards, peppers, and medicinal blooms that Annie tended with a spiritual precision.

The greenery swallowed the house in a protective embrace. Thick ivy climbed the walls, and the air felt different around him. It was cooler, dampened by the shade and the smell of damp earth and blooming jasmine. It was a place of absolute privacy, a hidden kingdom where Smoke could shed the skin of the killer and the enforcer and simply be a man. 

Stack stepped out of the car, his polished shoes hitting the dirt. He looked at the house and felt a sudden, sharp pang of envy that had nothing to do with the architecture. He thought about where he was staying. A cramped, miserable boarding house in town where the walls were as thin as parchment. In that place, he could hear every cough, every argument, and every creak from the room next door. 

His bed at the boarding house was a torture device. It was a rusted iron frame with a mattress that had long since surrendered its stuffing. Every night, Stack felt the cold, jagged press of the metal springs digging into his ribs and hips, leaving him restless and wired. He spent his nights tossing and turning in the humid dark, his mind racing, his body aching for a comfort he couldn’t buy. 

Looking at the solid, loving sanctuary Smoke had built for Annie, Stack felt the hunger in his gut intensify. It wasn’t just the house he wanted. It was the warmth inside it. He imagined the soft sheets. The smell of spices and vanilla and musk clinging to the curtains. The plush, heavy curves of Annie moving through the rooms. 

Smoke was already moving toward the door, his pace quickening, his broad shoulders tense with the need to be inside. He didn’t look back at his brother. He was a man returning to his altar, and Stack felt like a thief stepping into a temple, already planning how he might steal a piece of the holiness for himself. As they approached the porch, the scent of simmering greens wafted through the air. Stack felt his pulse hammer on his throat. 

Smoke pushed the heavy, cypress door open, the hinges making no noise because it’s well-oiled. The interior of the house smelled of the savory food Annie was preparing, beeswax, cedar, and the lingering, sweet scent of Annie’s skin. It was a clean, honest space, devoid of the cluttered chaos of the boating house. The furniture was all Smoke’s handiwork. Heavy oak tables and chairs with smooth, rounded edges, built to last a century. 

Stack stepped inside, his shoes clicking softly on the polished heart-pine floors. He reached up and plucked the fedora from his head, holding it by the brim as he let his gaze wander. Usually, Stack’s visits were brief. Business transactions and quick drinks before he headed back to the noise of the Windy City. But today, the tranquil silence pulled at him. He felt the weight of the boarding house sliding off his shoulders, replaced by a sudden, sharp curiosity. 

Stack noted the small details.

The hand-woven rugs from the coast. The jars of preserved peaches on the sideboard. The way the natural light filtered through the lace curtains. It was a home built on love and stability, things Stack traded in but rarely owned. 

As he drifted further into the house, his eyes were drawn toward the hallway. Their bedroom door was pushed ajar, leaving a gap that felt like an invitation. Stack paused, his brow quirking as he peered inside. 

Even from where he stood, he could smell a heavy scent of musk and spent passion. The large iron-frame bed dominated the space. The sheets were a chaotic, rumpled mess of white cotton and linen, twisted as if a storm had passed through them. The floorboards around the bed were marked with scuffs and scratches, evidence of frantic movement and heavy weight. 

But it was one thing that caught his attention. 

The headboard.

Tied firmly to the rusted iron bars were several strips of fabric.

Silk scarves. Sturdy cotton ribbons. All knotted tight. 

They weren’t decorative. They were functional. Worn slightly at the edges from strain. 

Stack stared at the scarves. A slow, knowing grin spread across his full lips, dimples popping out like tiny craters. 

He imagined Annie’s wrists bound tight against those bars, her wide hips arched and shaking as Smoke hammered into her from behind. He could almost hear the wet slap of skin on skin and the way Annie’s voice would break into a shaky, desperate moan when she was pushed to her limit. 

Stack felt a sudden, hot throb in his trousers. His own thick dick stirred against the crotch of his tailored slacks. The thought of his brother using those ties to hold Annie still, to possess every inch of her lush body without resistance, sent a jolt of raw envy through him. 

He wondered if Annie liked the feeling of being trapped. Being completely overtaken by Smoke’s brutal protective hunger. 

“You just gon’ stand there gawked or you gon’ settle?” Smoke’s voice rasped behind him, low and warning. 

Stack quickly shifted his stance to hide the bulge in his pants. He turned back to his brother, the charm sliding back into place like a mask, though his eyes remained dark with the image of those scarves. 

“Just admirin’ the craftsmanship, Smoke.” Stack purred, his voice smooth like the silk of his tie. “You always did have a knack for buildin’ things that last.” 

Smoke let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his brother. “Ain’t my fault you stayin’ at that shit hole,” he rasped, his voice like gravel grinding together. “You got more coin than sense, Stack. You can afford to stay somewhere decent, like that fancy-ass apartment you keep up in Bronzeville.”

Stack just shrugged, a playful, knowing glint in his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe. He knew the game of visibility. “That’s exactly why I don’t, Smoke. In a boarding house, I’m just another traveler passing through. I blend in. Safer to be a ghost when you haulin’ the kind of heat I do. Too many eyes.” 

Smoke grunted, not entirely convinced but knowing Stack’s paranoia was usually rooted in profit. He stepped further into the space. 

“You don’t gotta play ghost in your own blood’s house. You can always sleep in the guest room when you come visit. Save yourself the fleas.” 

Stack let out a smooth, melodic chuckle, shaking his head. 

He looked back toward the bedroom door—and those tied scarves—with a flicker of desire crossing his face.

“I appreciate it, truly. But I don’t want to be a bother. Besides,” Stack added, his voice dropping into a suggestive purr, “I fuck too much to be in here violating ya’ home. I’d have some poor girl screamin’ your roof off by midnight, and I know how ya’ get ‘bout ya’ peace and quiet.”

Smoke reached up and peeled off his coat, tossing it over a chair, followed by his cap, which he set firmly on the sideboard. Stack followed suit, sliding his tailored jacket off his shoulders with a fluid motion, reveling the crisp lines of his shirt and the gold chain glinting against his chest. 

“Where Annie?” Stack asked, his voice softening, though the hunger in his gaze remained. 

“Finishin’ up at the shack,” Smoke answered. “Got a few folks comin’ for cleansing and roots ‘fore sundown.”

As they moved toward the kitchen, the rich, savory scent of home hit them full force. On top of the black iron wood-burning stove, a heavy cast iron pot sat simmering, the lid rattling slightly as steam escaped. The smell of slow-cooked collards, smoked turkey, and seasoned cornmeal filled the air. It was the smell of Annie.

“I’m a go check the ice box.” Smoke grunted, his voice low and final. He didn’t look back as he stepped out the back door, the screen door slapping shut with a sharp crack. 

 The moment the door closed, Stack didn’t waste a second. He reached over to the stove, snatching a piece of warm, buttery corn pone from the platter, and slid into a wooden chair. He leaned back, one leg crossed over the other. He was chewing slowly, tasting the salt and corn, but his mind was still vibrating from the sight of the bedroom. After he finished, tongue skimming his teeth, he started flipping a silver coin with a clink-snap against his palm. 

Then, the front door groaned open. 

Stack stopped mid-flip. The coin landed on the table with a dull thud, forgotten. 

Annie walked in, and for a heartbeat, Stack forgot how to breathe. 

It had been months since he’d seen her, and the woman had only grown more lush, more devastating. She was dressed for the end of a workday at the shack, wearing a deep indigo cotton dress that clung to every magnificent curve of her frame. The fabric was stretched tight across her heavy, rounded breasts, the buttons straining slightly against the swell of her chest. As she moved, the skirt hugged the massive, sweeping flare of her hips and the plushness of her thighs, swaying with a weight that made Stack’s mouth go dry. 

She had an ivory-colored lace shawl draped loosely over her shoulders, and her hair was wrapped in a vibrant orange head tie that made her deep brown skin glow. She looked like a goddess of the earth, smelling of dried sage, sweet vanilla, and that raw feminine musk that always seemed to radiate off her skin. 

Stack’s gaze didn’t just linger on Annie. 

It devoured. 

He watched the way her backside moved under the indigo fabric. The heavy jiggle of her rear with every step she took toward the kitchen. He could almost imagine the feel of those wide hips under his palms. The way her soft, ample flesh would spill over his fingers if he dared to grab her. He felt his dick stir and thicken in his trousers, a sudden hard ache pulsing in his groin as he imagined her stripped bare, plush body shaking under him. 

Annie stopped dead in her tracks the moment she spotted him.

Her expression changed from exhaustion to a cold, sharp irritation. Annie didn’t hide her distaste; her eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. She knew exactly how Stack looked at her. Like a starving man looking at a feast. 

Bastard. 

“Elias,” she said, her voice a rich, smooth contralto that vibrated right through Stack’s chest. “I didn’t know Smoke had let the circus back into the house.” 

Stack’s eyes slid down from her face to the deep valley of her cleavage and then back up. He gave her a slow, lazy grin. That smile usually worked on every woman from Clarksdale to Chicago, but he knew Annie was different. He knew she carried a blade in her bodice and a spirit that couldn’t be bought or charmed. 

He wanted her. Goddamn if he didn’t. But he wasn’t stupid enough to push her to the point where she’d carve a piece out of him. 

“Now, Annie,” Stack purred, his voice dripping with a forced sweetness. “No need to be so cold. I just came to visit my dear brother and sis in law.” 

Annie ignored the flirtation. She stepped further into the kitchen to set her bag of herbs on the table. As she leaned over, the fabric of her dress pulled taut across her backside, outlining the deep, rounded cleft of her ass. 

Stack’s eyes locked onto it, pupils dilating. He was practically eye-fucking her, his gaze tracing the curve of her waist down to the heavy swell of her hips. He could almost smell the torridity coming off her, the scent of a woman who spent her days working with the earth and her nights being thoroughly claimed by a man like Smoke Moore. 

She straightened up, catching him staring. 

She just looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. 

“How you been, Elias?” Annie asked, though the question sounded more like a formality than actual interest. “Still runnin’ scams and dodging the law in the North?”

Stack let out a low, humming chuckle, his eyes never leaving the heavy swing of her hips as she moved. He leaned back in the chair, the silver coin dancing across his knuckles again, though his focus was entirely on the way that indigo fabric strained against her plush thighs. 

 “I been aight, Annie. Just a bit lonely for some of that Southern hospitality,” Stack purred, his voice sliding over her like silk.

Annie didn’t give him the satisfaction of a blush. She just gave him a look of pure, unadulterated disdain, her nostrils flaring. She knew he was tracing every curve of her wide hips and the deep swell of her breasts, and she treated his gaze like a smudge of dirt on the floor. 

“You still got a mouth that runs faster than your brain, Elias,” she snapped, turning her back to him to reach for a pot on the stove. 

The movement was a gift.

As she reached upward, the hem of her dress lifted just enough to reveal the tops of her thick, deep brown thighs and the tantalizing curve of her rear. 

Stack’s dick throbbed violently against his trousers. 

He was practically salivating, his gaze locked onto the jiggle of her backside. 

Then, the screen door creaked. 

Smoke stepped back into the kitchen, his presence instantly swallowing the room. The second his dark eyes landed on Annie, the hard, neutral mask he wore for the world shattered. 

He didn’t say a word. 

Smoke walked straight up to her, ankle boots thudding on the pine floor, and wrapped his massive arms around her from behind. 

Stack watched, a mixture of envy and heat flooding his gut as Smoke claimed her. Smoke’s large, calloused hands didn’t falter. They slid down from her waist and clamped firmly onto her plush ass, squeezing the heavy flesh with a possessive, bruising grip. He pulled her back hard against his groin, letting her feel the thick, curved length of his dick pressing into the small of her back. 

Smoke buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, his mustache brushing against her glowing skin. He looked like he was claiming his prey, eyes closing as he breathed in her scent of vanilla and musk. He began to whisper something low and guttural in her ear—something private and filthy—that made Annie’s shoulders drop and a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. 

Annie glanced sideways at Smoke’s coat, her eyes flickering with a secret understanding.

The realization that Smoke was carrying her scent around like a drug while currently squeezing her real-life ass made Stack’s head spin.

“Lord have mercy,” Stack interrupted, his voice loud and jarring, breaking the spell. He stood up, tossing the coin one last time and catching it with a sharp snap. “Ya’ll gon’ get to the fuckin’ or can I find out when I get to eat? ‘Cause I’m starvin’ over here, and the smell of that corn pone is startin’ to make me crazy.” 

Annie rolled her eyes. She leaned back into Smoke’s chest for one last second before pulling away. She shot Stack. Look that promised a blade to the ribs if he kept talking, but the irritation was tempered by the lingering heat Smoke had just sparked in her. 

Annie turned back to the stove, the heavy cast iron skillet sizzling with corn pone and fried catfish. She moved with grace. She slid the golden-brown cakes onto a platter, the scent of grease and salt filling the kitchen. 

Stack leaned against the counter, a glass of liquor in his hand that he’d fetched from the Model A, sipping slowly. His eyes were locked on Annie, tracing the deep dip of her waist and the way her breasts strained against her blouse as she leaned over to scoop collards. He took a swallow of the whiskey, the burn in his throat matching the heat pooling in his groin as he watched her. 

Smoke, meanwhile, hadn’t moved far from her side. He stood silent and strong, dark eyes locked onto his wife. He wasn’t just looking, he was devouring her. His eyes traveled from the curve of her calves up to the heavy swell of her rear, his jaw tight. He looked like a man who wanted to throw the food on the floor and bend her over the table right then and there.

“Here,” Annie spoke with a hushed tone, setting the heavy ceramic plates down on the pine table. 

She stepped behind Smoke, her soft, warm palms landing on his broad shoulders. She began to knead the hard knots of muscle there, her fingers digging into the tension he always carried. Smoke let out a low, grunt, his head tilting back slightly as he surrendered to her touch. 

As the men began to eat, the contrast was stark. Stack ate like a city man—precise, talking between bites, his movements theatrical and light. Smoke ate like a starving animal. He tore into the catfish and corn pone with a primal intensity, his movements efficient and heavy, focused entirely on the fuel and the woman rubbing his shoulders. 

Annie watched them, her intuitive gaze flickering between the two identical faces. She could feel the static in the room, the way Stack’s energy was a jagged line of desire and mischief, while Smoke’d was a heavy, possessive weight. 

“So, Elias,” Annie said, her voice smooth but cautious. “How long you plannin’ on stayin’ in town this time?” 

Smoke didn’t stop chewing, but he answered for his brother, his voice so deep that it vibrated through Annie’s palms. 

“He stayin’ at that boarding house in town. The one with the thin walls and the bedbugs.” Smoke repositioned his hips, his shoulder brushing against Annie’s chest. “I told him he could take the guest room here. Told him he ain’t need to be payin’ a stranger for a drafty room.” 

Annie’s hands paused for a fraction of a second. She didn’t say a word, but her silence was word enough. The thought of Stack sleeping under her roof brought a familiar tightness to her chest. It wasn’t that she feared him, but she knew the wake of trouble he left behind. Stack was a whirlwind of bad decisions and risky gambles, and whenever he rolled into town, he spent half his time trying to convince Smoke to dive headfirst into some new, dangerous venture. She didn’t want that energy in her sanctuary; she didn’t want the instability he brought leaking into the peace she and Smoke built. 

But she felt the way Smoke leaned into her. She knew how much the silent man missed his twin, how the bond between them was a tether that Smoke refused to cut, no matter how many times Stack played the fool. 

Annie sighed, her fingers resuming their massage. She looked over at Stack, who was watching her with a smug, knowing grin, looking every bit the charming rogue who knew exactly how to push her buttons. 

“Now, Elias,” Annie said, her voice softening into a forced sweetness, “don’t be stubborn. You know that boarding house is a pit. Why don’t you just stay here wit’ us? I’ll make sure you got a hot, cooked meal every night you in town.” 

Stack’s grin widened, his eyes flashing. He didn’t look at the food on his plate. He looked straight at Annie. His gaze slid down to her chest and back up with an appreciative, playful hunger.

“Well now.” Stack purred, his voice dripping with honey. “If the lady’s promisin’ to feed me…I’d be a fool to say no. 

The dinner plates were cleared, the remnants of the meal still steaming on the wood-burning stove. As soon as the screen door clicked shut behind Stack, leaving him to retrieve his bags from the boarding house, the playful jagged energy Stack brought with him evaporated, replaced by the heavy, grounding inferno that only existed between Smoke and Annie. 

Smoke didn’t waste a second. He reached out, his large calloused hand wrapping around Annie’s waist, and with one firm tug, he pulled her plush body down onto his lap. Annie let out a soft oomph, her heavy hips settling securely against his muscular thighs. She rested her arms on his broad shoulders, her espresso-brown skin glowing against the fabric of his shirt. 

“Thank you for lettin’ him stay, baby,” Smoke whispered, his voice low and gravelly. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. “I know he a handful. Promise you, it won’t be long. Just ‘til he gets his head right.”

Annie exhaled, a long sigh that made her large breasts brush against his chest. She ran her hands over his slicked hair, settling them at the nape of his neck where she drew lazy circles with her thumbs. 

“I know he your blood, Smoke. I ain’t blind to that. But tell your brother he better be on his best behavior while he under my roof. I got a root that’ll put him in line and make him as quiet as a church mouse if he start stirrin’ up trouble for you.” 

Smoke let out a rare, huffing sound—almost a laugh—and tilted his head up. His deep brown eyes were dark, hooded with a hunger that had nothing to do with the meal they’d just finished. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that started tender but quickly turned possessive, his tongue sliding against hers with a primal urgency. 

As they broke for air, Smoke kept his lips brushed against her ear, his breath causing her to shiver as it ticked her ear. His voice dropped to a filthy, desperate whisper that sent a jolt of electricity straight to Annie’s core.

“I can’t stand it, Annie,” Smoke groaned, his hand sliding down from her waist to squeeze the lush curve of her ass. “Those draws I been keepin’ in my coat…the scent done gone dry. I spent all day sniffin’ ‘em just to keep my mind on you, but they don’t smell like you no more. They ain’t fresh.” 

Annie’s breath hitched. The sheer hunger in his tone, the way the most feared man in the county sounded like a starving dog begging for a scrap, made her pussy quiver violently. She could feel the sudden rush of arousal between her thighs, her own juices beginning to soak into the cotton of her underwear.

“You a damn animal,” she whispered, though she arched her back, pressing her softness deeper into his lap.

“I am for you,” Snoke growled, his hand migrating forward, fingers hooking beneath her skirt and slithering up to cup her fat pussy in the palm of his hand. It was hot to the touch and moist. “I need a fresh pair. I need ‘em soaked in you, Annie. I need to smell that sweet pussy fresh off ya’ skin ‘gore I lose my goddamn mind.” 

Annie slid side-saddle across Smoke’s thighs. The movement caused her heavy breasts to sway and her wide, plush hips to grind against him. She reached down, her fingers hooking into the lace edge of her bloomers, and slowly peeled them down. She didn’t stand up. She just slid the fabric down her thick thighs and off her feet. Her swollen, dark pussy was now within reach just beneath her indigo skirt.

Smoke didn’t waste another second. He snatched the fabric from her hand with a desperation bordered on feral. He pressed the damp cotton deep into his nostrils, inhaling sharply, his eyes closing as he drank in the concentrated scent of her. 

Annie let out a low, throaty moan, her hand sliding down to find the massive bulge in his pants. Smoke was rock hard, dick as thick as a forearm and straining against the fabric. She gripped him, squeezing the heavy length of him, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat through his pants. She leaned in, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear, her voice dropping to a filthy, honeyed whisper. 

“I got ‘em extra drenched just for you, Smoke…I been in that shack all day, just sittin’ wit’ my legs open…thinkin’ ‘bout how you fucked me the other night. Thinkin’ ‘bout how you stretched me out ‘til I couldn’t walk straight. Left me sore and achin’ in all the right places.” 

Smoke let out a low growl, his grip tightening on the bloomers, bunching the fabric in his fist as he breathed her in. The image of her alone in her shack, leaking for him, sent a surge of desire through his veins. 

“You like that, baby?” Annie breathed, her fingers kneading his thick dick “can you smell it? Can you smell how much I gushed for you?” 

Smoke didn’t respond with words. He gripped Annie’s thick, brown thighs and hoisted them up, sliding them over his broad shoulders. He dropped to his hands and knees on the floor, positioning himself perfectly between her legs. Annie leaned back in the chair, her breath hitching as she felt the sudden, cool air hit her soaking wet slit, followed immediately by the searing heat of Smoke’s mouth. He dove in with a primal hunger. Smoke didn’t tease; he dove straight in, his long, thick tongue lashing out to swipe across her soaking wet slit. 

Smoke groaned into her meaty pussy, the taste of her hitting him like a drug. He tongued her deeply, tasting the thick, creamy mess she’d been brewing all day, his tongue swirling around her clit before sliding deep between her folds—flat against her labia and curling right at her opening—to lap up every drip of her arousal. He was eating her with a starving intensity, breath heavy against her sensitive flesh, confirming exactly how much she had been longing for him.

 He was devouring her. 

His tongue, thick and powerful, lashed against her clit with a punishing force that made Annie’s entire body shudder. Smoke sucked her clit deep into his mouth, creating a suction that sent electric shocks straight to her core. The sound was wet and obscene. Loud, slapping noises of his tongue meeting her drenched flesh and the guttural groans he made as he tasted the concentrated musk she’d been brewing all day. 

Driven by a need to see the devastation he was causing, Annie reached down and hiked the hem of her skirt up past her waist, bunching the fabric in her fists. She looked down, her eyes widening at the sight of her husband’s head buried between her legs, his jaw working tirelessly as he licked her clean, only for her to gush more juice the moment he touched her. 

The pleasure was becoming too much to contain. 

With shaky fingers, Annie began to undo the buttons of her blouse. She popped them one by one, her chest heaving with every ragged breath. As the fabric parted, she relaxed her breasts from the constraint of her bra, letting them spill out with a heavy, satisfying bounce. 

Lush, and heavy, with a deep rich brown hue that shimmered under the natural light filtering in. They were full and pendulous, swaying slightly as she breathed, the weight of them pulling downward in a way that emphasized her womanly curves. The skin was smooth as fine silk, stretching over the ample volume of her chest. At the center of each breast sat a wide, dark areola, the color of bitter chocolate, circling nipples that were hard and peaking, straining for touch. They were thick and prominent, resting to the intensity of the oral pounding she was receiving below.

Smoke looked up for a split second, his face glistening with her juices, eyes dark as he stared at her swinging breasts. He let out a low, growl, then dove back in, his tongue swirling deep inside her pussy, tasting the creaminess of her while Annie arched her back, heavy breasts bouncing with every thrust of his tongue. 

Her voice broke into a series of high, desperate moans. 

Smoke didn’t pull away. He started talking against her drenched folds, his voice vibrating through her thighs. He sounded possessed, his words muffled by the plush folds of her pussy as he continued to lap at her with a relentless, starving need.

“Goddamn, Annie…I can’t get enough of this pussy,” he groaned, the words wet and thick. 

Smoke pulled back just an inch, his lips glistening with her cream. His dark eyes looked up at her with so much adoration. 

“I spent all day thinkin’ ‘bout it, baby. Every minute I’m out there, I just ache to get my face back in this sweet, soaking wet pussy.” 

Smoke dove back in, tongue delivering a long, sweeping stroke from her bottom to the top, slurping loudly as he sucked her clit so deep she could feel the length of his tongue swipe her button as he sealed his lips. The sound was nasty. A wet, schlick-slurp that filled the kitchen. 

“I need it, baby,” Smoke rumbled, his voice breaking into a growl against her flesh. “I need this pussy to ground me. I need to taste you, smell you…fuck, you taste like heaven and sin all at once, woman. I could eat yiu for a lifetime and still be starvin’ for more.” 

Annie let out a jagged. High-pitched moan, her head snapping back against the chair. The sensation of his tongue lashing her clit while he whispered filth into her folds was driving her to the edge. Her hands flew to her heavy breasts, her fingers digging into the lush flesh. She gripped her own tits, squeezing, the weight of them spilling between her fingers as she kneaded them. 

She watched him from above, her eyes hazy with lust, seeing the way his shoulders bunched and flexed as he worked. She began to roll her hard, chocolate-colored nipples between her fingers, pulling on them in sync with the suction of his mouth. 

“Elijah…oh, Lord, Elijah,” Annie whimpered, her voice shaking. She arched her back, pushing her wide, plush mound harder against his face, demanding every bit of his tongue.

Smoke responded by intensifying the assault. He began to sick her pussy with a cyclone-like force, his cheeks hollowing as he slurped her juices up, making loud, messy sounds. He was tearing her fat, fuckin’ pussy up, his tongue swirling and poking deep inside her, tasting the thick, honeyed musk of her arousal. 

“My beautiful, thick-hipped woman,” Smoke mumbled with a shaky voice that vibrated against her clit. “This pussy the only thing keepin’ me sane. I love how you gush fa’ me, baby. I love how you taste. Give it all to me, Annie. Just leak all over my damn face.” 

Annie’s moans turned into shaky cries. She squeezed her breasts tighter, nipples peaking and straining as she felt the orgasm building, thick thighs trembling on his shoulders while he continued to eat her like she was the only meal he’d ever known. Like the corn pone, catfish, and collards ain’t settle his hunger. 

Smoke’s voice had gone from a rumble to a command, a raw, demanding groan. He didn’t just want her pleasure; he wanted her surrender. He gripped her thick, plentiful thighs, fingers digging into the meat of her legs to hold her wide open, pinning her firmly against his face. 

“Cum on my tongue, Annie—cum fa’ me, baby, gimme it girl I’m workin’ hard for it where my gushy mess at, baby, give it to daddy.” Smoke barked, the words muffled by her soaking wet folds. “Cum right now. I wanna feel you shake. Paint my tongue wit’ that sweet cream.” 

Smoke repositioned his attack, his tongue becoming a weapon of precision. He started to flick her clit with a rapid, punishing speed then his lips created a tight seal around her, sucking her into his saliva-filled mouth. He would go back and forth between quick flicks of his tongue and tight sucks. Wet, slurp–pop, sounds. The sound of a man trying to drain every single drop of cum from her body. 

“Paint it, baby—fuck—give it to me.” Smoke commanded, voice deep and demanding and filled with so much hunger. “I wanna taste every bit of it. Pour it all over my fuckin’ tongue, baby, now—”

Annie was beyond words. Her head was thrashed back, her eyes crossed, and her fingers were practically bruising her own heavy breasts. Her thick, thunderous thighs clamped down on Smoke’s head tight. The command in his voice acted like a trigger, snapping the eruption that had been building in her core. 

“ELIJAH. Oh…my…God—bẹẹni, kan lara ki o dara, bẹẹni—ELIJAH!” Annie screamed, her voice cracking. 

Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, a violent, racking explosion that started in her womb and radiated outward. Her pussy clamped down hard in his mouth, pulsing in powerful spasms that squeezed her juices out in thick, hot bursts. She felt herself gushing, milky–white flooding his tongue, painting his lips and chin in a glistening honeyed trail similar to coconut milk. 

Smoke didn’t pull away from the trap of her thighs. He leaned into it, lapping at her orgasmic floods, sucking and slurping the pulses of her climax as if he were trying to drink her soul. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure, animalistic satisfaction, as he felt her body shudder and quake on his shoulders. 

“That’s it…yeah, paint it…give it all to me,” Smoke mumbled against her skin, his voice thick with lust. 

Annie’s muscles twitched because her thighs trembled violently. The aftershocks of the orgasm continued to ripple through her. She collapsed back into the chair, her chest heaving, breasts bouncing with every ragged breath and shaky exhale. She looked down at him—her husband, her rock—his face drenched in her musk, eyes dark and looking up at her with a look that told her he was far from finished. 

Smoke rose up from between her spread thighs, knees planted firm on the kitchen floor as he stayed right there between them. His big hands came up and cupped the heavy weight of her breasts, palms sliding underneath to lift and cradle them. Both hands wrapped around the plush fullness, fingers sinking into the squishy give as he pushed them together and angled the wide dark areolas straight toward his mouth. 

Annie watched from above, breath catching as his lips brushed the first areola. Smoke kissed slow and open–mouthed, pressing warm, wet kisses all across the dark circle before moving to the thick nipple itself. His tongue flicked out, tasting the pebbles skin, then he sealed his lips around it and began to suck. 

The pull was steady and deep. He sucked in a rhythm that matched the throb still pulsing between her legs, tongue pressing up against the underside while his lips worked in a tight seal. Every few pulls he released with a wet pop, only to switch to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. Back and forth he went, sucking one nipple hard until it stood shiny and stiff, then moving to the other, leaving a trail of spit connecting them. 

Annie moaned low in her throat. The suction sent sharp sparks straight down to her clit, each strong pull making her pussy clench around nothing. She felt the wet, heat of his mouth and the firm drag of his tongue circling and flicking while he suckled. The pressure was building until it bordered on too much before easing off just enough to start again, sending goosebumps over her skin and a tickle down her spine. Her heavy breasts bounced slightly with every switch, the air cool from his spit hitting her wet nipples before his hot mouth claimed them once more. 

“Elijah…” Annie breathed, one hand sliding over his slicked hair as he kept going, sucking and releasing…sucking and releasing, big hands keeping her tits aimed exactly where he wanted them. “te siwaju, mase duro, Elijah…”

She was telling him to keep going. 

He swirled his tongue around the thick stiff tip of her nipples, teasing the nerve endings until she gasped, then he’d plunge it back in, drawing the flesh tight. 

He was keeping her right on the edge. 

“Fuckin’ love these big ol’ breasts, baby—”

“I love the way you make love to my breasts wit’ that mouth—”

“Yeah?” 

“beeni, yes…”

“I eat up every inch of you, baby, you know that—”

“I do, yes—Daddy—yes, I do—”

Smoke used his teeth lightly, grazing the fleshy, ample sides of her pendulous breasts, creating a sharp contrast to the wet, sliding, heat of his tongue. Smoke was working her breasts like they were the only thing keeping him alive, big hands squeezing the plush undersides, pushing the heavy mounds upward to give his mouth better access. 

Annie was completely undone. The words she tried to form died in her throat, replaced by broken, airy whimpers and trembling moans. She couldn’t find the breath to tell him how much she loved it, or to beg him not to stop. Her mind had gone blank, reduced to nothing but the sensation of his mouth. Every time he switched breasts, the sudden rush of cool air on the wet, swollen nipple made her shiver, only for the heat to return a second later as he claimed the other side. 

The suction was so intense it felt like he was pulling the very spoil out of her through her chest. The sensation radiated downward, triggering a heavy, pulsing and in her drenched pussy. Annie felt the wetness leaking from her, dripping down her thighs, while her breasts felt heavy and engorged, tingling with a fierce, electric blaze. 

Smoke looked up for a solid second, pupils dilated and eyelids low like he was drunk off her body. His lips were covered in a mixture of spit and her pussy juices. He saw her dazed expression, her head lolling back, her chest heaving. He let out a grunt and a hum and dove back in, sucking her nipples with an even more aggressive hunger.

Smoke was determined to keep her in this state of mindless, shivering bliss and keep her pussy wet so he can get in it with one stroke and make her cream even more. 

Smoke sensed her peaking, his instincts sharpening. He latched onto her left nipple with a fierce grip, pulling the dark, swollen bud into his mouth. The sensation came in slow draws, each one lingering longer than the last. While he worked that breast, his fingers reached up to grip the right breast, his thumb and forefinger catching the other stiff nipple and twirling it, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers.

The dual sensation—the deep, wet heat of Smoke’s mouth on one side and the firm, twisting friction on the other—was too much. Annie let out a broken, high-pitched keen, her hips bucking instinctively against the air. She was completely undone, her mind a gaze of deep-brown skin and the overwhelming presence of her husband.

“Smoke…oh god, Smoke,” she whimpered, her voice shaking and thick with lust. Annie reached down, her fingers brushing against the hard, heavy ridge of his dick pressing against his pants. The feel of him—thick, long, and pulsing with a need that mirrored her own—sent a fresh wave of wetness crashing through her. 

Annie couldn’t take the anticipation anymore. The need to taste him, to feel that massive length in her mouth, becaus an obsession. She began to plead, her voice dropping a guttural rasp. 

“Smoke…please, baby…please let me,” Annie begged, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. “I need it. I need to suck you…let me taste you, Smoke. Please, let me suck ya’ dick.” Her eyes were pleading and glazed. “I’m beggin’, Daddy…let me get on my knees. Let me take it.” 

Smoke let out a grunt. He stepped back, pulling away from her plush breasts, leaving her nipples swollen, dark, and glistening with saliva. He stood tall, his imposing frame casting a wide shadow over her, but the bright Mississippi sun that early, summer evening streamed through the kitchen windows, bathing his brown skin with rich, gold undertones in a warm light. 

Smoke reached down and gripped the hem of his shirt. He lowered his suspenders from his shoulders. He started unbuttoned his shirt, eyes never leaving Annie’s face. 

“It’s okay, baby…daddy gon’ give you this dick, aight? You ain’t gotta beg me, baby. This dick belong to you. You take this dick, hear?” 

The light hit the hard planes of his abdomen, highlighting the ripple of his muscles and the deep, rich tone of his brown skin.

Annie, still breathless and trembling in the chair, watched with wide, glazed eyes as he stood before her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, pussy throbbing with a wet, heavy pressure that made her feel like she was melting into the wood of the seat. She reached out with shaking hands, her fingers fumbling with the buttons on his pants. She could feel the heat radiating off him. Primal. Masculine. Smelling of tobacco, musk, and raw desire. 

Her fingers popped open the button and she slid the zipper down with a slow, agonizing rasp. As she reached inside to hook her fingers into the waistband of his underwear, pulling the fabric down and away, his dick sprang free with a heavy thud against his lower belly. 

Annie froze. Her breath hitched in her throat.

The natural light from the window hit him perfectly.

It reflected off the smooth, taut skin of his shaft. 

His dick was a masterpiece of masculine power. 

Thick. Long. Pulsing with a life of its own. 

The skin was a deep, dark brown, stretched tight over the engorged veins that coiled around the length like vines of temptation. The head was a swollen, blunt crown, glistening with a so much pre-cum it left behind a long, slimy string that was still connected to his underwear. It sparkled like a dining against the dark velvet of his flesh. 

Annie stared. Mesmerized by the way it curved slightly to the right. A heavy, authoritative arc that promised to fill every fucking inch of her. The sheer size of it made her mouth water; just looking at the thickness of the base…where it joined his muscular thighs…made her imagine the feeling of it stretching her wide, splitting her open and hitting the very back of her womb.

A wave of pure, unadulterated lust crashed over her. 

The size of his pleasure stick…

Standing proud and rigid in the golden light made her feel small and greedy. She felt a primal urge to serve him. To wrap her lips around that massive head and feel the pulse of his heartbeat in her throat. Her pussy gave a violent, needy squeeze, leaking a fresh torrent of slickness down her thighs as she gazed up at the man who owned her soul and body. 

Annie had memorized every vein. Every ripple of muscle. The way the sunlight danced on the wet tip of his dick, knowing that in a few moments she would be tasting every bit of it. Her voice was a fragile, trembling thing, barely a whisper as she looked up at him from her knees. Her eyes were glossy, wide with a mixture of awe and hunger. 

“I ain’t never seen nothin’ so beautiful in my whole life,” Annie whispered, her voice shaking with the intensity of her arousal. 

Her fingers wrapped around the thick base. As her fingers circled, the tips barely closed around the girth, her palm pressing against him. As she began to stroke him, her movements were slow and delirious, her gaze locked onto the way his dark skin slid over the engorged veins. Annie looked up at him with a look of pure, submissive devotion, her expression screaming that she couldn’t believe he possessed such a massive, powerful piece of meat. 

Smoke let out a sharp, jagged breath, his head snapping back, adam’s apple bobbing, a wave of pleasure crashing through him. He was ruined. The contrast of her soft, supple hand gripping his rigid dick was almost too much to bear. He looked down at her—his lush, opulent wife, her heavy breasts swaying and her face filled with worship—and felt a surge of primal dominance. 

Annie leaned in, her breath hot against his skin.

 She started with a long, wet lick from the base all the way up to the crown. She moaned deep in her throat, a sound of pure satisfaction as she tasted him. 

“My big, strong man,” Annie whispered against his flesh, her voice thick with lust. “Got such a big dick…such a beautiful, big dick.” 

She licked him again, more insistently this time, swirling her tongue around the swollen head and catching the bead of pre-cum. She was praising him with every wet sound. Every shaky breath. Treating his dick like a holy relic. She looked up at him again, her lips glistening with his pre-cum and her spit, her eyes pleading. 

“You so big, Smoke,” Annie groaned, her hand tightening its grip, pumping and bouncing that meaty dick in her grip. “I just want it…I want all of this dick inside me. But I gotta taste ya’ first. I gotta serve ya’…”

Smoke groaned, his hips giving a small, involuntary twitch forward. He reached down, his hand burying itself in the fabric of her headwrap, tilting her head back so he could see the sheer desperation in her eyes. He loved the way she looked at him. Like he was a god. Like his dick was the only thing in the world that mattered. 

“Then get it, baby,” Smoke growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Open that pretty mouth and take every inch of it.”  

She opened her mouth wide, her lips parting in a wet, eager circle as she leaned forward to take him. She started by swirling her tongue around the broad, weeping head of his dick, tasting the thick bed of pre-cum that clung to his slit and wouldn’t stop leaking. She let out a muffled moan of approval, her eyes fluttering shut for a second as she savored the taste of his skin. 

Then, she slid forward, taking the head and the first few inches of the shaft into her mouth. The sheer girth of him stretched her lips tight, filling her oral cavity completely. She loved the feeling of being stretched, the way her cheeks puffed out slightly to accommodate the massive thickness of his meat. She knew exactly how Smoke liked it. He didn’t want a gentle touch. He wanted to feel her struggle and succumb to his size. 

Annie started to suck. 

She used her tongue to massage the ridge of the glans—his most sensitive spot—creating a wet, slapping sound every time her lips broke the seal to gasp for air.

Slurp. Pop. Shlick

The noises were raw and vividly resonant. 

Annie focused on the underside of the shaft, flicking her tongue over the vein that pulsed like a living thing against her palate. As she worked her way deeper, she felt the back of her throat tighten. She pushed past her limit, gagging slightly as the head of his dick hit the back of her throat. Instead of pulling away, she leaned into it, her eyes watering, her nose closer to his pubic hair the more she tried. 

She loved the feeling of him claiming her mouth. The way he dominated her breathing. 

She began to bob her head. Sliding up and down the length of him, throat working hard to swallow as much as possible. Nose pulling in air so she wouldn’t choke. Lips and jaw muscles working to keep a tight ring around his shaft as she sucked. 

Smoke was losing his damn mind.

He gripped the fabric of her headwrap tighter, knuckles bulging, guiding her with a firm hand. His hips twitched forward instinctively, driving himself deeper into her wet mouth. He loved the suction she created. The way she slurped and sealed his dick, pulling at him with a needy intensity and a slow, roll of her neck that made his toes curl in his ankle boots. 

“Yeah, like that, baby…do it like that,” Smoke groaned, his voice a jagged rasp. “Suck it…take all this meat, you such a greedy lil’ thing.” 

Annie responded by increasing the suction, cheeks hollowing out as she pulled on him. She used her hand to grip the base of his dick, pumping in sync with her mouth, ensuring that every single inch of him was being stimulated. She could feel the vibrations of his groans traveling through his dick and into her jaw. 

Annie looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes dazed and devoted, watching the way his face contorted in pleasure. 

She knew the signs. The way his breath became short and shallow. The way his thighs began to tremble. 

She sped up, her tongue working frantically around the head while she sucked the shaft with a powerful force. The sound became a wet, messy symphony of lubrication and lust, the squelch of her saliva coating his dark stick as she worshipped him. She was determined to drain every drop of pleasure from his massive frame. 

Smoke’s hand clamped tight onto Annie’s headwrap, his fingers digging into the fabric to anchor her firmly in place. He stopped letting her set the pace and took complete control, his hips beginning to drive forward in a slow, punishing motion. 

He started fucking her mouth, the thick rigid length of his dick sliding deep into her throat with every thrust. 

Annie looked liked she’d been crying for hours—eyes puffy, spit-covered, cheeks sunken and lips puffy from all that damn sucking—and Smoke loved it. 

His face was a mask of raw, unfiltered pleasure. 

His features contorted, eyes squeezed shut as he felt the wet, tightness of her mouth gripping him. A low, jagged groan ripped from his chest. Smoke was shaking, powerful thighs trembling with the effort of holding back the tide, but the sensation of her tongue swirling around the head while her throat squeezed the shaft was driving him over the edge.

“Goddamn, Annie…” Smoke rasped. “You suck it so fuckin’ good…mouth feel like heaven…so tight…so wet…”

Smoke thrust deeper, forcing a muffled, throaty whimper from her. He loved the way she surrendered her mouth to him. The way her eyes fluttered in devotion as she took every inch of his girth like a good wife supposed to. Smoke could feel his dick pulsing violently inside her mouth, the veins throbbing against her tongue, engorged to the absolute limit. 

Then, she grabbed for his balls. His heavy balls. They were covered in spit. Annie used her fingers to massage his wet balls like they were fine jewels. A soft, rotating motion that tickled in the best way. 

The pressure in his loins became an unbearable ache, a white–hot tension that demanded release. Smoke increased the speed, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, and more desperate. The sound of his dick sliding in and out of her mouth became a wet, slapping symphony—shluck, squelch, pop—as he drove himself into her. 

“Look at me. Look up at me while you suck my pole. I wanna see your eyes when I cum.”

Annie did just that. She flicked her gaze up at Smoke, giving him a slow, tantalizing blink like a femme fatale flapper. 

Smoke arched his hips forward at the same time Annie sucked. His fingers dug into her plush shoulders. He sounded like he was fighting for air. 

“I’m gon’ cum, Annie,” Smoke growled, his grip on her headwrap tightening until his fingers shook. “I’m ‘bout to blow—baby—the it all…take every fuckin’ drop of me—”

Smoke gave one final, deep plunge, burying himself to the hilt in her throat, his hips locking against her face as the first violent wave of orgasm crashed through him. 

maybe I’ll write a part two.

Poem: Lines of a Nasturtium by Anne Spencer

he currently had you beneath him, legs draped over his muscly forearms while he slowly slid his thick cock into the soft, warmth of your pussy.

two previous orgasms were pulled from you only minutes before thanks to your husbands skilled tongue and fingers, and because of this, you were niceee and stretched open for all eight and a half inches of him.

“big stretch comin’, pretty girl. take a breath for me,” ony spoke lowly, nostrils flaring the tiniest bit as he pushed the final inches of his girth inside of you.

as much as he made love to you, which was a lot, you could never fully get used to the brain altering stretch of his cock. he was long . . thick . . curved. basically everything that would probably have most girls run away screaming.

fortunately for you, though, no other woman has ever had the pleasure of seeing your husband in this state.

they like to stare, and ogle him . . maybe go even take it a step further and gush to him about how much of a hard worker he is—but they know that he’s yours. they know that there is, and will only be, one mrs. kode.

“you still with me, mama?”

that thick, country drawl of his tore you out of your thoughts, and when your eyes finally focused on his, he was already smirking down at you.

“where’d you go?” despite the lopsided smirk he was sporting, his tone was gentle as ever, like if he spoke too aggressively, you’d shatter into pieces right in his arms.

you gave him a small smile, and brought your hand up to cradle at his smooth jaw. “no where important.”

ony let out a small, barely audible hum. his rough hands ran over the tops of your thighs, massaging the smooth flesh while he slowly pulled out. “you’re a terrible liar, wife,” he chuckled easing his hips forward.

you breathed out a small moan, lashes fluttering ever so slightly. your walls clenched around onys cock, adjusting to the new rhythm.

“m’not lyin’, it’s really not that important. you’re just nosey, and wanna get in my head, husband,” you sassed back, making his grin grow wider.

your statement wasn’t exactly wrong, which was why he didn’t argue back—but even if you did happen to be wrong, he still wouldn’t have said a thing.

onyankopon wholeheartedly believes that the key to a good marriage is to shut the hell up, and never protest to what the missus has to say. he’s been following that ever since he put a rock on your finger, and your marriage has been nothing short of blissful.

ony wrapped your legs around his slim waist, and within seconds his forehead was smushed against yours. the faint smell of his aftershave had you feeling dizzy.

“but if you must know . . i was thinking about how you’re all mine. all for me, and nobody else’s,” you scratched lightly at his jaw, earning an almost purring like noise from him. he turned his head, and kissed gently at your palm, and then your wrist.

“all yours, my love,” he whispered into your skin, “you own every inch of me.”

this might come off as a little obsessive, and maybe something more, but in ony’s head there was no him without you. you were the missing piece to his puzzle. you completed him.

the pace of his thrusts only increased slightly, but it was enough to bring your release closer and closer.

a request to have him wrap his hand around your throat sat very heavy on your tongue, and if you weren’t almost positive that he’d look at you like you were crazy for asking, you would’ve asked without a second thought.

your husband didn’t particularly see the need to inflict pain upon the one you love during such an important act of intimacy, and you were once the same way—keyword once.

but then one day during a trip to the bookstore with your girlfriends, you got out of your comfort zone and purchased a rather . . . spicy written novel and the rest was history.

it was hard to imagine someone enjoying these things such as being slapped, spanked, or even choked—but the more you read, the more you began to understand, and soon you were secretly making your own collection nsfw romance novels. you hated that you hid it from ony, but your embarrassment forbid you from showing him this side of yourself.

the side of you that wanted to be manhandled and degraded by him, and then in the same hour, coddled and cuddled until you fell soundly asleep in his arms.

yeah, there was just no way you could make that sound normal in any way to your man.

don’t get it twisted though! even though he was a soft lover, onyankopon left you blissed out beyond belief each and every time he was done with you.

he knew exactly how to massage your sensitive clit with his tongue when he gave you head, and he was able to find your g-spot within seconds of him fingering you. not to mention he always kept his hands clean and manicured because he’d be damned if he ever had the nerve to touch his wife with grimy hands.

when it came to having sex, he always knew when to not go to deep in certain positions because it would leave you hurting, but at the same time knew which angles would have your toes curling—

“s-stop spacing out, it’s worrying me, honey,” ony sighed into your hair, his left arm wrapping around your back to pull you closer to him.

you hadn’t even realized you were in a daze until you could suddenly feel the buildup of your orgasm nearing its final end. you could feel everything at once; the heat from his chest, the battering of his swollen tip against your g-spot—it was slowly starting to become too much!

“i’m—oou fuck, right there, i-i’m sorry, baby. m’so close, please make me cum,” you whined into his ear, legs tightening around his waist.

ony let out a long, drawn out moan, and let his forehead fall onto your shoulder. “god, don’t apologize—never apologize. you’re so perfect—ngh, should never have to say sorry for anything.”

a ringing noise filled your ears when he pressed two fingers against your swollen clit, and with a sharp gasp, you were cumming for the third time that night. ony kept his hips at the same, steady pace, careful not to go too slow or too hard.

milking your orgasms was as ‘kinky’ as it got for him nowadays, and he was more than okay with that.

“fuck, baby, i’m gonna cum. where do you want it, hm?”

you didn’t say anything, instead you just wrapped your arms around his neck, and dug your feet into the small of his back, keeping him in place.

“inside, huh? no problem, pretty girl.”

four thrusts later, and you suddenly felt a warmth blossoming in your lower tummy. onyankopon laced one of his hands with your own, squeezing it every couple of seconds to let you know he was still there, and he wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

“i love you so much . . wish we could fall asleep jus’ like this.”

he pressed soft kisses to your jaw, slowly trailing them down the curve of your neck.

you let out a small laugh and hugged him tighter, manicured fingers now scratching at the nape of his neck. “mm, me too. let’s just stay like this a little longer? please?”

and how could ony ever say no to you? so for the next ten minutes you stayed glued to his side while he rubbed at your back, and kissed all over your face.

the next day went as usual; ony woke up before the sun began to even rise, and started his morning routine. fifteen minutes of stretching, followed another fifteen minutes of meditation. the stretching kept his limbs loose for the first half of the day, meanwhile the meditation was just a little something to help keep him grounded.

you’ve always wanted to catch him doing it, but because you’re such a heavy sleeper, you’re never able to catch him when he swiftly slides out of bed.

after his morning stretch, he takes a shower, and then lets your dog, harley, outside while he preps breakfast and puts a pot of coffee on. he preferred his coffee black, meanwhile almond milk and three pumps of brown sugar syrup were required in your strawberry shaped mug.

he liked to keep breakfast simple, but filling. this morning it was blueberry pancakes with turkey bacon. if you were still wanting something to eat he had vanilla yogurt with maple granola on standby.

by the time he put the bacon on the cast iron, he could hear the sound of feet padding across the floor.

you always did the same thing every morning before joining him downstairs; used the restroom and brushed your teeth so he wouldn’t have to taste your morning breath when you gave him a kiss ( a personal preference of yours, not his.)

and when he finally heard the sound of your slipper clad feet walking down the stairs, he’d set set your coffee next to your food, and greet you with a sweet—

“good morning, my baby! come give daddy a kiss.”

you trudged over to your husband, a small smirk lifting at the corners of your lips. “okay, but please don’t ever refer to yourself as daddy unless it’s in bed, yeah?”

ony let out a small snort, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you close. “yeah, like i’d ever do that,” he chuckled, and gave your lips four quick smooches.

after enjoying breakfast in a comfortable silence, you were finally bidding your man a sweet farewell full of wet kisses, and not so subtle ass grabs.

“don’t miss me too much, yeah?” ony chuckled, kissing the corner of your lips. your arms were loosely wrapped around his neck, while one of his arms was securely wrapped around your waist, and if you were being honest, you were doing little to hold yourself up.

that was all him.

you couldn’t help but imagine for just a split second what he could do to you if he put a little of that strength into . . . other things.

“mm, i’ll try not too. make sure you try not to think about too much about me, okay? don’t need you popping a boner like the other d—”

“nah, nah, that’s enough. i’m leaving n’ i love you so much.”

your head tilted back in a giggle as ony peppered your face with miniature kisses before releasing his hold on you.

“i love you more, honey. be safe and have a good day,” your voice was breathy, and dreamy, like you were sixteen, and learning what a real crush is for the first time again.

as ony pulled out of the driveway, he shamelessly eyed at the way your silk robe fluttered in the breeze. when the tops of your thighs became exposed, he had to mentally talk himself out of making some . . . decisions.

while ony worked the day away, you held it down at home. there wasn’t much to it—maybe some dishes here and there, and some dusting a couple days out of the week, but in the end it wasn’t hard to keep up with the house thankfully. the busiest part of your day had to be the garden in the backyard.

it did get lonely sometimes, but not as much since he had gifted you harley.

harley was an early birthday present to make up for all the time you spent by yourself. yes, you could go out with friends, or have a nice lunch with your parents, but you were a true homebody at heart—you just needed a little company!

she was a black and brown spotted dachshund with softest, fluffiest ears you’d ever seen. dachshund’s were already cuddly dogs, so it was really love at first sight for the two of you.

it was now three o’clock.

the sun rose high in the air, beaming down harsh rays of light onto the land before you. you were sat on a rocking chair, handheld fan in one hand while the other nursed a glass of lemonade mixed your favorite wine.

“it’s getting kinda hot out here. thank goodness ony hooked up this extension cord out here so i can use the fan,” you sighed, eyeing harley, who was laying next to your feet and directly in front of the electric fan.

“girl, you know the summers here hit us harsh.”

you let out a low hum and turned your head towards your phone. you settled move into the plush cushions on the chair, and slipped your sunglasses over your eyes. “i was hoping i’d be able to read my book, but when it’s hot like this all you can do is just lay still.”

“same book or a different one? i never know with how quick you go through them.”

“don’t make me laugh it’s too hot,” you giggled, bending your hand down to fan at harley, who was still asleep. “go inside, honey. too hot out here for you,” you mumbled, giving the dog a tiny pat to wake her up.

the chair made a low creaking sound as you turned your head back towards your phone, “it’s a different one . . about this introverted girl who starts messing around with a street racer. i didn’t realize it’d be so smutty, though! i keep getting too hot and taking breaks, it’s so annoying.”

whenever you read these books, you always pictured ony and yourself as the two lovers because duh. so whenever you read certain . . things, it was hard to contain the tingling between your legs as you pictured the two of you in the same position.

what you were reading now was nothing short of unholy. you couldn’t believe someone could think of such lewd things and put them on paper—it was incredible!

“well, it’s a good thing you have a husband to help you when you get worked up, yeah?”

you smirked, slowly twirling the straw in your glass.

“you’re absolutely right. there’s just this one thing . . ”

“thing? what thing? are you two okay?”

you took a slow sip of your drink, and then another. “everything’s okay it’s just—i don’t know, i’ve been feeling like our sex is kinda—um, what’s the word—”

“boring?”

you nearly choked on your spit, a cough getting caught in your throat. sex with onyankopon? boring? never that.

“girl, it’s not that, it’s just been very tame. veryyyy . . vanilla! yeah, that’s the word. not boring just kinda plain— w-which is okay, don’t get me wrong. i just wish he was a bit more . . mmm, rougher with me. i don’t need to be tied up n’ gagged, and all that other shit, but a firm little choke, o-or a light smack never hurt nobody!”

“have you tried telling him that, ( ‪‪❤︎‬ )? remember that this is onyankopon kode we’re talking about. the same onyankopon whose gone on a drunken rant about how he’d burn the world for you.”

the last part of your friends sentence had your heart clenching, a familiar beat returning between your legs. you could recall the night ony went on said rant, and you could also recall the way he ravaged your body that same night.

he was pounding into you so hard that the headboard was actually banging against the wall. he was so deep inside you that you still felt him in your stomach the entire next day.

you wanted to feel that again. that ache, that soreness from him being rough with you. but you knew the chances of that happening again were extremely slim, because once ony had seen how sore you were the next day he felt fucking horrible.

you could still hear his whiny apologies in your head.

“i don’t know what came over me, mama. can’t believe i was so rough wit’ you . . never again, i promise. do you think you’ll be okay? should i take off work? i think pops will be okay without me for the day—”

you really did marry the sweetest man on earth. lucked out was an understatement.

reasons like that were why you felt like you couldn’t complain, because honestly, how could you complain?! ever since ony met you twelve something years ago, he has always put you first. your needs, your safety, your needs.

“trust me, babe, i’ve tried. ever since that one night, his definition of rough, and my definition have turned into complete opposites.”

“what exactly do you want him to do? paint me a picture, and don’t be shy!”

heat started to rise to your already warm cheeks, and after downing the rest of your drink, you spoke—

“i just kinda want him to be a little spontaneous about it sometimes, you know? like take me over the kitchen table, o-or surprising me in the—heh, the shower . . i can’t believe i’m telling you all this,” you giggled, head falling into your hands that were slightly cold from your chilled glass.

“woah, woah, woah! almost ten years of being married and you’ve only had sex in your bed? ( ‪‪❤︎ ) that has to be some sorta crime, i’m sorry.”

“no, no! we’ve had sex on, like, the couch too—oh, and a few times in the shower! but mostly in bed . . i think it’s just much more comfortable for him there, which is, again, okay.”

you heard the sound of wood creaking behind you, and whipped your head around, only to reveal nothing.

“must’ve been harley . . well, anyways—”

while you continued your tipsy conversation with your friend, onyankopon was frozen in place in the kitchen with a head full of questions and a heavy heart.

all he could think was, ‘how could i have not known? how could i have been so blind? what are these books she’s talking about?’

his early trip home had been spoiled, and only he was to blame. how could he have not noticed you were wanting more from him? what did he do to make you feel like you couldn’t say anything?

all these questions, and yet he couldn’t find it in him to go outside, and ask you anything.

spontaneous. he heard the word spontaneous. you wanted to be surprised? swept off your feet? that was no problem for him. the only thing that really had the cogs in his brain turning was how rough you wanted him to be with you.

he had always thought you preferred him being slow and sensual with the way you turned to putty in his arms—apparently not!

this just wouldn’t do. there was no telling how long you’d be feeling this way, and honestly ony didn’t care to know. all he wanted to do was make it better. fix his mistakes, and leave you fully satisfied.

he needed to think . . he also needed to shower. a thoughtful shower was needed immediately.

he quietly set his keys on the table, and trudged upstairs to the bathroom.

as the steaming water cascaded down his back, all ony could think about was sex. your sex life to be exact. it was so very hard to imagine himself inflicting any kind of pain upon you, even if you were desperate it.

he thought back to that one night. the one night where he sorta threw all caution into the wind, and roughed you up a little more than usual. he remembered how loud, and whiny you were when he had you knees pushed to your ears for, like, the first time ever. he remembered the way you screamed his name when he made you squirt for the first time.

it was incredible, passionate, messy . . . but in the process of all that he ended up hurting you.

his heart clenched when he remembered how you limped around the house, winced whenever you took a seat, the obscene amount of tea you drank to help with your sore throat.

he thought that night would’ve been the end of rough sex for you both, but little did he know you’ve been craving it for god knows how long.

he had to fix this. he had to take himself to a headspace he’s never been to before, and give his wife what she deserved—and that was everything underneath the sun.

he didn’t know the what the night would bring, but he made sure to call off work the next day in advance. if he was gonna give you what you wanted, he needed to make sure he was there to ground you, and take care of you for as long as you needed.

after his shower came his next mission; skimming over these damn books you were so crazy about.

he knew you had a hidden stash, but never mentioned it, or even took a peek at them to respect your privacy. these were desperate times, though, and if he was ever gonna find out how you wanted to be . . . fucked, he was gonna have to do a little research.

ony wasn’t too focused on dressing himself, so he settled on going shirtless with a pair of red and black plaid pajama pants that hung dangerously low on his hips.

he slowly made his way over to your side of the bed, and knelt down. peeking out from underneath the bed was a box, a box full of every dirty novel you could get your hands on. he plucked the first one he saw, and made quick work to skim over the pages.

surely enough there were highlighted paragraphs upon paragraphs of the dirtiest things he’s ever read.

the main character appeared to be getting face fucked, and by the looks of the multiple highlighted areas and tiny hearts blotted around the paragraphs, it seemed that you were very into it.

‘ she choked around his cock, spit and tears dribbling down her chin. she wanted to ask him to ease up, or maybe ease the ache between her thighs with his shoe, because she’s been so good. slicked pooled between her thighs, dampening the lace of her panties. she wanted to reach between her thighs, and just give her clit a teensy bit of relief, but she knew what would happened if she disobeyed. ’

“jesus christ . . ”

you’ve given ony head plenty of times, and never once have you asked him to ruin your throat like this.

he was astounded. it was hard to imagine you liking such things, but that was the beautiful part about being married—you learn new things even a decade into being together.

suddenly, a dull throb could be felt in ony’s pants. he wasn’t hard, but his cock definitely perked up a bit a the image of you, on your knees, with tears spilling down your cheeks because he was fucking your throat that hard.

he let out a low hum, and flipped a couple pages forward.

‘ “you like that?” he chuckled, smacking his palm against her pussy again. she was speechless. a drooling mess. each slap against her cunt made the coil in her stomach wind tighter and tighter, until she eventually came untouched with a loud cry. he could only laugh at the pathetic state she was in. “mm, you’re such a slut. say it. ’

if ony was wearing pearls, he’d surely be clutching them by now. how could he not know that he had a perverted little wife on his hands?

the sound of the back door shutting broke him out of his thoughts.

“i knowww, i knowww. i hear you, i really do, it’s just—oh? hold on, girl, let me call you back. i think ony’s home, his keys are on the table. babe?”

ony calmly shut the book, and set it back in the box. “i’m coming, sugar!” he called back, sliding the box underneath the bed.

as he descended down the stairs you weren’t too surprised that he was shirtless, but you were surprised at the fact that it looked like he was going commando?

you recognized that print anywhere, especially if it was hard.

your mouth opened, then closed, and when it opened again a confused sound came out. “w-what are you doing home so early?” you spoke softly, heart beginning to beat wildly when he wrapped his arm around you.

“pops lemme come home early . . missed you so much,” he murmured, pulling your body more into his. your lips parted in a small gasp when he shoved his head into the juncture between your neck and collarbone.

you heard a sniffle, and then a groan rumble in his chest. “you smell nice. you always smell so nice.”

his big hands kneaded at your hips over your shirt, and when he gave them a particularly hard squeeze you gasped.

“u-um, are you hungry? i could make you—um, m-make you a sandwich?” you didn’t mean to make it sound like a question, but with the way ony was peppering your neck in kisses . . . well, you weren’t able to do much thinking.

“honey, what’s gotten—oh!”

you could’ve fell to your knees, you really could’ve. you didn’t know what to expect from your husband, and his odd behavior, but you certainly weren’t expecting him to shove his hand in your shorts, and cup your pussy over your panties.

“i want you.”

the palm of his hand rubbed over your mound softly, and just as you were beginning to get into it, he retracted his hand. you didn’t have time to protest or whine, because seconds later he used that same hand to cup your jaw, and pull you in for a breathtaking kiss.

“can i have you?”

a beat passed, and then another.

“please.”

that was all onyankopon needed to hear. he tried to vision himself as the man in the story he just read. he was firm, mean, overly dominant. he had all the power, and the woman just turned into putty right in his hands. and let’s be real, ony is a man, he’s seen porn. he knew a few tricks or two to add into the mix.

well, here goes nothing.

ony spun you around, pinning you against his bare, hot chest. one hand softly wrapped around your throat, while the other groped at your breasts over your shirt. you let your head tilt back, lips parting in a soft moan.

“i want you,” ony repeated, giving the shell of your ear a tender kiss. he felt you up for a moment more, and then without warning, he pushed you forward, smushing your front into the wooden kitchen table in front of you.

“h-honey—!”

“shhh. stay still for me, mama,” he murmured, and with one swift tug, your shorts were pulled to your ankles, exposing your panty clad cunt to his hungry eyes. your pussy was practically swallowing the baby pink fabric, giving any a mouthwatering view of your chubby folds.

his pearly white front teeth caught onto his bottom lip, tugging gently on the plump flesh. “look at this pretty pussy,” he hummed, giving your ass a harsh smack before spreading your cheeks. “you gonna let me eat her?”

he could believe the words that were coming out his mouth. they were so vulgar, but you were feeding off it! the more he talked, the more the wet stain on the center grew.

your knees buckled when his thumb pressed against your clit. “i asked you a question, mama.”

“y-yes. yes, please.”

your heart hammered against your ribcage as he hooked his fingers into your panties. “relax. s’just me, your husband.” he pressed gentle kisses into the backs of your thighs hoping to soothe your trembles. “is what i’m doing okay? are you comfortable?”

his movements paused, waiting to hear you speak.

“yes. this is more than okay, honey. can—can i ask what’s gotten into you, though?”

he eyed your glistening folds, mouth watering at the sight of your clit peeking out from between the soft skin. “m’just feeling . . . spontaneous.”

suddenly nothing was funny anymore.

your brows scrunched together, the cogs in your brain quickly coming to a halt. you remember that word. you remember it very well because you said it about three times while you were on the phone with your friend.

you weren’t exactly sure when ony got home, but there was no way he could’ve heard your conversation. there was no way your ony was eavesdropping on you . . unless . . .

“d-did you say spontane—”

ony chuckled when he heard your hand smack against the table, a long whimper echoing throughout the room. he didn’t want you to ask any questions, he just wanted you to bask in the moment. so, he selfishly interrupted you by sucking your clit between his lips.

your husband was usually a very clean eater when it came to giving head, but today was a little different. ony started off extremely messy with it.

his fat, warm tongue delved between your folds, the tip of it swirling around your puffy clit.

“oh fuck . .” you sighed out, eyes fluttering from the sensation. he sucked your folds into his mouth, the slurping sounds that followed after had your ears ringing.

“babeeee pleaseeee. why’re you *huff* w-why—”

without warning you felt a sharp smack on your behind. you were speechless, absolutely speechless, but so. fucking. turned on.

“stop questioning me, and just take it. you think you can do that? think you can close that pretty lil mouth, n’ turn your brain off?”

you didn’t even get the chance to reply before ony’s mouth was back on your pussy, tongue flicking back and forth on your clit so quickly it had your lips trembling.

you felt something prod at your entrance and gasped, back arching into the table. it was ony’s nose. that beautiful, perfectly sculpted nose that you’ve joked about sitting on a multitude of times (to your girlfriends). he was so into eating your pussy that he didn’t even realize half of his face was submerged into the wet mess.

when you started back your hips up into his face, ony hummed in approval, his hand coming up to lay a firm smack on the fat of your ass.

“i-i think m’gonna cum,” you whimpered, bunching the poor tablecloth tightly between your manicured fingers.

and then suddenly, the warmth from ony’s mouth was gone, replaced with nothing but cool air. ony stood to his full height, and grabbed the back of your neck with a grunt. he pulled you up with little to no strength, and forced your eyes on him. saying you fell small under his stare was an understatement, you felt fucking microscopic.

“i’m kinda irritated with you, wife.”

“w-why—?”

“stop fuckin’ talking,” he growled, squeezing the back of your neck. your lips were closed in seconds, eyes becoming glossy, but not in a sad way—more like a ‘i’m so turned on i could start sobbing’ kinda way.

your eyes nearly rolled back when his hand cupped your pussy, palm rolling over slicked clit. “you’ve have me looking like a fuckin’ sucker for months now. had me being all sweet n’ gentle wit’ you . . whole time you wanted to be treated like this.” the last word was punctuated by him shoving two fingers passed your entrance.

he smushed his forehead against yours, breath tickling your face. “tell me i’m lying. go ahead, tell me.”

you sniffled, tears now pricking at the corners of yours eyes. “m’so sorry, b-baby, i just—”

“just what? kept your self unsatisfied all this time? and for what, hm? you know i’d do anything for you, ( ❤︎ ). even if it’s shit like this.” he pushed his fingers in more, and curled them, earning a high pitched moan from you.

god, his dick was so fucking hard it almost hurt, but he had to keep cool. he had to remain in control.

“got all those books hidden from me, n’ that’s what you’ve been hiding? didn’t want me to know you wanna get your throat fucked and your pussy spanked? huh?”

ony’s fingers were now moving at a mind numbing pace. a wet squelching noise pierced at your ears, making your body feel incredibly hot. this was the first time that you’ve been so wet that you were actually embarrassed.

“onyankopon pleaseee!”

“jesus christ, ( ❤︎ ).”

your body tensed up, completely stiffened as your orgasm came over you. your knees buckled, and if it weren’t for ony holding you up against him, you would’ve fell to your knees. trail after trail of pearl colored cream dripped down ony’s wrist and onto the floor, creating an even bigger mess.

you let out a weak cry when he roughly removed his fingers from your cunt, and cupped your breast over your shirt.

“that was so . . hot,” he whispered in your ear, trailing his hand upward to wrap around your neck.

all you could do was whimper, lips pushing into an adorable pout.

“don’t get tired on me now, baby,” ony chuckled, turning you around and lifting your body into his arms with ease, “we’re not even close to done. i have lots of making up to do.”

his words had you frowning, a furrow beginning to wedge its way between your brows. “babe you—you really don’t have to do this. i know you just got off work, and w-we should talk about this more, you know? i promise you don’t have any making up to do for me.”

ony set you down on your feet, and plopped onto the couch behind him. “i appreciate you for trying to spare my feelings, but let’s face it, you were hiding a whole part of yourself from me. there must’ve been something i did to make you feel like you couldn’t bring this kinda stuff up to try . . so yes, i do have quite a bit of making up to do,” he spoke softly, the softest you’ve heard him speak since he got home.

your pussy clenched around nothing when he slowly pulled his pajama pants down mid thigh, his fully hard cock smacking against his tummy. “now, will you please sit on it? it’s startin’ to hurt, sugar.”

you nibbled on your bottom lip, contemplating for only a minute before you were removing the rest of your clothes.

“goddamn . .” ony mumbled, tongue slowly running over his bottom. you mumbled out a shy ‘shut up’, and to his surprise, you turned around, your back now facing him. without thinking, ony spread his thighs, giving your more room to have a seat on his cock.

he grabbed the throbbing muscle gently, and once you were close enough, he swiped the tip through your dripping folds.

your hands found purchase on his knees, and after taking a deep breath, you dropped your weight, fully sheathing is dick inside you. the stretch burned, and was a little uncomfy, but the wet kisses ony pressed to your shoulders and back soothed the ache.

you lifted your hips, leaving about half of him still inside you, before slamming them back down. “mm, fuck, honey,” you whined out, drool pooling on the center of your tongue.

“god, i know,” ony breathlessly chuckled, teeth clamping onto his bottom lip. he could’ve busted right then and there when you grabbed one of your ass cheeks, and spread yourself out more for him, allowing him to completely fill you. “you’re so fuckin’ sexy for taking my dick like this—w-why have i never thought of this?”

as much as your husband loved looking at your blissed out face, he also veryyyy much enjoyed the view before him. your ass looked even phatter than usual in this position, and because of the angle, you were able to stroke his dick while you rode him.

“where did you learn this, hm?” you heard him pant out, followed by a sharp smack to your ass.

“j-just a little—hmph, just from a little reading. this position isn’t even that crazy,” you giggled, eyes fluttering shut at the way his curved tip knocked against that spongy spot deep inside of you.

a thick ring of cream was starting to form at the base of his dick, and after little thought, ony swiped his thumb against the essence, and brought it to his lips. before he could even savor the taste, you were circling your hips in his lap, bringing him a feeling of pleasure he’s never felt until this very moment.

“jesusssss christ,” he groaned out, head falling back against the plushness of the couch.

you glanced at him over your shoulder, and smirked. “hun, why are your eyes closed?”

ony’s eyes were squeezed shut, and his nose was twitching—it honestly looked like he was trying to not start crying.

he let out a shaky breath, “because i know if i look at you grinding on—f-fuck, grinding on m-me like that i’m gonna nut, and i’m not ready.”

a particular deep stroke had your arms giving out, making you fall into ony’s chest. “god, you’re s-so cute. hold my legs up, and thrust into me ‘kay? don’t go to hard, though.”

ony peeked one eye open, and hooked your legs over his forearms. usually he’d start off slow, and work his way into it, but right now the last thing he wanted to do was go slow. his pace thrusting into you was fast n’ sloppy, the complete opposite to what you were used to.

you reached back and cupped the side of ony’s face pulling him closer. each time he moaned, you moaned just as loud, like you were trying to tease him.

“oh god, i’m—i’m cummingggg!” you cried out, white, pedicured toes curling in ecstasy. ony fucked, yes fucked, you through your orgasm, a sloppy wet noise filling the quiet room.

you tried to close your thighs, but your man forced them right back open with a deep grunt. “please don’t try to deny me, baby. wouldn’t wanna accidentally hurt you,” he drunkenly whispered in your ear, sending shivers down your scorching back.

it was a threat, an empty threat, but it still had you clenching pathetically around his dick.

when your body had calmed, and was no longer trembling, ony carefully eased your legs off his arms. his hands were quick to run across your sweat slicked body, running over the pudge of your stomach to the soft mounds of your breasts.

“your pussy has never squeezed me like this before, i can’t believe this shit,” he breathed into your ear, rough fingers tweaking at your perked nipples.

“stopppp,” he heard you whine, chest arching into his hands.

your body had gone completely limp, but once ony had whispered in your ear for you to bend over the couch, you suddenly had a burst of energy, shimmying yourself off his twitching cock and arching over the armrest of the couch.

a giddy nervousness coursed through your veins, and went straight to clit, making you even wetter.

all ony could think about while staring is how divine the pearls of your essence looked dribbling down your slicked folds. ‘just one more taste . . one more’ he thought to himself as he leaned over, and delved his tongue between your folds.

sweet.

that was the first, and only word that came to mind as he sucked the cum from your cunt.

you were always so devilishly sweet. you had a good diet, but you also had an obsession with strawberries. ony lovedddd to swear up and down that you tasted like strawberries down there, even though it’s just not possible.

“good pussy,” he mumbled, gripping the fat of your ass before smacking it for the umpteenth time.

he stood up and propped one knee on the couch, immediately sliding his cock between your folds. his hands found purchase on the fat of your hips, thumbs gently running over the petal soft skin.

you let out a small moan when his big hand smushed your face into the armrest, keeping you in place. his thick tip tapped against your folds, and without warning, he was sheathing himself inside you once more.

“you’re so deep, baby,” you moaned softly, shimmying your ass against his pelvis. ony ran his tongue over his bottom lip, eyeing the way your pussy was struggling to take in his cock. “and you’re so fucking tight, mama,” he groaned, lips puckering to let out a glob of spit.

it fell in the space where his cock and your pussy met, and when he pushed in, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the loud squelching noise that followed.

“give me your arm.”

you weakly lifted up your left arm, and ony grasped it within seconds, pinning it to the small of your back. his eyes, wide and glazed over, glanced at the diamond ring on your finger, and he could’ve swore he felt his heart grow five times in size.

“don’t you ever—ever feel like you can’t tell me anything, okay? i know i like to go slow, but if you’re more into the fast paced shit, i’m down for it. don’t you know i’m down for anything you are? obviously not,” he growled, pushing his pelvis snug against the soft skin of your ass.

your feet kicked at the plush cushions below you, a whine bubbling in your throat. “okay, okay, i hear you! b-back up a little, you’re—fuck, you’re too deep!”

“good.”

the hand that was keeping your face squished in the couch, moved to your neck, pulling you upwards into his chest. “because if you ever hide anything from me again, i promise i won’t be as nice next time. unless you’d like that?”

his hips stilled, waiting for your response. it was in this moment that he could really feel you. the way your walls thrummed around his cock, the way your slick dripped down his balls and onto his thighs, the way the trembling in your body steadily increased the more he pounds into you.

you craned your neck to look up at him, and ony met you half way, nose brushing against yours.

“i’d . . um, i’d actually like that very much.” you didn’t mean for your voice to come out as small as it did, but it made ony want to devour you whole.

he gave you a smooch, and then another, and then he was slithering his tongue between your lips to lick at your own. when he pulled away there was a thin line of spit connecting your lips, “i swear you’re gonna be the death of me darlin’. you and this pretty face are gonna put me right in the grave.”

you elbowed at his mid section, earning a low grunt from him. “geez, what was that for?”

“don’t say stuff like that. i didn’t jump the broom with you just for you to leave me a few years in.” that had ony smiling against your lips, a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“i love you so much, you know that?” he squeezed at your breast, and then your hip, careful not to do it too hard.

when you felt him pull out it had your lashes fluttering, that sensitive feeling returning to your lower tummy. you grinned, nosing at his cheek, “you’ve told me a few times, yes.”

the next few minutes were kind of a blur. one minute you two were kissing, and being cute, then the next you were riding him like a crazed woman.

ony was so beyond fucked out that all he could was grip your ass cheeks to keep him grounded. your pussy was so wet n’ so creamy, the sounds were driving him fucking crazy! he didn’t know how he’d gone so long without cumming, but he knew that time was quickly coming to a close.

“onyankopon open your mouth for me, honey,” you cooed, cupping his jaw with both hands.

he did as he was told without a second thought, kiss swollen lips parting with a small moan following. he didn’t know what to expect exactly since this was an evening of trying new things, but you spitting in his mouth definitely wasn’t on the list.

it was warm, sweet, probably from the lemonade/wine concoction you were sipping on earlier. and when you gently closed his mouth for him, that’s what had him nutting with a choked moan.

his strong arms wrapped around your waist, holding you in place while he fucked up into you at a speed so ungodly, you surely thought the couch legs were gonna turn into nothing but splinters.

“fuck, fuck fuckkkkk, baby, m’cumming so fuckin’ hard.” he was panting in your ear like a dog in a rut, completely desperate and pussydrunk.

the feeling of his cock twitching wildly again your sensitive walls triggered your own orgasm, and with a high pitched squeal, you were lifting yourself up to cum the hardest you’ve ever cum. it came out of you like a stream, soaking ony’s lower half and the couch.

your jaw clenched, mind too overstimulated and nerves on fire. you collapsed against his chest, your lower half trembling violently under his gentle hands.

“ugh, i can feel you dripping out of me . . gross,” he heard you whine into his skin.

“gross? what do you mean gross—you were just begging for that shit a few minutes ago!”

you couldn’t help but giggle at how easily it was to rile your husband up, but you decided not to push any further, because once ony got started, it was impossible to stop him.

“fuck, i can’t believe it’s about to be eight. we just had sex for, like, three hours with no breaks.”

“i knowwww, wasn’t it great?” you murmured, fighting for dear life to keep your eyes open.

those random bursts of energy you had not too long ago were long gone, leaving you a limp, tired mess in your husbands arms. your pussy was incredibly sensitive, clenching around nothing at the littlest of contact.

ony ran his hands all along your back, carefully massaging the smooth skin. “we’re gonna have to get up soon so you can pee,” he mumbled into your hair, earning soft spoken protests from you.

“can we just stay here a little bit longer? please?”

and here onyankopon found himself again, questioning how he could ever say no to you when you sounded oh so sweet with that blissed out, post nut look on your face.

The creak of Asaud’s bedroom door—always shut now—grates against your nerves like a splinter you can’t dig out. Two weeks straight of it. No more sprawled across the couch with his cleats kicked up, no more leaning over your shoulder while you cooked just to steal a taste. Just that door locked tight as a vault, the muffled bass of his music throbbing through the wood like a pulse you weren’t invited to hear.  

He used to be yours—your baby, even when he hit six feet tall. The boy who’d press his forehead to yours after bad games and whisper, “I’m sorry, Momma,” like your disappointment cut deeper than any coach’s scream. 

Now? His “Cool,” lands like a slap when you ask about practice. His backpack stays slumped by the door, untouched since yesterday. Homework? Done. Dinner? Not hungry. 

And sleep—Lord, the sleeping. You catch him slumped over his desk sometimes when you dare to knock, cheek smushed against his physics textbook, lashes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake even in dreams. Other days he doesn’t stir ‘til noon, blankets twisted around his waist, phone clutched in his palm like it holds answers.  

Onyankopon misses it. Not because he doesn’t care—hell no. That man breathes for his son. But between welding shifts at the shipyard—arms streaked with soot, muscles aching from hauling steel—he comes home too exhausted to see past Asaud’s “I’m straight, Pops.” 

And you? You’re softer. Always have been. The one who smooths his edges when Ony’s tough love ain’t the fix. But lately…  

When your hand hovers over Asaud’s door? The wood feels colder than it should.

Your phone buzzes against the countertop, pulling you from your thoughts. The screen lights up with a text from Papa—your husband's contact name forever unchanged since the day he programmed it himself. 

Shipyard lettin’ us slide early. Gon’ grab some crawfish, swing by Nana’s for y’all. You want extra butter? 

A slow smile curls your lips. You’re halfway through typing your response—but that’s when the screen flashes again. Not another text.  

An incoming call.  

Principal Guidry—Bonnabel High. 

“…Hello?” 

“Hey, baby.”

Principal Guidry’s voice is honey thick Creole, the same one that used to holler at y’all for cutting class back in tenth grade. Now it’s laced with something heavy. 

“I’m real sorry to call like this—”

Your grip tightens. 

“Cherise, what’s wrong? Is Asaud—“

“He’s fine.”

She hesitates before correcting, “Physically, leastways. But…” 

A pause. The shuffle of papers. 

“My office chair ain’t never felt this heavy. Got yo’ boy sittin’ right here lookin’ like he wanna disappear into the floor. Suspended. Three days.” 

Suspended? The word doesn’t even sound right in the air.  

“Black eye and all,” she adds softly.  

Your breath catches. Asaud? Your gentle giant? Fighting? 

“What happened?” 

Cherise exhales hard, “Let him tell it. ‘Need you to come get him.” 

The kitchen suddenly feels too hot. 

"I’m on my way." 

The tires of your truck screech against cracked asphalt as you fishtail into the Bonnabel High parking lot, heart hammering against your ribs. You should text Onyankopon—should—but even thinking about it makes your stomach twist. The man would burn down the entire Eastbank if he heard his son was hurt, the welding torch still in hand, fury hotter than molten steel. No, better to handle this first.  

The school looms ahead, its faded maroon bricks and rusted Saints banners looking harsher under the afternoon sun. Then—movement. The double doors swing open, and there’s Asaud, flanked by two security guards, his broad frame hunched like he’s trying to fold into himself.  

You don’t even cut the engine before you’re out the car, bare feet slapping against hot concrete.  

“Mon bébé—oh my God, look at your face!” 

Your hands flutter over his swollen eye, fingers trembling as you trace the bruise purpling his caramel skin. It’s deep, angry—someone hit him hard. The Creole spills out of you unfiltered, a storm of “Qui t'a fait ça?!” and “Let me see, cher—” 

Asaud exhales sharply, catching your wrists with a gentleness that belies his size.  

“Chill, Momma. I’m fine.” 

One of the guards—a thick necked man with a walkie crackling at his hip—clears his throat. 

“Ma’am, ‘you gotta clear the lot.” 

The dismissal in his tone snaps something in you. 

“Clear the—do you see my child’s face? Who did this? Who—” 

“Momma.” 

Asaud’s grip firms, steering you back toward the car with a nudge. The kids pressed against the cafeteria windows don’t make it any better. He just climbs into the passenger seat without another word, jaw set.  

And so, you follow.

The air inside the truck is thick with unspoken words, the only sound is the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of Asaud shifting in his seat. His profile is sharp against the afternoon light streaming through the window—jaw clenched, lashes lowered—a portrait of quiet defiance.  

“…Are you alright?” 

“Yeah.”

One word, clipped.  

“Does Coach know what happened?”

“Not yet.” 

That stings. Asaud loves football—loves his team, loves the way his daddy’s face lights up when he makes a play. If he’s keeping this from Coach? Something serious must’ve happened.

“Ti-Loup… are you really okay?”

Little wolf—the childhood nickname slips out before you can stop it, tender as a bruise.  

His broad shoulders slump as he leans his temple against the glass.  

“…Head hurts.” 

“Baby, if you hit your head, you can’t sleep—” 

Your hand lifts instinctively, reaching to brush his temple, check for fever—but he tilts away before you can make contact. Your fingers hover in the air for a heartbeat before dropping back to the wheel. 

The moment the truck rolls to a stop in the driveway, Asaud is already moving—door swinging open before you even cut the engine, his long legs carrying him toward the house in quick strides. You barely have time to gather your purse before he’s halfway up the porch steps.  

“Wait—" 

Your scramble after him, bare feet slapping against warm wood.  

“Ti-Loup—Asaud!” 

He slows down by a millisecond. 

“I still need to know what happened—“

“Ain’t nothin’.”

“Nothing?” 

You frown, “Look at your damn face!" 

You catch his wrist, forcing him to turn—only for him to yank free with a force that makes you stumble. 

“Why are you being like this? You don’t—you never avoid me.”

This time when he turns, his eyes aren’t just tired. They’re cold.  

“Damn, can’t I just breathe without y’all up my ass?” 

The words hit like a slap.  

For a second you just stand there, the sting of them settling deep beneath your skin. Your chest tightens—but you won’t cry. Not here. 

“Fine.” 

The word comes out quieter than you meant.  

“You can wait ‘til your father gets home to talk about it.”

His whole posture shifts—shoulders stiffening, eyes widening—like the mere mention of that man flipped a switch.  

“Momma—” 

But you’re already walking away.

The tension in the house is thick enough to slice with a butter knife—the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums, heavy and oppressive. Asaud's bedroom door hasn't budged since you got home, not even when you knocked softly with a plate of food an hour ago. The plate is still sitting untouched outside his door, grits congealing into sad little lumps.  

This is how it always goes when Asaud knows Onyankopon is coming home to discipline him—radio silence, tense shoulders, the boy steeling himself like a soldier bracing for battle. Normally you'd bridge the gap, smooth things over with a joke or a hug. But today? The sting of his dismissal lingers like a bruise, and you can't bring yourself to force it.  

Then—keys. 

The front door swings open, and there he is.  

Dressed in a navy blue shipyard uniform, his sleeves are rolled up to reveal thick forearms corded with veins, tattoos a roadmap of ink against deep brown skin. A faded Saints cap sits low over his cornrows, shadows accentuating the sharp angles of his face—that strong jaw, all the way down to the facial hair coating his chin. The scent of saltwater and engine grease clings to him, mixing with the spicy aroma of the crawfish takeout in his hand. 

“‘Where my baby at?" 

His gaze locks onto you—your bare legs peeking out from under his jersey, your hair still crimped and wild from the kitchen heat—and his glare is all sin. 

“Goddamn,” he grunts—“You been walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like that while I’m gone? Gon’ make me come over there.” 

You huff a weak laugh despite the weight in your chest, watching him flex his fingers like they’re stiff from gripping a welding torch all day.

“Hi, Papa.” 

He grunts again—this one softer—as he stomps toward the kitchen, setting the takeout bag on the counter before peeling off his grease streaked work jacket. The muscles in his back ripple beneath his white tank as he tosses it over a chair, his voice rough but easy as he starts rambling.  

“Shit was a goddamn warzone today—‘foreman got on my nerves ‘bout some pipe measurements, then ‘them Lafitte boys tried to cut in line at Nana’s.” 

He pops the lid off the crawfish, steam billowing up as he scowls—“Like I ain’t gon’ notice they tryna’ snake my order.” 

You lean against the counter, watching him. Normally you’d interject—tease him about being territorial over seasoned crustaceans—but your mind is still tangled up in the quiet rage of your son’s dismissal.  

Onyankopon glances up, finally catching your silence. His dark brows furrow.  

“What’s wrong wit’ you?” 

You pick at the hem of the jersey.  

“‘Had… a day.” 

He murmurs, “I’m knowin’, Mama. A nigga glad to be home. ‘Been thinkin’ bout’ a shower, rubbin’ on yo’ feet—Where ‘Saud at? Lil’ nigga better be hungry ‘cause I got extra sausage just for hi—“ 

“He’s suspended.” 

The moment the words leave your lips, Onyankopon goes still—unnaturally still. Like every muscle in his body locks down at once. The air in the kitchen shifts, thickens. You can practically see the switch flip behind his eyes—the shift from husband to father, from easy laughter to cold calculation.  

“Fuck you mean suspended?”   

You exhale, folding your arms across your chest, suddenly aware of how small you feel beneath his gaze.  

“…I don't know, Ony. He wouldn't tell me."

His nostrils flare—once, twice—before his dark eyes scan your face, picking up the tension in your brow, the way your fingers clutch the jersey fabric too tight.  

“"Y'all got into it?" 

“He didn't want to talk to me." 

A muscle in his temple jumps.  

“He ain't got no choice but to talk to you."

His voice is low, final—“Ain't no option." 

For a moment, silence stretches between you—thick and loaded—before his calloused fingers hook gently under your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, gruff but tender.  

“Gimme’ yo’ mouth first." 

You exhale shakily, leaning in. His lips are warm, firm against yours—brief but grounding—before he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours. His breath is hot against your skin, smelling faintly of peppermint and the crawfish he'd been handling.  

And then—  

"ASAUD!" 

His roar shakes the damn house. No hesitation, no preamble. 

“Get yo’ ass out here.” 

You flinch, knowing how quickly Asaud heard him. Even through walls. Even through attitude.  

Silence.  

Then—footsteps. Slow. Reluctant. 

Asaud appears in the doorway, broad shoulders slumped just slightly, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. His eyes flicker up—just once—to meet his father's gaze before lowering again, careful not to show outright defiance but unable to hold the intensity of that stare for long.  

Onyankopon doesn't speak at first. Just looks at him, eyes raking over the swollen skin, the purple black bruise blooming beneath his son’s eye. Then—movement. 

His hand shoots out, calloused fingers gripping Asaud’s chin with a firmness that isn’t rough but leaves no room for resistance. He tilts his face toward the light, inspecting the damage with the clinical precision of a man who’s seen—and dealt—his share of blows.  

“‘You alright?"

Asaud’s throat bobs.  

“Yes, sir." 

Onyankopon’s grip doesn’t loosen.  

“Then why ain't you tell yo’ momma what happened?" 

Asaud’s jaw flexes beneath his father’s hold, his voice barely above a murmur.  

“...Didn’t wanna talk about it, sir.” 

“What’d you say to her?" 

“I ain’t say nothin’." 

“Tch." 

A sharp click of his tongue.  

“Tête levée quand tu m'parles." 

Head up when you talk to me. 

The Creole rolls off his tongue sharply, and Asaud’s chin lifts almost immediately—eyes snapping to meet his father. The apology spills out before he can stop it—  

“Désolé, Pops—"

“Whatchu’ apologizin’ for if you ain’t say nothin’?"  

The silence in the kitchen turns electric, thick enough to choke on. Onyankopon’s grip loosens just enough to turn Asaud’s face toward you—not rough, but insistent. 

“‘What he say to you?" 

“He said—" Your voice wavers, but you force it steady. “'Damn, can I breathe without y’all being up my ass?'"  

Onyankopon looks back to Asaud. 

“So we ‘up yo’ ass’ now?"  

He steps into his son's space, forcing his head up again with a rough tap of two fingers beneath his chin.  

"’You think you grown enough to talk to yo’ momma like that?”

Asaud’s lips part—but no sound comes out.  

“I asked you a question." 

“No, sir," Asaud mutters, jaw tight.  

“Nah, see—you acted like it."

 Onyankopon’s voice sharpens, cutting like a blade—“You got one mother. One. The woman who carried yo’ big headed ass for nine months, who still make yo’ plate first even when yo’ dumbass bein’ ungrateful. And ‘this how you talkin’ to her?" 

The words land like bricks.  

"Look at her." 

Asaud’s eyes flicker to you once, then darting away again.  

“Soft as fuck wit’ you," Onyankopon continues—“Always been. ‘You sick? She up all night. ‘You hungry? She cookin’ before you even ask. You ain’t just disrespectin’ yo momma—you disrespecting’ my wife.” 

Asaud swallows hard, his shoulders tightening like he’s bracing for impact. Onyankopon doesn’t let up though, drilling into him with a stare that could crack concrete.  

“Apologize." 

“I’m sorry, Momma." 

Your chest tightens. 

“I’m not upset, baby," you murmur, “It just hurt my feelings—I wanna know what’s going on, okay? That’s all.” 

Finally, Asaud exhales, defeated.  

"...I fought Jamal." 

That catches both of you off guard. Jamal? His wide receiver—his best friend? 

Onyankopon’s brows shoot up, "The hell for?” 

“...Cheer team girl." 

The silence that follows Asaud's confession is deafening. 

“So you gon’ fuck up yo’ throwin’ hand—lose yo’ scholarship—over some girl?” 

The words come out low, measured, but they hit like a sledgehammer. You step forward, hands lifting slightly—  

“Hey, let’s just—" 

”Who the girl?" 

Asaud shifts uncomfortably, shoulders rolling back like he’s preparing for war.  

"Sabine." 

“She ‘bad like yo’ momma?" 

“Onyankopon!” 

He doesn’t even glance your way, his glare still locked onto Asaud.  

“Why you callin’ my name?" ’His voice drops dangerously—“That gotta’ be the reason. Otherwise, I  need yo’ son to explain why he fuckin’ up all his opportunities over some bullshit."

“It ain’t bullshit!" Asaud’s voice booms, raw and defensive—“She’s different.” 

Onyankopon doesn’t laugh—doesn’t even smirk. His expression stays stone-cold as he steps forward, closing the gap between them with a single stride.  

“That’s what you thinkin’ right now,” he growls, “But I promise—she ain’t. You thinkin’ bout some pussy, and that ain’t gon’ get you in the NFL or keep yo’ wide receiver." 

He jabs a thick finger against Asaud’s chest—hard. 

“Yo’ head loose, and I ain’t raisin’ no kids outside of you." 

Asaud’s chest heaves, his nostrils flaring as his temper flares hotter. Then—  

“You were younger than me when you knocked Momma up.” 

The moment those words leave Asaud’s mouth—sharp, deliberate, meant to cut—your stomach drops. Your lips part in quiet disbelief, brows knitting together as hurt flashes hot behind your ribs.  

“Asaud!" 

But Onyankopon is already moving—fast, too fast—his massive hand snatching the front of Asaud’s hoodie, yanking him forward until their faces are inches apart. Asaud’s breath comes ragged, shoulders rising and falling under the strain of his father’s grip, but he doesn’t fight it.  

"You right." 

A pause—sharp, loaded.  

“Here I am sixteen years later—still bustin’ my ass for you the moment I ‘knocked’ yo’ momma up."

His fingers tighten in the fabric, knuckles whitening—" I don’t ever regret havin’ you, and if I can prevent you from goin’ through the same shit me and yo’ momma handled? That’s what Imma’ do." 

Asaud swallows hard, his throat bobbing.  

"Ion’ give a fuck ‘bout no lil’ ass girl," Onyankopon rasps, “Or yo’ feelings just ‘cause you on some puppy love shit. Football. School. That’s yo’ priorities." 

Your fingers curl into Onyankopon’s sleeve, tugging gently—“Baby… let him go." 

Asaud’s voice cracks as he mutters, “Pops—" 

"Pop’s nothin’." 

Onyankopon shoves him back—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make his point. He spits something in Creole—low, guttural—before jerking his chin toward the kitchen.  

“Go eat the food yo’ momma cooked." 

The moment Onyankopon issued that command, Asaud's shoulders slumped—defeated but still simmering with that same stubborn fire his father carried in his bones. His jaw clenched tight, eyes flashing with frustration before he turned on his heel, storming down the hallway. The slam of his bedroom door echoed through the house like a gunshot, rattling the frames on the walls.  

Onyankopon didn’t even flinch.  

“Don’t be slammin’ no doors in this bitch you can’t pay to fix.” 

And all you could do was sigh, pressing your fingertips to your forehead as the weight of the afternoon settled over you like a heavy blanket.  

Hours later, the house was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes when two prideful men refuse to be the first to break. Nightfall crept in, painting the walls in long shadows as you moved through the dimly lit kitchen, plating a heaping serving of shrimp and grits—still warm, just the way he liked it.  

But Onyankopon was nowhere to be found.  

Not in the living room, not in the bedroom—so you already knew where he was.  

Stepping onto the porch, the humid Louisiana air wrapped around you like a second skin. The cicadas sang their nightly chorus, the scent of magnolias thick in the breeze. And there he was—shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips as his massive frame crouched near the steps.  

The metal bowl in his hands rattled impatiently as he shook it, muttering under his breath.  

“‘What you doin’, Papa?” 

He didn’t even glance up, his deep voice gruff with irritation.  

“…Tryna’ feed this damn cat ‘Saud be so worried about.” 

A soft mrrow sounded from the bushes, and a scruffy orange tabby slinked out, eyeing Onyankopon warily before darting forward to swipe at the bowl.  

Of course he was out here—still pissed, still stubborn—but making sure his son’s stray was fed.  

Some things never changed.

The stray cat—scruffy, wide-eyed, and perpetually suspicious—padded cautiously along the porch railing, its tail flicking with a mix of curiosity and defiance. It sniffed the air, nostrils twitching as it scented Onyankopon instead of Asaud’s familiar presence. With a deliberate hmph, it turned its head away from the bowl, pretending disinterest even as its stomach growled loud enough for you both to hear.  

You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips.  

"You’re mean to him too—that’s why he won’t eat." 

Onyankopon scowled, shaking the bowl harder, the dry kibble rattling like a warning.  

“Yeah? I take care of his ungrateful ass too." 

You sighed dramatically, leaning against the doorframe as you murmured—“The Tin Man does have a heart, it seems."

Onyankopon shot you a look before gruffly calling out, "Aight, Tiger—come get this damn food."

“His name is Tango.” 

“Same shit."  

Finally the cat hopped down, sauntering over with an air of reluctant grace. It rubbed its entire body along Onyankopon’s bare calf, purring loud enough to vibrate the porch boards beneath him.  

“Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, nudging the bowl closer with his foot—“Gon’ head." 

You stepped forward then, bringing the plate of shrimp and grits closer, the rich aroma mixing with the warm night air.  

“You need to eat too, baby.” 

Onyankopon’s fingers then curl gently around your throat—not tight, but there, possessive and grounding. He dropped a series of rough, smacking kisses against your lips, each one firm and fleeting before he finally took the plate with his free hand.  

“Aight," he muttered, settling onto the wooden stairs.  

The cat ate. Your husband ate. Now, you could have the real conversation you’d been holding off on.

You settle onto the wooden steps behind him, the worn planks creaking softly under your weight as you wrap your legs around his waist, molding your body against the warm expanse of his back. He’s hot to the touch—always running like a furnace—and you bury your face between his shoulder blades, inhaling the faint lingering scent of his cologne as he eats. 

"Did you check on your son?" 

The fork scrapes against the plate as he chews, his shoulders lifting in a half-shrug.

“Nah. But I know you did." 

A gruff pause, “‘He still alive? Limbs all attached?"

You hum, fingers trailing lazily through the neat rows of his cornrows, tracing the patterns like you’ve done a thousand times before.

 “Funny. He’s asleep.” 

Silence stretches between you, thick with unsaid things. Then, softly—  

“You do know you were wrong, right?" 

“Which part? ‘Cause I ain’t wrong about a lot of shit."  

You exhale through your nose, leaning into his shoulder as you murmur, “Ti tèt di."

 Stubborn man.

He doesn’t respond, just keeps eating—his jaw working methodically, the muscles in his back flexing beneath your touch. You press a kiss to the nape of his neck before continuing—  

”Remember when we found out I was pregnant? How scared you were?"

Silence.  

You then whisper, “He’s got an amazing head on his shoulders, Papa. Just like you. Maybe...he’s serious about this girl." 

“He’s sixteen.” 

“And we were fifteen—sneakin’ into my momma’s house when she went to sleep, havin’ unprotected sex, and then what happened?” 

He leans back into you with a rough huff, his head tilting just enough to bump against yours.

“You tryna be funny.” 

“I’m not."

 Your fingers trail down to his jaw, tracing the line of his beard as you say—“Our parents kicked us out, and we’ve been on our own since then."

The silence between you grows heavier, thick with the weight of memories neither of you ever really talk about—nights spent sleeping in his beat up Chevy, the way his voice had cracked when his own father slammed the door in his face, the quiet tears you'd wiped away when your mama called you a disgrace.  

You press a kiss to his shoulder, soft as a prayer. 

"But we knew our little wolf was special, didn’t we?”  

A beat. 

“Yeah." 

You smile against his skin, “Asaud is yours, but he’s not you. He’s not gonna make the mistakes we did—and shuttin’ him down like our parents did to us? It’d be unfair.”  

Onyankopon exhales—long, slow—his head tipping back against your shoulder.

Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft yet carrying the weight of years as you murmur, "Give him the grace we never got." 

Your husband goes quiet. The cicadas hum in the thick night air, the stray cat now curled on the porch railing, licking its paws as if amused by the whole scene.  

Then—  

“‘Guess I ain't have to yank his ass up like that." 

The admission comes out gruff, and you can't help the faint smile that tugs at your lips. With a playful flick to the side of his head, you tease, "Don’t be puttin’ hands on my baby no more." 

Before you can blink, his massive arm hooks behind you, tugging you effortlessly onto his lap. You let out a surprised squeak of laughter, instantly melting into the familiar warmth of his hold—his thick thighs beneath you, the hard plane of his chest pressed flush against your back. His heat engulfs you, his scent wrapping around your senses like a second skin.  

You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, fingers tracing the shell of his ear as you murmur, "But hey… we didn’t do so bad, did we?" 

His arms tighten around your waist, lips brushing your temple—"Nah. We did better.”  

You giggle as he kisses you, slow at first, then deeper, hotter—your tongue stroking his with a suddenly filthy, practiced familiarity. You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, “‘Wore your jersey just for you…" 

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated. 

“You know I’ll never say no—but a nigga tired as hell." 

You gasp in mock offense, pulling back to squint at him.

 “Oh, so you can yoke up my child— but no dick for me?" 

That deep, rich chuckle vibrates against your ribs as he leans back against the porch railing, pulling you tighter against him.

“Daddy ain’t Superman. One city at a time."

You blow out an exaggerated huff, lips pursed in playful frustration as you mutter, “You're annoying." 

“And you horny." 

You cross your arms over your chest but sink deeper into his embrace anyway, the steady thump of his heartbeat against your back. After a beat, you nudge him with your elbow, voice softening.

 “...You love me?" 

For a moment he says nothing—just holds you there in the quiet, southern night humming around you both. 

Then, sweet as molasses—“When don't I?" 

And yeah. That was your answer.  

The next morning, Asaud wakes up early—his body already braced for a day of grueling chores and another lecture still hanging heavy in the air. He tiptoes down the hallway, bare feet quiet against the hardwood, expecting silence. Instead? The rich, savory scent of butter, garlic, and smoked sausage hits him the moment he steps near the kitchen.  

He pauses. Frowns.  

Spread across the countertop is a full Louisiana-style breakfast—crispy-edged fried eggs, golden-brown grits swimming in cheese, spicy Cajun hash, and fluffy buttermilk biscuits still steaming from the oven. His favorite. 

Confusion knits his brows as he steps further inside, only to freeze at the sight of you and Onyankopon standing near the stove.  

Onyankopon's massive frame is leaned into yours, his head tilted slightly as your fingers glide through his cornrows, re-braiding the edges with careful precision. You're both talking—voices low, words unintelligible from where he stands—but the ease between you is undeniable.  

Then you glance up, spotting him lingering in the doorway.

 "Mornin’, baby," you greet, smiling—“How’d you sleep?" 

Asaud shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking between the food and his father's impassive face. 

“...Good," he mutters—“What's all this?"

“Yo’ momma insisted on makin’ yo’ favorite breakfast," Onyankopon grumbles, voice rough with morning fatigue.  

You flick his ear. 

He then huffs, “Aight, I told her to." 

You’re then crossing the kitchen toward Asaud, your bare feet padding softly against the tile. His eyes flicker with wariness, still bruised from yesterday’s heated exchange—though the mark looks lighter now, less angry. You reach up, fingers ghosting over the spot as you murmur, “Want momma to ice it for you?"  

Asaud ducks his head slightly, but shakes it—“No ma’am, I’m aight." 

You smile, nudging him toward the table where his plate waits. 

“Eat ‘fore it gets cold." 

Hesitant, he sinks into his chair, poking at the food before glancing between you both suspiciously. 

“…Y’all poisoned my food or sum’?" 

"Ain’t I tell you he was finna’ think that?"

“Hush, Ony.”

Your voice softens then as you turn back to Asaud. 

“We had a…revelation last night... and we just want you to know—we love you. All of you. Every stubborn, hardheaded, beautiful part." 

The kitchen falls silent—save for the sizzle of grease in the skillet, the hum of the ceiling fan.  

You take a deep breath, clasping your hands together excitedly. The morning sunlight spills across the kitchen table as you announce, “Me and Daddy have been feeling a little disconnected from you lately, so we came up with an idea—Family Date! Yes Edition.” 

Asaud blinks, fork hovering mid air over his grits.

“…Yes Edition?”

You beam, “Whatever you want to do today—no matter what—we have to say yes to!" 

Asaud's frown deepens, but there's a flicker of something mischievous in his gaze now. 

“Whatever I want?"

You nod enthusiastically. On the other hand, Onyankopon rubs his temple as he mutters, “My damn wallet achin’ already." 

“The sky is the limit, baby. What’d you wanna do?" 

For a long moment, Asaud chews thoughtfully, brow furrowed as he considers his options. Then? It hits him all at once. 

“Aight, bet.” 

He sits up straighter as he lists off, “First—we hittin’ up Bayou Guns for some target practice. Then, monster truck rally tickets—front row. After that, ’whole rack of ribs from Big Mike’s Smokehouse, extra spicy. And,”—he pauses dramatically, eyes flicking to his father—“Pops, you gotta let me drive the truck today." 

Onyankopon almost chokes on his coffee. 

“Hell nah I’m not!" 

You level the look at Onyankopon—the one that makes his jaw twitch because he knows he’s already lost. His dark eyes flick from you to Asaud’s hopeful expression before he exhales sharply through his nose, resigned.  

“It’s yo’ day, Papa. Gon’ head." 

Asaud’s grin is immediate, lighting up his entire face like a kid on Christmas morning.

 This was gonna be an adventure. 

The day starts with everyone scrambling to get ready—you weren’t exactly thrilled about spending hours immersed in testosterone fueled chaos, but the thought of just being with your boys? Had you smiling despite yourself.  

Onyankopon emerges looking stupidly fine—his black long sleeve clinging to every defined ridge of muscle, the ink snaking down his arms and neck peeking out from beneath the fabric. Camo pants hang low on his hips, black Dunks laced tight on his feet, and those damn chains glinting against his chest like he stepped straight out of some high end streetwear ad. His face—God—those sharp tattoos along his cheekbones contrasting his deep brown skin, that signature don’t fuck with me glare permanently etched into his expression.  

You keep poking at it as you all get ready, making him swat your hand away with a grunt.  

Asaud mirrors his energy effortlessly—hoodie layered over his own fitted tee, shoes swapped for something sleeker, but the same vibe radiating off him. Like father, like son.  

You press kisses to both their cheeks before stepping back, smoothing down the backless top and capris hugging your curves—classy enough to turn heads, erotic enough to have Onyankopon’s fingers twitching. His dark gaze drops to your chest where your nipples press visibly against the fabric.  

“‘You cold?” he rumbles, dragging a single fingertip over one peaked bud.  

You pout, swatting his hand away—“It’s just chilly!" 

Now, here was the card ride. Pure chaos as you’d imagined—Onyankopon gripping the passenger side handle like he was seconds from yanking the wheel himself every time Asaud hit the gas too hard or took a turn a little too sharp.

“Nigga, I swear—if you don’t slow down, Imma’ have you pull over right here and make you ride in the back like the toddler you actin’ like." 

Asaud just smirked, glancing at you in the rearview before purposefully tapping the accelerator again—just to watch his father’s eye twitch.  

The gun range parking lot was packed, buzzing with the low hum of engines and the occasional pop of gunfire in the distance. Stepping out of the truck, you immediately felt that familiar dread creep in—not from the firearms, but from the eyes. The looks. The inevitable moment when someone would glance between you, Onyankopon, and Asaud, their brows furrowing as they tried to piece together your dynamic.  

Were you his older siblings? Friends?  

Then—the shock when they realized—Oh. You were his mother. 

Being a parent had never forced you to dress older than you were, never dulled your vibrancy to fit some matronly mold. Even now, trailing behind Onyankopon and Asaud—both towering over you, broad shouldered and imposing—you looked every bit the effortlessly sensual, youthful woman you were. Your deep merlot Coach purse swung at your hip, charms jingling with each step, your jet black curls bouncing against your back. Meanwhile, Onyankopon moved like he owned the ground beneath him, all quiet power and simmering dominance—a kingpin with his diamond in tow. 

The inside smelled like gunpowder, leather, and faintly of the fried catfish wafting from the snack bar in the corner. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to your skin as soon as you stepped inside—sharp cracks of gunfire echoed off the concrete walls, making your shoulders tense involuntarily. Each shot sounded like a miniature explosion—too loud, too sudden—and you instinctively pressed closer to Onyankopon's side, fingers tightening around his hand as if anchoring yourself to him.

The man behind the register gruffly asked, “What’chu wanna shoot with today?” 

Asaud’s eyes flickered toward the glass case displaying an array of firearms—some sleek and modern, others heavy and intimidating. His gaze lingered on the biggest one—a monstrous, black tactical shotgun that looked like it could knock a grown man flat on his back.  

Onyankopon didn’t even blink, “That one."

Asaud's eyes widened, “Forreal’?"

“Yo’ day, right?"

You retreated to the far back of the room, perched on a worn leather bench like a reluctant cheerleader. Your knees pressed together, hands folded in your lap as you watched them gear up—ear protection, gloves, safety glasses.  

Onyankopon looked illegal—his black sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, tattooed forearms as he handled the firearm with the kind of casual expertise that made your stomach flip. The range owner walked him through the basics—not that he needed it—but Onyankopon nodded along anyway, his deep voice rumbling something low in response.  

The sight before you had your lips parting slightly—Onyankopon lifting that heavy shotgun like it weighed nothing, his massive frame balanced with effortless precision. The first BOOM of his test shot rattled through the private room, the recoil absorbed effortlessly by his broad shoulders. Smoke curled from the barrel as he exhaled, lowering the gun and turning to Asaud with that same unreadable expression—except you knew him, knew the subtle pride in the tilt of his chin, the patience in his stance as he prepared to teach his son the way his own father had taught him.  

“Regarde,” he murmured, shifting fluidly between English and Creole as he adjusted Asaud’s grip. 

“Firme, yeah? Shoulder tight—non, like this.” 

His large hands guided Asaud's calloused fingers, pressing the younger man’s palm flush against the stock.

“You feel that? That’s control. ‘You nervous, ‘that gun know.” 

And just like that—Asaud shifted. His spine straightened, shoulders squaring under his father’s approval. The next shot he took wasn’t perfect—but it was strong, the kickback barely rocking him as the target downrange splintered at the edge.  

“Decent,” Onyankopon conceded, “For yo’ first try.” 

Your hands shot up in excited applause, curls tumbling over your freckled cheeks as you cheered, “Yay!”—you then blew a stubborn strand out of your face with a playful huff, watching as Asaud wandered over to stand beside you, wiping his palms on his hoodie.  

"Gon’ head, Pops," he called out, nodding toward the range.  

Onyankopon stepped up, and suddenly, the gun in his hands wasn’t just a weapon. It was an extension of him. Each shot boomed like thunder, paper targets shredding into confetti under his relentless precision. He moved like liquid—fluid, deadly—twisting the gun with an assassin’s grace, reloading without breaking rhythm. The sheer power radiating off him had your pulse thrumming in your throat.  

Asaud whistled low under his breath.  

“Aight, Sergeant! ‘Where you learn that from?" 

“He wanted to be one, actually.” 

Asaud turned to you, brow arched. 

"Pops wanted to be in the army?”   

Your gaze lingered on your husband, watching the way his shoulders flexed as he fired off another perfect shot—the way his focus never wavered, even now.  

"Higher up in the Navy, actually," you murmured. “‘Wanted to follow in his father’s path… before I got pregnant with you." 

A beat of silence. Then—  

“What happened?" 

Your fingers toyed with the charms on your purse, but your eyes stayed on Onyankopon. You exhale, “He disowned him. Hasn’t spoken to his father since I was in my first trimester." 

The words hung heavy between you.  

“He would’ve found a way to go overseas," you continued softly—"But he didn’t want to leave me. Or you. ‘Wanted to watch you grow up." 

Asaud’s voice was quieter now, “So…he never went for what he really wanted?” 

You turned to him then, smiling—really smiling—despite the ache in your chest.  

“You became our first priority the moment I held you in my arms, baby.”

Your voice dipped into honeyed warmth, "And you cried, cried, cried.” 

A dreamy little smile tugged at your lips, the memory of tiny fists gripping your finger, Onyankopon's unreadable mask cracking just once as he pressed his lips to your sweaty forehead in that delivery room.  

You blinked back to the present, tilting your head toward Asaud. 

“Your father can be…difficult," you admitted, “But know this—he loves you more than anything in this world. Everything he does, every hard lesson...it's because he wants everything for you." 

Asaud scuffed his shoe against the concrete floor, "I know that, Momma.” 

Just then, Onyankopon's shadow fell over you both, smelling like gunpowder and that stupidly expensive cologne he only wore on special occasions. 

“Y’all talkin’ ‘bout me?" he rumbled, slinging an arm around your shoulders.  

You batted your lashes up at him innocently—“Just tellin’ our son where he gets his handsome features from." 

Onyankopon's nostrils flared, “Don’t be flirtin’ with me in front of our child, girl," he muttered, the heat in his low voice betraying him.  

Your giggle spilled freely as you leaned even more into him, “Too late." 

“Aight, Aight,”  Asaud groaned, “Y’all weird. Monster trucks next—before y’start kissin’ or sum’." 

And just like that? You were onto the next.

The monster truck show was deafening, and entirely too boyish for your liking. You spent most of it grimacing, and hiding behind Onyankopon’s shoulder each time you thought you were gonna witness a crime scene explosion. From the activities today? You were sure to be rewarded by this meal. 

The scent of hickory smoke and sizzling meat hits you the moment you step into Big Mike’s Smokehouse—a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and bluesy guitar riffs pouring from the jukebox in the corner. The worn wooden booth creaks as you slide in beside Onyankopon, your thighs pressing together beneath the checkered tablecloth. Across from you, Asaud taps his fingers against the menu, though all three of you already know what you’re ordering—extra spicy ribs, collard greens swimming in pot liquor, and cornbread so buttery it melts on contact.  

Your fingers trace idle circles over Onyankopon’s knuckles where his hand rests in your lap, his rough skin warm against your touch. You take a breath, leaning into his shoulder before murmuring, “Did you enjoy yourself today, baby?" 

Asaud nods, a rare softness in his expression. 

“I did. ‘Preciate y’all." 

You smile, cheeks flushing—but then you straighten slightly, catching Onyankopon’s eye. 

“Well—now that we’ve played—let’s have a serious conversation, yeah?" 

Asaud’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, but he nods.

“Yes, ma’am." 

“Jamal," Onyankopon starts, “What really happened between y’all?" 

Asaud exhales through his nose, dragging a hand over his locs.

 "I…always liked Sabine. Jamal knew that. ‘Still tried to get at her." 

You hum, tilting your head.

 “I don’t doubt she’d like you, baby. But—“ You choose your words carefully, "Did she seem…responsive to your feelings? Or does she actually like Jamal?" 

Asaud’s jaw works before he mutters, “She do like me. ‘Told me my dreads was cool last week." 

Onyankopon blinks. Slowly. 

Then turns to you, one brow arched—“‘That’s how the lil’ girls get niggas’ attention?"

Your shoulders lift in a helpless shrug, “I guess?” 

Asaud frowns, “Why y’all actin’ like confused old people right now?” 

You bite your lip, exhaling through your nose—“I’m sorry, baby. Y’all’s generation is just…different in courting each other. The only way you know how is to—” 

Then—it hits you. Like a freight train.  

Your spine stiffens. Eyes widening, you lean halfway across the table, gripping Asaud’s hands tight enough to make him blink.  

“Asaud?” 

He freezes.

 “Lawd, Momma. You scarin’ me. What’s wrong?” 

“This…Sabine girl…you haven’t…?” 

“Haven’t what?”  

Onyankopon leans back, raising a brow. 

Asaud’s gaze darts between you both before he huffs, “Contrary to stereotypes with bein’ quarterback—yes, Momma—I’m still a virgin. Damn.” 

The breath you’d been holding whooshes out of you. Your head drops forward, curls spilling over your shoulders as you clutch your chest. 

“Thank God! Okay, I just…whew,” You fan yourself dramatically, “I almost fainted.” 

Asaud shifts in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck before he drops the bombshell. 

“Despite y’all thinkin’ my head is loose, I plan on waitin’ ‘til marriage." 

“Mon chéri!” you squeal in Creole, launching yourself forward as you kiss his forehead no less than three times as he groans, trying to duck away.

“Mwen si fiè de ou! Oh, mon bébé!” 

Oh, my baby!

Onyankopon watches, amusement lacing his voice as he mutters, “She finna’ start speakin’ in tongues—don’t say shit else, boy."

You're still catching your breath from the emotional high when you lean forward, smoothing Asaud’s shirt before saying with earnest warmth, “Okay—well, although that’s amazing to hear—don’t be afraid to ask questions, baby. I know sex education isn’t the best in schools, so…anything in that aspect, you know you can always come to us, right?" 

Onyankopon clears his throat, "I think you gotta leave that conversation for me, shawty—" 

You wave a hand dismissively, “We’re supposed to be bonding! Don’t leave me out of it.” 

Onyankopon exhales through his nose. He then says,  “‘You right. Yo’ pops an open book, ‘Saud.”

Asaud’s gaze darts between you both, hesitating. 

Then? 

“Does the pull out method really work?" 

Your mouth drops. Of all the questions—  

Heat floods your cheeks as your brain short-circuits. Before you can even think of a diplomatic answer, Onyankopon leans back, arms crossed, and says completely deadpan—

“Ion’ know. I nut in yo’ momma everytime—" 

“OHMYGOD—“

 You shriek in Creole,  “Pouki ou fè sa nan piblik?!”

Really, in public?

“So how come ion’ got a sibling?”

You’re so disturbed by Onyankopon who nonchalantly begins eating his food, taking a moment to process Asaud’s other question. You take a slow breath, fingers tightening around your napkin. 

"I got my tubes tied after I had you, baby. You’re my lifeline—but it was a horrible pregnancy."

 Your hand drifts unconsciously to your lower stomach, remembering the months of bed rest, the way your ankles swelled like overripe fruit.  

Then, shooting Onyankopon a look, you point a stern finger at Asaud—“Had your father answered educationally, you would’ve known why we can have unprotected sex—but you should not! Condoms. Every. Time."

Onyankopon interjects, "Unless y’all in love. Then? ‘Make yo’ wife a twinkie’.” 

Your fingers clutch desperately at the diner table as you squeak, “Let’s move on!”—voice pitching high like a deflating balloon. You clear your throat, smoothing a hand over your top as you force yourself back into Mom Mode. 

“What do you really like about this girl?”

Asaud pauses, staring down at his half-eaten ribs as if the bones might spell out the answer for him. For a moment, there’s nothing but the clatter of silverware and Big Mike’s raspy laugh booming from the kitchen. 

“She got this…quiet way ’bout her," he starts, voice lower than usual. 

“Like, she don’t gotta laugh loud to be heard. And when she do smile—" He shakes his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips—“Man, it’s like she savin’ it just for you. Makes you feel…special, I guess."

You reach across the table, squeezing his wrist. 

“That’s sweet, baby. Real sweet. But…" You hesitate, exchanging a glance with Onyankopon before continuing gently, “Are you willing to pursue this girl and lose your best friend over it?"

Asaud’s jaw hardens, “Jamal clearly ain’t my friend." 

Onyankopon shakes his head, “Nah. He’s a boy on some puppy love shit—just like you.”

You now rub at Asaud’s knuckles.

“Baby, think about it. Jamal stayed at our house more nights than you did sometimes. Went to your cousins cookouts, helped your daddy fix up the car—" 

“Even came to yo’ grandma’s funeral," Onyankopon cuts in, dead serious—“That’s family shit." 

Your voice softens, “A real friend would’ve stepped back the moment he knew how you felt. But love makes people act stupid—especially at y’all’s age. You sure this girl worth torching that bridge?" 

Asaud’s throat bobs.

The diner’s chatter fades into a dull hum as Asaud sits back, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his thoughts. His fingers fiddle with the condensation on his sweet tea glass, tracing idle circles as he chews on his bottom lip—the same nervous habit he’s had since he was a toddler.  

Then, finally, he exhales sharply through his nose.  

“A girl ain’t finna’ have me lose my wide receiver," he mutters, shaking his head. 

“But that ‘don’t mean I ain’t got feelin’s, Momma."

He thinks on his words for a moment. 

Asaud’s voice then drops lower, “A lot of my friends’ parents don’t get along—divorced, fightin’, separated, only cordial ‘cause they made a mistake back in the day. I know I clown on y’all’s gushiness…” he continues, waving a hand at the way you’re still practically draped over Onyankopon’s arm, “But…I’m glad I got parents that love each other. And I just—" He hesitates, eyes flickering down before meeting yours again—“I want somethin’ like that. Somethin’ real." 

A whimpery giggle escapes you as tears well in your eyes—hot, stinging—before spilling over.  

“Shit, here ‘she go," Onyankopon mutters, already rubbing at your hip affectionately.

Your heart swells so big it feels like it might burst right out of your chest. You slide out of the booth in one fluid motion, your hands cupping your son's face—rough stubble scratching your palms, his locs soft against your forearms.

“Do you know how much we love you, sweet boy?" 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it.  

“I’m knowin’, Momma."  

Then, quieter—“Look…I’m sorry for bein’ mean to you yesterday. And…"

He glances at Onyankopon who’s watching with his usual stoic expression, though his dark eyes hold a warmth only you and Asaud ever really see—“Sorry to you too, Pops." 

That’s all it takes.  

You squeak, pulling him into a crushing embrace, smothering his face in kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose—while rapid-fire Creole endearments spill from your lips like a prayer.  

“Mon petit roi! Mon cœur! Bondye beni ou, mwen renmen ou tout bagay!" 

My little king ! God bless you, I love you with all my heart !

Asaud groans, half-heartedly trying to squirm away—"Damn, Momma—I said I was sorry—" 

“Non, non! Mwen pa fini ak ou!" 

I’m not done with you! 

Onyankopon watches, shaking his head—but when Asaud shoots him a pleading look, he just smirks and shrugs.  

“Take yo’ medicine, boy."

Your bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout as you turn pleading eyes toward Onyankopon, fingers still tangled in Asaud's locs.  

"Be sweet, Papa!" you urge, batting your lashes dramatically—“Tell your son you love him—none of that manly grunting stuff!" 

Onyankopon exhales through his nose, but after a beat, his deep voice rumbles—low, rough, but undeniably fond—  

“I love you, ‘Saud. Even when you actin’ dumb."

Asaud snorts, but the corner of his mouth lifts as he mutters back, “Love you too, Pops." 

You sigh happily, finally releasing Asaud—only to immediately eye his half-finished ribs. 

“Baby, lemme get a bite of—" 

“Nuh uh!" Asaud yanks his plate away, nodding toward Onyankopon. 

“You better ask yo’ husband!" 

Onyankopon slides his own plate toward you without a word, smirk smug as you stick your tongue out at Asaud.  

“Haters," you mumble around a mouthful of smoky, tender meat.  

Later, you’re curled into Onyankopon’s side on the couch, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm as some old cartoon flickers across the TV. The peace is shattered by Asaud’s bedroom door creaking open. He steps out fully dressed—hoodie, sneakers laced tight—and your head lifts from Onyankopon’s chest.  

“You okay, baby?" 

Asaud shifts on his feet, avoiding eye contact.

“I’m straight. Uh…Jamal finna’ be here in a couple minutes." 

You and Onyankopon exchange frowns—just as a knock echoes through the house.  

Jamal now stands on the threshold when Asaud opens the door, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly bowed. 

“Evenin’, Mr. and Mrs. Osei.”

You blink, glancing between him and Asaud—who’s now lurking awkwardly by the foyer.  

“Uh…are y’all…okay now?"

“We talked. It's straight," Asaud mutters, shifting his weight as he glances between you and Jamal.  

Your eyes narrow slightly.  

“So that's it? Y’all ain’t fighting over this girl no more?" 

“This my ‘quarterback, Momma—“ Jamal chuckles, “Beta to his alpha—even though we both run shit, you know how it go."

“Language, ‘Mal." 

Jamal dips his head immediately at Onyankopon’s voice—“My fault, Mr. Osei." 

You exhale, shaking your head as you sink back against Onyankopon’s side.  

“You men are so strange." 

Then, glancing back at Jamal with a small smile, you add, “Well—are you staying to hang out, Jamal?" 

Before Jamal can answer, Asaud slips in smoothly—too smoothly—“Nah, we headed to a party." 

Onyankopon’s arm tenses beneath you, his jaw tightening. 

“Did you ask if you could go to a party?"

You press your palm gently against Onyankopon’s chest, “Ony, c’mon.” 

He exhales through his nose. 

“Curfew at eleven. Not a minute later. And both of y’all better answer yo’ phones when I call.” 

Asaud nods quickly, relief flashing in his eyes—“Got it." 

"We out, then. Love y’all!” 

You wave them off with a smile, “Be safe!" 

Your lashes flutter slightly as you watch Onyankopon’s sharp side profile an hour after they leave—the strong line of his jaw, the way braids shape out his face, his deep set eyes locked onto the TV screen like he’s studying every frame. You trace idle circles over his chest with your fingertips, admiring the way the dim lamplight catches the faint sheen of his skin.  

"What you starin’ at, girl?" 

You grin, pressing a kiss just above his heart.  

“My amazing husband." 

“Mmm”, he rumbles, “You just love flirtin’ with a nigga.”

You murmur, “Maybe," in a playful tone—then, with a gentle tug at his chin, you guide his face toward yours.

“You haven’t kissed your wife all day."

“Damn,” he grips at your waist, “A nigga finna’ get locked up, huh?" 

You giggle close to his lips, “Life with no parole." 

And then his mouth crashes into yours—full, warm, tasting like sweet tea and the lingering smokiness of barbecue. His kiss is slow at first, until you smoothly climb onto his lap, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck as you deepen the kiss, your tongue teasing his bottom lip until a rough grunt vibrates against your mouth.  

“Why you feenin’?” 

You don’t answer—too busy loosening his belt with practiced ease, your lips trailing down his neck as you palm him through his pants, earning another gravelly curse through your husband's mouth. 

“Saud’ could walk back in this house at any moment, girl—" 

Your laughter spills against his collarbone in breathy giggles, warm and honeyed, as your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants—finally freeing him into your grip. The moment his tip springs free, your breath catches—a sharp, needy whine escaping your throat as your eyes drink in the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins straining against heated skin, the tip already glistening with his impatience.  

“‘M hungry, Papa. Can I?” 

You mewl these words so desperately, lips brushing the twitching head as you gaze up at him through fluttering lashes.  

Onyankopon’s grip tightens in your curls—not pulling, just holding—as he rasps, “Goddamn. Aight.” 

Your tongue then darts out, tracing the swollen ridge beneath his crown, relishing the salt-sweet taste of him before dipping into his slit. His hips jerk—hard—knocking a choke from your lungs, but you don’t relent. Instead, you press open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, nuzzling into the thatch of coarse hair at the base before swirling your tongue around the tip again.  

“Hollon’, Mama—” he grits out, fingers flexing in your hair, but you’re already sinking down, taking him halfway with a blissful whimper. The stretch burns sweetly, your lips sealing around him as hollowed cheeks suck him deeper. His thighs tremble beneath you, a ragged, “Fuck—” tearing from his chest as your tongue swirls along his length on the upstroke.  

You pull off with a lewd pop, running your tongue viciously against your puffy lips at the way his stomach muscles clench. 

“Missed this,” you purr, licking a stripe from root to tip before swallowing him down again—deeper this time—until your nose brushes his skin. His groan is filthy, echoing through the living room as his head thuds back against the couch.  

“Gon’ make me act up,” he warns, voice dark with promise—but you just whimper again around him, eyes fluttering shut as you bob faster, hungrier. The wet sounds of your mouth on him mix with his ragged breaths, the cartoon still playing forgotten in the background. 

Your lips stretch obscenely, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as you take him all the way down—nose pressed into his pelvis, throat fluttering wildly around the intrusion. Your eyes roll back slightly at the stretch, tears pricking at the corners as you whimper around his girth again— needy, gagging sound that vibrates against his skin and makes his hips jerk instinctively.  

“Fuck—look at you," Onyankopon growls, fingers tightening in your curls, yanking just enough to make you mmph—air rushing into your lungs before you dive back down, hollowing your cheeks shamelessly.  

You pull off with another wet pop, spit slick lips swollen and glistening as you pant—only to spit directly onto his dick, the glob of saliva trailing thickly down his shaft before you smear it with your mouth. You then smack his length against your tongue, giggling breathlessly.

“Goddamn," he snarls heavier, voice dripping with lust—a vein popping in his neck as he glares down at you like he wants to eat you alive.  

You swirl your tongue around his tip, lapping at the precum beading there before sinking back down—deeper, messier—your throat working in desperate swallows around him. Drool drips down your chin, your brows knitting together in a mix of pleasure and strain as you gag prettily around him—the sounds leaving your mouth absolutely disgusting. 

“Ain’t no way you suckin’ dick this good and actin’ all innocent at the dinner table," he grunts, thrusting shallowly into your throat, his grip on your hair bordering on painful—“Fuckin’ glutton—can’t even breathe right and you still tryna’ swallow my shit whole.” 

You give a desperate moan in response—half-protest, half-agreement—your fingers digging into his thighs as you bob faster, sloppier, spit and precum fully smearing across your lips. His hips buck up violently, forcing himself deeper as he curses under his breath—“Gon’ make this bitch nut all over yo’ pretty ass face.” 

You're drunk off him—every suck, every gag, every slurp of your lips dragging up his shaft leaving you dizzy with greed. Your tongue lolls obscenely along the underside of his cock, spit-slick and desperate, drool dripping in thick strands onto his heavy balls, making them glisten under the dim light. The mess coats your chin, smears across your cheeks—ruins you beautifully—but you don’t care, too lost in the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue.  

You usually ask—Papa, can I?—but right now, you don’t want permission. You want everything. 

So with an aroused impatience you climb fully into his lap, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. One hand grips his shoulder for balance as you yank your capris with the other, exposing bare skin—no panties, never panties when you knew he’d be home. His tip slaps wetly against your folds, already soaked just from sucking him off, and you whimper—high and broken—as his thumb ruthlessly circles your clit, sending sparks up your spine.  

His mouth crashes into yours, tongues tangling sloppily, spit mixing between you as he grunts against your lips—  

“I ain’t movin’. Put that bitch in.” 

Your fingers knot in the hair at the nape of his neck as you sink down—slowly, so slowly—stretching around him inch by torturous inch. And the burn? It’s delicious. White-hot and overwhelming, your walls fluttering wildly as you take him deeper. Your eyes even begin to water, lashes sticking together as tears spill over, your mouth trembling against his in a silent sob.  

Then—squelch—a wet, gushing sound punches from your pussy as you bottom out, his hips fully flush against your ass. The obscene noise—like air forced from a tight space—makes you shudder, your thighs shaking violently around him.  

“Fuck—” Onyankopon snarls into your mouth, his grip on your waist bruising, “Tight-ass pussy always tryna act brand new.”

You whimper—pitiful, unable to do nothing else.

His palms cradle the plush underside of your thighs—calloused fingertips digging into soft flesh as he lifts you effortlessly, your body hovering above him for one breathless moment before he drops you back down.  

The descent is slow—agonizing—every inch of him dragging against your walls until you’re whimpering nonsensically, Creole curses and praise tumbling from your lips in a slurred mess—  

“Ah—Mon Dieu—Papa, li two cho—!”

Then—smack—your ass lands heavy against his thighs, skin sticking wetly before peeling apart with a lewd clap that ricochets through the living room. Your vision whites out for a second, mouth falling slack as pleasure crackles up your spine—  

“Shit.”

Your voice fractures, knees trembling where they bracket his hips. His grip tightens—lifting you again—only to drop you back onto him, the force punching the air from your lungs.  

“Fuck,” you sob, nails raking down his chest, “P—Papa, li two gwo—!” 

You’re too big. 

“Talk that shit now,” he taunts, “Thought you was hungry?” 

“O—O bondye—P-Papa—!” 

I can’t.

The fabric of your top crumples violently in Onyankopon’s fists—fingers twisting, yanking the material taut as he uses it like reins to drive you down onto him. Every bounce wrenches a gasp from your lips, your body jolting with each punishing thrust, his dick spearing into you with a relentless, bruising rhythm. Your face crumples, pouting down at him—eyes glazed, lips swollen and trembling—as he growls up at you in thick, guttural Creole.

"Ou vle sa, mm? Ou vle Papa kraze ou?" 

You want me to break yo’ shit, huh?

You nod frantically, a pathetic, shuddering “Mm-hmm—!" hiccuping from your throat as your cream spills obscenely down his shaft, pooling at the base where his balls glisten with your slick.  

“I—I’m gonna’ cum—!" you mewl, voice breaking, thighs quivering as your walls flutter wildly around him.  

But Onyankopon doesn’t speed up—doesn’t slow down—just keeps grinding you onto him at that same, devastating pace, letting you feel every inch as your orgasm crests. Your back arches, a silent scream tearing through you as your pussy gushes—hot, wet pulses of arousal soaking his lap, dripping down his abdomen in sticky rivulets.  

“Regarde ça," Look at that, he mutters, voice rough with lust as he watches you squirt all over him—“Fais un gros désordre, mm?" 

’Made a big fuckin’ mess.

Onyankopon’s grip shifts—his hands cinching around your waist as he stands in one fluid motion, twisting you midair before slamming your back flush against his chest. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling at his forearms as he bends you forward in the same motion, your spine arching obscenely as he crowds over you.

“Ain’t took my pussy like this inna’ minute. Let a nigga feel you.” 

This position—back arched deep, ass tilted up, your body folded in half—was never one you could handle. He knew it. You knew it. Years of marriage, and he only pulled it out on two occasions: when you’d pissed him off just enough to deserve it—or when he wanted to ruin you so thoroughly you’d forget your own name.  

His dick sinks back into you—slow, sadistic—the stretch bordering on pain as your walls flutter wildly around him. A petulant whimper claws from your throat, your face tucking into your own shoulder as you try to steady yourself.  

Too deep. Too much. 

Before you can adjust, his palm wraps around your throat from behind—his fingers splayed possessively as he jerks his hips forward, bottoming out with a force that makes your vision blur.   

Your cry is muffled against your own skin, tears pricking at your lashes as he starts moving—no build-up, no mercy—just deep, piston-like thrusts that punch the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips.  

“Always actin’ brand new,” he grits out, “Like I ain’t had this pussy a thousand times.” 

Onyankopon yanks your head back as he starts fucking you with those long, slow, punishing strokes, burying himself to the hilt each time with a rough grunt. Your entire body shudders in shock, fingers clawing at your own ankles as you struggle to stay grounded, but there’s no escape—just the relentless drag of him stretching you open, over and over, the obscene squelch of your soaked pussy echoing in the air between you.  

A dumb, pleasure-drunk frown twists your face—eyebrows knitted, lips parted in a silent gasp—before your voice finally shatters into whiny, hiccupping sobs.  

“Ohh my god. Shit. Ughn, fuck—!" 

Your thighs tremble violently, your back bowing even more as pleasure coils tighter in your gut—each thrust dragging you closer to the edge. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. Just keeps stroking into you—rough, unhurried, perfect—until your mind whites out completely.

The next shift happens like lightning—his arms wrapping around you, hauling you flush against his chest as he lifts you just enough that your toes barely skim the floor, his strength suspending you effortlessly between his body and the air. His palm presses flat against your throat again—his lips dragging hot against the shell of your ear as his thrusts turn uneven, deeper, desperate. 

“Missed this shit... missed you…” 

You’re too far gone to answer—just weakly nodding, your head lolling back against his shoulder as pleasure crackles through every nerve. Onyankopon’s thrusts turn frantic, his breath ragged against your neck, his voice breaking every snap of his hips—  

“Shit—fuck—gon’ make me—" 

Your body aches—muscles trembling, thighs slick with sweat—but you force yourself to roll your hips back against him anyway, meeting each deep thrust with a weak but determined grind. Your voice is nothing but a breathless whimper, barely audible over the filthy slap of skin, but you need him to hear your words.   

“I love you—love you so much—“ 

Your words dissolve into a gasp as he rams into you again, the force of it making your toes curl against the floor. You tilt your head back, pressing your temple against his, lips brushing his jaw as you whisper—  

“Such a good...good father... takin’ care of us.” 

Onyankopon groans—low, raw—the sound vibrating against your skin as his fingers flex possessively around your throat. 

"Fuck—" he grits out, voice strained—almost shy—as if he’s not used to being unraveled like this.  

You reach back blindly, fingers tangling in his braids, tugging just enough to make him growl.  

“Sound so pretty,” you slur.

He curses again, biting at your shoulder as if you contain his own pleasure. 

“Chill.”

His warning rumbles against your lips, but it's unsteady—almost shaking—his usual arrogance stripped bare as his breath hitches. You don’t listen. Instead, you crash your mouth against his in a sloppy, desperate kiss, swallowing his next groan whole as he thrusts up into you—harder, deeper—his hips pistoning in a rhythm that has you both practically singing into each other’s mouths.  

His moan becomes muffled against your lips—“Oooh, shit—“ low and graveled, his forehead pressing against yours as his pace turns erratic. You nod frantically, whimpering in agreement, your own sounds just as broken as his, your nails scraping down his chest as you begin begging him. 

“Fill me up, baby.” 

And that’s all it takes.  

Onyankopon cums with a ragged groan, his entire body tensing as he spills into you in thick, pulsing waves—hot, endless, like he’s been holding back for weeks. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise as he rides it out, fucking his release even deeper inside you.  

You giggle—weak, breathless, but elated—the sensation of him twitching inside you sending little aftershocks of pleasure through your own trembling body. 

Onyankopon’s chest heaves against your back, his lips still hovering over yours as he mutters—“Goddamn." 

“Mmm,” you arch farther into his touch, “Would’ve gotten that last night if you weren’t so tired…" 

His lips drag slowly along the curve of your ear—hot breath making you shiver as he murmurs, “Patience builds tension, girl.” 

He grinds deep one last time, lazily rocking into you just to feel your walls flutter weakly around him.  

Your fingers tighten around his forearm, a pathetic little “‘M tired now, Papa…" slipping from your lips—weak, whiny, still buzzing from pleasure.  

“Oh, ‘you tired now?”

You twist in his arms, draping yourself fully against him—your arms looping around his neck, forehead pressing to his as you sigh, “C’monn, let's go shower."  

“Aight. We hunchin’ again?" 

“No, boy! I wanna go to bed. It's nearly twelve." 

He smacks his lips, eyes flicking past you to the clock on the wall—then freezes. 

“It's what time?" 

You blink up at him, suddenly aware of the shift in his tone—that dangerous edge creeping in. 

“Um…fifteen minutes to twelve?" you offer hesitantly.  

Onyankopon exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening as he looks down at you with narrowed eyes. 

“Imma' kill yo' son." 

Your hands fly up in protest, gripping his shoulders—“Well hold on!—He's a little over curfew, it's fine!”

“So now I'm doin' too much?” He smacks his lips, pulling back just enough to level you with a look—mockingly pitching his voice higher, mimicking your earlier whimpers— “’You’re such a good father’—what happened to allat’, huh?" 

You squeak, cheeks flushing hot as you slap a hand over his mouth, cutting off his teasing. 

“Stop it!” 

He licks your palm—nasty—making you yelp and yank your hand back as he grins, triumphant. 

“So you gon’ need the belt after him, huh?” 

You scrunch your nose.

“No. And you’re grumpy.” 

A chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away—just tilts his head, pressing his forehead a little harder against yours in that way he does when he’s softening, letting you know he’s conceding.  

“Imma’ let up, aight?" 

Your shoulders relax, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you exhale, melting into him.  

“'…’Kay.” 

His lips brush your temple before he murmurs, “Lemme’ just call and check on ‘em—after that? Imma’ rub on yo’ feet and knock the fuck out."

You exhale as he finally pulls away, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Always unable to let go of that protective dad instinct, even when he was supposed to be letting up—but that was just him. Overbearing, stubborn, yours.  

The moment settles into something tender as you watch him grab his phone off the coffee table, his heavy silhouette outlined by the dim light of the living room.  

“I love you," you murmur, the words slipping out sweet and easy—like they always did.  

He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tilting up in that rare, real smile—the one reserved just for you.  

“’Love you more, girl.” 

He figured he would be back in his car by now, speeding off to his apartment. Not still standing here.

This was supposed to be quick.

“A'ight man, how much I owe you again?” Standing about two feet in front of him, his customer glances up, tearing his vision away from the crumpled bills in his hands.

Onyankopon almost kisses his teeth.

"Seventy-five."

He swears he said that number about five times since this interaction began.

"A'ight, got you…"

Crumpled paper flicks noisily as the client thumbs through the stack of random bills; fives, tens, and a whole lot of ones.

There's a faint, sour scent emanating off of the guy whenever he sways just a bit too much in his spot; dried sweat. It only adds to Onyankopon's growing irritation.

"Y-yo … I, uh … only got about forty-three cash, bro."

The feeble way in which he looks at him almost makes Onyankopon irate.

'This nigga,' he thinks.

A heavy sigh pushes past his lips, an urge he could no longer resist. "Just send the rest through Zelle or Cash App."

"Bet," the man says as he shoves the hand full of money his way.

Onyankopon gingerly takes the damp cash and pockets it quickly. With free hands, his customer frantically pulls out his phone to continue the transaction.

"Uh—h-how much?"

Onyankopon stares at him square in the face. "Whatever's left after forty-three dollars."

“Chill,” his client says with a shaky chuckle.

He's trying, he really is. Annoying clients come with the territory, especially when it comes down to dealing with a bunch of smokers.

Usually, he'd have more patience for this kind of thing. But, today he's pressed for time. Especially since he's got royalty blowing up his line, demanding his presence. 'Her impatient ass,' he thinks as his phone buzzes in his pocket, getting it's second message within the last hour.

Since their first time hooking up, Onyankopon won't deny the fact that Ámerei has been his main fix—on campus, at least.

After finals, they exchanged numbers, but it was radio silence between them during summer break. Understandably. She had her own life outside of school, and he had his own shit to take care of back home.

There were no ill sentiments between the two, just a mutual understanding of where this situation of theirs starts and ends: at school.

So, he wasn't surprised when she hit him up within the first month of this fall semester. He had stopped by at her new dorm—a single—and gave her what she timidly asked for.

And he gave it to her good. Maybe seeing her brought it out of him or maybe it was just the perfect chance to release some built up pressure.

Admittedly, when it comes to messing around with Ámerei, Onyankopon can appreciate the ease that comes with her. There weren't sneaking around anyone's back to do this. Additionally, the clarity she possesses regarding this entire thing is a breath of fresh air. She isn't blowing up his phone, demanding him to do things that fall within the realm of being a "significant other."

Honestly, she doesn't even ask him much about himself. Neither does he.

Compared to some of the other girls he's been with, she's definitely someone he doesn't have to stress out over.

However, even with the general ease of their situation-ship, it seems that he's created a little bit of a monster.

Are you busy?

Onyankopon..

I want to see you

He was in the car, on the way to this deal when the first message was read aloud to him.

She has a habit of hitting him up while he's in the middle of doing something or just so happens to be on his way out of the door. And despite being a recurring interruption to his plans, it always brings him a sense of fondness.

Despite the growing frequency of their meetups, Onyankopon believes that Ámerei isn't someone he'll grow tired of. He can't explain it, but he knows that she's just nice to be around. Cool.

His brain was silent while he tried to decide if he wanted to do this today.

He did.

It wasn't until he reached a red light, that he picked up his phone, allowing himself a weak smirk as he typed a response.

Uu wanna see my dicc

Her reply was instant:

That's not the same thing?

A small scoff left him as the traffic light ahead changed. Against his better judgment, he elected to split his attention in two places: the road and his phone.

Making plays rn

Uu cld wait ?

I'm with the girls at the apartment

Let me know when you get back

He loved the message, quickly dropping his phone in his lap.

Although, unlike other times, his brain didn't immediately drop the conversation. Rather, he kind of toiled over it for a minute or two, sparing an unnecessary amount of time on a particular idea: being considerate.

But, was it consideration? Or was that just his usual standard about punctuality?

Come another red light, Onyankopon chose to put those thoughts to rest. He never liked being in his head about someone for too long. When it comes to matters regarding people, it's either you do or you don’t.

So, he did.

Picking up his phone, his thumb slid across his keyboard in a quick pattern. He didn't even have to glance at the screen to send the short message.

Gimme a hr

She loved the message.

That conversation was definitely had over an hour ago and he's still not back home, at no fault of his own.

"I think the money sent."

Hands buried in the pockets of his sweats, Onyankopon gives the man a brief "Mhm," as he stares him down. He waits patiently for his phone to buzz with the notification of the money entering his account.

And when it does—because he needs to make sure that he's not being cheated put of his product, no matter how many times this guy has bought from him—only then does he give him what they came here for: the weed.

"Thank you so much, bro," he rushes out.

Onyankopon doesn't spare a word, let alone a glance, as he heads back to his car thinking:

'Finally.'

Hopping back in the driver's seat, he pulls the car door shut after him. He wastes no time in pulling out his phone.

So ... it's been an hour.

K...

His fingers move quick. 

My fault ik

Nigga was moving slow

Im comin dnt trip

He scoffs at his last message. When has he ever explained himself this much?

The trip back to his apartment is faster than it took for him to go out and meet his customer. 

Comin up rn be at the door

It takes all of six minutes for him to enter the building to reach his floor. Leaving the elevators behind, he turns down the long hallway, already seeing the short and slim figure waiting at his door.

Phone in hand, too concerned with whatever it is on her screen to watch her surroundings, she doesn't even notice him coming.

Ámerei stands with majority of her weight on one leg, her hip poking out to accentuate her subtle curves. There's a disruption on her face; a wrinkle of her brows.

She looks upset.

She looks good.

"Y'know, I could'a been anybody walking up on you."

Her head snaps up. The sable strands of her silk press falls away from her face to showcase the moment of recognition that flashes across it, just before it's overtaken by irritation. She opens her mouth.

"Before you even start, it wasn't me." He's already fishing for his apartment keys.

"What does that mean?" She raises a perfectly trimmed brow, eyeing him with skepticism.

“The nigga was doing too much," he says, glancing back at her over his shoulder. "I'm here though, so we not tripping'.”

He pushes the door open, allowing her first, as always. Ámerei's lips are sealed shut, shooting him a glare as she slips past him.

“Mhm.”  

Just as she turns her head forward, Onyankopon leaving her line of sight, a heavy hand pops her on the left side of her ass.

"What the fuck," she yelps, whipping around to face him. The sharp sting blooms into a hallow ache beneath her skin as she rubs the spot.

He tries to stifle the growing smirk on his face as he kicks the door shut behind him. “Got too much attitude."

“You were late, mind you,” she sneers, pointing a square acrylic nail into the bed of his chest.

"Eager, ain't you?"

She notices the strong arms circling her waist, yet neglects to acknowledge them.

Arms crossed, she's the epitome of a pretty girl with an attitude. Hair done, nails perfect, and a fresh set of lashes decorating her pretty brown eyes.

And, irritated or not, her gaze is a lot more seductive. He knows that if he makes mention of her saditty demeanor, he'll only rile her up more.

“I can go."

His eyes narrow by a fraction as he stares down at her. “But—" his hands slip from her waist to the perch of her ass. “You gon' stay.”

Her mouth opens to spit back a retort.

"And lose that attitude, 'cause you still getting what you want."

Before she can even think of a response to that one, Onyankopon drops his lips on hers; that conversation is done. In his grasp, she practically melts. The familiarity of his lips is too comforting for her to resist.

He has to admit, Ámerei has gotten better at kissing. A lot better. His favorite thing about that is her newfound affinity for sucking.

In fact, his tongue is almost always the first thing she goes for.

One last peck on the lips precedes a swipe over his bottom lip, coaxing him into a deeper kiss. Before he can even realize it, she's pushing her tongue into his mouth in search of his.

Her hands, soft and reaching, find the sides of his face to keep his head tilted so that she may get more access. He taught her that one.

To his own demise (benefit), every time she's got her lips wrapped around his tongue, it puts a fire in him that wakes him up below the belt. They're moving before he can even comprehend this, too busy feeling on her ass.

"—damn."

His body drops to the couch, slightly bouncing against the cushions. He barely manages to look up at her when she's climbing into his lap. Her eyes burn with lust.

"You moving like you … controlling shit." He's breathless watching her, hands coming to rest on her hips as she takes her seat.

Speaking of hands, hers press to his chest as she leans in for another kiss. His breath is stolen away for the second time in just two minutes.

"Mh … you smelled good," she moans against his mouth.

"I—"

She leaps at the chance to get to his tongue. And—unsurprisingly—she's sucking at him again, like he's a ripe berry, full of juice and ready to burst in her mouth.

His spit is sweet.

"'Preciate—" The half of his sentence that comes out is garbled by their kiss.

She only pulls away to whisper in his ear. "Taste good, Ony."

When she pulls back, and he can finally look her in the eyes, he's almost—scared?

This is not the shy virgin he met only a handful of months ago.

"Yeah?" He shifts upwards a bit, thinking of a way to regain control over this situation.

"Mhm," she nods. The hum is practically a moan, heavy and dragging.

Onyankopon takes this moment to look over her body.

It's just dipping back into the cooler seasons, on the cusp of fall. Yet, enough of her skin is exposed by an off-the-shoulder cropped crew-neck that it can make anyone think otherwise. And not to mention, the ridiculously thin gray leggings that don't hide much.

"I got something that taste better."

Her vixen-like demeanor flickers as her thoughts flash across her face. "What's that?" she asks.

"Ms. 4.0 GPA, c'mon now." A grin spreads across his face.

She rolls her eyes, but the heat has been snuffed out. "And if I'm not good at it?"

He scoffs. "You wasn't good at kissing, neither."

She scowls.

"You getting better every time." Amusement is written all over his face. It's almost irritating. "This gon' be the same thing, I promise you."

She averts her eyes as she starts thinking; this isn't the first time he's alluded to wanting head. It's not like she doesn't want to give it. It's more of a question of, can she?

Probably.

But, can she do it as well as the other girls he's been with?

Definitely not.

That's always a looming fear of hers.

She can hardly bear the thought of performing poorly, and being dubbed the one who "couldn't give good head" or who "had weak pussy;" a story to tell his friends in the group chat.

For the most part, that fear is quelled, just on account of him not really being a piece of shit.

An asshole at times, sure. But, not a douche-bag. And, save for their first time ever doing something together, Onyankopon has never directly spoke about other women he's been with. He doesn't even speak about people he knows.

She can respect the fact that he's not a pillow-talker. But she can only hope that he's not just trying to put on an act.

She tries not to worry too much about it. Outside of these links, their lives are completely detached. They don't even run in the same circles.

"Why you scared? I ain't been a good teacher?"

"Shut up," she laughs, giving him a gentle push to the chest.

For a moment, she's quiet as she thinks to herself, chewing on her bottom lip as she does so.

"We can try," she nods. "But, don't expect me to be amazing," she says as she starts sinking to the ground between his thighs.

"Woah, wait—" he catches her by the waist, stopping her just before her knees hit the floor.

"Wha—d-don't I have to get on my knees?"

"Do you wanna be on your knees?"

She blinks, stunted by the question. "I … don't I have to?"

His brows lift by a fraction. "You don't have to do nothing. I asked if you wanna be. It's other positions."

"Um…" She glances at the hardwood floor beneath them, weighing her options. "Y-yeah. Yes, I do."

He shrugs, gently removing his hands from her to sit back. "A'ight then."

Carefully, she makes contact with the ground, her kneecaps pressing into the floor. Lengthy, strong legs cage her in, but it doesn't feel like a trap.

Before she has to ask, he's pushing his pants down some. But, of course, he's not going to do everything for her.

Not even when she stares up at him, expecting him to pull down his boxers, too, and whip it out for her. She looks perfect down there.

"What you staring for?"

She glances at his lap, eye-level with his print as it strains against the breathable fabric, pressed to the inner wall of his right thigh. She looks back up at him, like she expects something new. Like she doesn't know what comes next.

"Take it out for me, Ámerei."

The firm tone of his voice makes her stomach flutter.

Without a word, both her hands snake up the stalks of his calves, past his knees, and over his thighs. Her fingers are soft, the pads of them tickling his skin as she nears the object of her desire.

With a quick swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip, Onyankopon pushes his hips forward as she finally hooks onto the waistband of his underwear.

Inwardly, Ámerei prays that he doesn't notice the excited tremor of her hands as she pulls the fabric back to reach inside.

The skin there is warm, hot blood racing just beneath its surface to fatten up his dick. She traces one finger down to the middle of his shaft, where she weakly curls her hand around him. She barely squeezes as she picks him up, revealing just a little more past the fat tip.

She isn't surprised by the heaviness, but it does make her rethink her ability to swallow him down.

"Why you so focused already?"

His chuckle pulls her gaze upwards, seeing the entertained look on his face. She crumbles into awkward laughter. "I wanna make sure I'm doing it right."

"Ain't no wrong way to pull my dick out." He sniffs, shifting his hips in a way that pushes his dick further in her face. Her eyes slightly cross trying to keep him in her line of sight. "You doing good, Ami. Quit all that thinking, don't freeze up on me now."

His words, spoken to her low and slow, make her heart beat quicken. She nods loosely, staring up at him with eyes that don't conceal the dazed look in them.

Every time they're together, he notices that after a certain point, it's like a switch flips off in her head. It gets more noticeable every time.

Encouraged by him, she pulls him out of his boxers entirely. The familiar sight never fails to make her drool.

So thick in her hand, she runs her thumb over the web of veins pumping beneath his skin—more visible as it's pulled taut by his arousal. He isn't leaking yet, like his body is waiting on her touch. She can feel his pulse faintly. Tiffany blue acrylic nails compliment his deep brown skin as it fades from a blushing brown to a solid, deep umber.

Every moment she gets to witness him up close, Ámerei can't help but to think that he's just so … pretty.

She's always wanted to kiss it. To feel him throb against her lips.

Her thoughts are interrupted when there's a gentle squeeze of her jaw.

"Missed this shit, didn't you?"

She nods.

"Mhm," he hums, noting how she gazes at him with a renewed sense of hunger. "Go on, eat the dick up." He pulls his hand away.

Without a second thought, she leans forward and plants a gentle smooch on the fat head. He's hot against her skin. Even though she had imagined this happening, surprise takes her when he twitches against her. In her hand, he stiffens further.

A pleased hum leaves her. Tepid, she pushes her tongue past her lips to finally get a taste. His skin is silk soft on her taste buds. He has a mild taste, barely sweet.

That makes it too easy to have more of him in her mouth; she goes for another lick, this one bolder in action as she tastes more of the skin covering his crown. It was all she needed to gain the confidence to take him into her mouth, closing her lips around the swollen head.

"A natural, already," he exhales.

She peers up at him through those perfect, wispy lashes. Her mouth sinks slightly lower. The slippery muscle of her tongue curls around the tip before she traps him between the bed of it and the roof of her mouth to suck. Her usually round, soft cheeks hallow out.

"Good job, mama."

Her eyes flutter shut as her mouth sinks lower around him, a quiet hum of contentment coming from the back of her throat.

The ghost of a smirk haunts his lips. "You like that?"

Peeling her eyes open, Onyankopon immediately notices how they look glossed over. Her full lips are stretched around his thickness, unable to stop the drool escaping past their corners. With a stuffed mouth, she only nods.

"Talk to me."

For a moment, he thought she would have attempted to speak around him. The thought makes him twitch in her mouth.

Except, Ámerei pulls off of him, the softness of her hand replacing the wet heat of her mouth as she jerks him off.

"I liked it," she breathes out. Her hand moves at a slightly rushed pace, gliding over the tight skin. He keeps twitching. It makes her giddy, taking this as a good sign.

Yet, her elation is cut short when she sees a wrinkle forming between his brows. Dread takes seed in her chest.

"So, why you not swallowing my shit?"

Oh.

The corners of her lips twitch as she tries to keep herself from smiling. Her lips part. "Sorr—"

"I'm not tryma hear nothing when my dick should be in your throat." A heavy hand finds its way into her hair, firmly grasping it near the base of her skull. "Need to be gagging on my shit."

Her pussy clenches. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, pushing her face closer to him. She tongue-kisses his tip, humming when it jumps in her mouth.

"Mhm … show me how much you want this."

She rests her hands on his thighs, descending onto him again. Her eyes squeeze shut as she pushes herself to go lower than previous. As she lowers, it gets harder to breathe, her mouth stretching wider and wider.

"Hurgh—"

She pushes through the gag that rips through her. Her head grows fuzzy at the feeling of the slow suffocation.

Onyankopon groans, "Fuck … open up." His hand grips her hair tighter. "Relax your throat."

He hits the back of her tongue. The muscles of her neck constrict.

"Aarck—"

Her shoulders hike up, another sharp gag moving through her.

"Easy, easy."

She pulls off, a beaded string of her own spit leading from the depths of her mouth to his dripping tip. Her stomach is turning.

"You good," he tells her, petting her head.

She nods, swallowing a loose glob of spit to calm her throat.

"C'mon, you good."

She considers the truth of his words before her own thoughts, taking him back in her mouth.

"Mmph," he moans, pressing his lips together to catch the sound.

His head rolls back, but before it lands against the couch cushion, it bounces back up. Her lips kiss the base of him, his hips jumping in shock.

"Huarc—"

"Shit, my fault, my fault."

His breathing is rushed and unsteady as he exhales through his nose, staring down at the mess she's making between his legs.

Spit pours almost freely down his dick, pooling into a thick, frothy puddle of her saliva and his precum in his lap.

"God … damn," he groans, tilting his head some, wishing he could take a picture of this moment to keep forever.

Her lips pucker around him, like they're desperately trying to keep anymore spit from inevitably leaking out. Like they're tired of being stretched open by his dick.

She looks so pretty like this.

"How you take it better this way?"

She sniffles weakly. As her mouth is still full of him, Ámerei gently rests her head against a thigh of his. Her lashes sweep against the hills of her cheekbones as her eyes flutter shut, a gentle sigh leaving through her nose.

"Hm?"

He reaches down to cup her chin, and as soon as their skin makes contact, those pretty brown eyes are open again. Just barely. They're glazed over, not present.

At that moment, something clicks within him. His brain runs with a prediction.

"Should fuck this like your pussy."

He watches her face for any twitch in her brows, some sign of objection. But, there's only a look of sedation. His hand slips from her jaw, he smooths his thumb over an eyebrow before pushing a rogue couple of strands of hair back.

She swallows around him again, closing her eyes.

"Aye, talk to me." Onyankopon lays two quick taps to her cheek, the action gaining her attention. "Ami. Make a sound or something."

A tiny whine comes from the back of her throat. He twitches in the chamber of his neck.

"Want me to move?"

She blinks slowly.

"A'ight," he whispers.

Gently, he takes her head in his hands and carefully pulls her off of him. Loose webs of spit and precum fall around his dick. He's a glistening mess as it falls against his inner thigh, heavy and sopping wet.

A couple of coughs and few hiccups leave her as she wipes at her face with the back of her hand. "W-what?"

"You enjoying this, I could see it in your face."

The corners of her lips lift without restraint.

"But, you gotta communicate with me. Don't go silent."

Just as fast, they drop into a frown, feeling that hint of dread again. "Okay," she nods.

"Even when your mouth is full like that, or you can't talk; tap me."

Her face scrunches up in mild confusion. "Tap?"

His hand slides over her shoulder, the tips of his fingers just at her back, and taps once. "Like that if you want me to pause. Twice if you good," he performing the second gesture. "And—" then taps her three times in succession, "—to tell me to stop."

She blinks at him, cementing the code in her head.

"How you feeling? Show me."

She lifts a hand to rest on his naked thigh and taps him twice.

"Good," he tells her. "Now c'mon."

She's too eager to get him back in her mouth, swallowing him up with blinding ease each time.

"Mhm, look at you… Like you starving."

She pushes her face against his thighs, smiling around his dick. And Onyankopon thinks it's the sweetest, sexiest thing ever. Holding the back of her head, the pads of his fingers rub into her skull.

"You want more?"

She nods as her tongue laves at the underside of him.

"S'what I thought," he mumbles before that hand of his moves to grip her jaw.

Pushing her head up just a bit, Onyankopon holds himself at the base to pull out, earning a deep gag from her. And he loves that sound.

He's dripping in her slobber. The head is where most of her spit collects, a web of it connected to her bottom lip.

Taking himself in hand, he rubs it like a wand and swabs it against her lips. The sloppy, uncoordinated push of his dick against her face makes her flinch here and there. But she doesn't pull away in the slightest when he smears their mess all over the lower half of her face.

His hand shifts to hook a thumb between her lips and push down.

"Open."

The hinge of her jaw slackens with ease.

"Stick that pretty tongue out."

She does exactly what he says, and within that second, the fat head of his dick is slapping against her taste buds.

"Mhm, look real good like this."

He can already imagine himself bursting on her tongue. He glances up from her mouth to see the stars in her glistening eyes.

"Should bust all over you right now," he rasps. "You want that?"

She nods eagerly, tongue sticking out of her mouth like a panting dog. The fruity hue of the muscle is too similar to the inside of her pussy.

"Suck it outta me, then. The fuck?"

He angles his hips to push back into her throat. The suction of her mouth is unmistakable, he knows she sucked him in. The feeling of that wet, slippery warmth traveling down his dick, swooping him up into a tight hold pulls a breathy moan out of him.

"Greedy ass … tryna suck me up, and I'm a-already giving it t'you—" He grasps the back of her head again as rolls his hips smooth and slow. "F … fuck," he groans out.

Her throat jumps around him, desperate to accommodate the moving length throughout it.

"Taking it real good, Princess."

Her eyes flutter, and he catches the way they slightly roll back before she blinks.

Too experienced, it doesn't take long for him to find a shallow but steady rhythm, picking up the pace. As his dick bullies its way in and out, past the walls of her tonsils, a faint clicking sound is made.

"You like this?"

His voice wavers, the sound shooting straight to her clit. Her hand that rests on his muscular thighs, rises and falls twice: one-two.

"I know … kn-know you do…"

His breathing grows heavier and heavier, balls tightening some as they tap at her chin with each thrust.

"Smartest girl I ever met … but you go fucking stupid when you got dick in your mouth."

A mewl vibrates in her throat. He looks down to see her eyes roll to the back of her head.

"You like me talking to you like that?"

One-two.

She's an image of corruption: one of her eyes is only half-open, both showcasing the whites of them as his dick pushes in-and-out past her lips. Spit oozes and froths up at the seams of her lips.

"L-look at you … blowing bubbles on my shit," he grunts. "You wanna play with your pussy?"

A moan, real and solid, gurgles from her throat. The air coming out of her mouth pushes out more balloons of spit along the rim of her mouth.

"Shit—go 'head."

Fireworks go off in her head at his given permission, like this moment is the kind of joy she's been waiting to experience for the last few years. Ámerei is quick to shove a hand down the front of her leggings, pushing past the hem of her panties to rub at her clit.

She feels like she's gone sky-high, completely relinquishing all control to him as he fucks her mouth good and thoroughly.

"S-said you could touch yourself … don't hold out on me."

His words kick something alive in her head. She begins to move herself, bobbing her head up and down. As she does so, she's only able to go halfway down at this faster speed.

Onyankopon's hips stutter. "Aye—watch the teeth. Watch the teeth, Ami."

She squeezes her eyes shut, making a conscious effort to tuck her lips over them. The change grants him unfettered access to her mouth, carving a way for itself in her throat.

"Oh … fuuck, keep … keep swallowing my shit, Mama."

Her fingers work in fast, tight circles over her clit. This is a wet dream for her.

"Make me nut," he pants, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead.

At that, she shoves two fingers in herself, the intrusion creating a soft squidge between her thighs. At every swallow of his dick, she's pushing her fingers in. The penetration from both ends gets her sopping wet, the seat of her panties soaked through.

"Make me nut on that tongue."

At that particular command, she swallows him an inch deeper, a strong gag ripping through her.

"Mhm, just like that," he sneers as he moves his hips to meet her half-way.

Her eyes squeeze shut, wringing tears from them as she falls in-line with his thrusts. She keeps her head still, allowing him to throat fuck her, even as she chokes on him.

Hand buried in her hair, Onyankopon lets his head fall back against the couch, losing it in her mouth.

"Mh—fuck," he whimpers, chest pumping as he gulps down air. "I-I'm 'bout to cum."

She loves it when he says those words.

She pulls off of him messily, replacing her mouth with a loose fist. She moves quickly over his dick to uphold the pace. His hips buck, stomach sucking in with every pull.

"Want it," she utters breathlessly as spit drips from her face, tongue half sticking out to catch his cum just in case. "Want it—want it on my tongue, Ony."

He musters enough strength to pull his head back up, eyelids heavy as he gazes down at her: tears crystallize along her lash-line, looking like gems against her slender eyes.

His stomach swoops, his balls tightening.

"You …fuck—you gon' swallow it all?" he slurs.

"Mhm," she says, desperation all over her face as she nods. "A-all of it."

His other hand grips at the couch cushion beneath him as he holds back on cumming all over her face.

"Put my dick back in your mouth."

She chases after him with her mouth open, head bobbing awkwardly before finally catching him, without the help of her hands. Her cheeks cave in, pushing further down to get him to the back of her throat. She flexes around him, coaxing his impending orgasm out of him.

The simple action has his mind submitting to the desires of his body. His hips move thoughtlessly, unrestrained and sharp as they pump shallowly into her mouth.

"Fuc— … s-swallow that shit—"

"Hic—"

He busts in her mouth, the alkaline taste of his thick, viscous cum painting her tongue and throat. It's hard to swallow all of it down in one go.

"Oh … fuck," he shudders, chest rising and falling rather quickly as he swallows down whatever air is available. The exposed parts of his skin are dewy with sweat. Before his body is able to even fully relax, it tenses up with overstimulation.

She's still sucking.

"Aye—"

Grasping her head on both sides, he pulls her off. There's a bit of resistance, but when he finally gets her off of him, he sees in her eyes that she's completely gone.

"Tryna suck my soul out," he weakly jokes, though she doesn't laugh back. She only gives him a dreamy smile.

He grasps the underside of her jaw. "Lemme see."

Without a word, Ámerei sticks her tongue out to show him how she managed to swallow it all. He looks at her, knowing that she's desperately waiting for a form of praise for her work.

"Good job."

Her smile only grows.

"Come up," he says, already pulling her back up on the couch.

Scooting further back from him, she spreads her thighs to show him the darkened patch of gray fabric at the seat of her leggings.

His legs feel like Jell-O. Yet, despite this, he pushes through it to stand on his feet before her.

"That's how you feeling?"

She bites her bottom lip before turning away from him. Burying her chest into the couch cushions, Ámerei pushes her ass high in the air to present.

Looking back at him, the spit quickly drying on the lower-half of her face, she eagerly pushes her leggings and panties down her ass in one fell-swoop. Her back bows she reaches back to pull her cheeks apart, her wetness winking back at him. Creamy and dripping.

He kisses his teeth as another wave of arousal shoots through him, fatigue be damned. "Quit playing with me."

She mewls, eyes falling closed. "Want it in here, too," she mumbles thoughtlessly.

Blowing out a breath, Onyankopon takes his hardening dick in hand, starting with a few slow pumps.

"Yeah, dick really got you acting dumb now."

She shakes her ass side-to-side, taunting him.

"I'ma give it to you … just don't be running this time."

𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 ᝰ @uzmacchiato @crylynnluv

All she knows is that her capacity to be here is dwindling by the second.

“This is frying me.” 

From the corner of her eye, she sees those deep orange braids slide over Solayne's hiked up shoulders as she throws her head down on the desk. Her hands over her eyes cushion her fall.

She doesn't need to outwardly acknowledge the other woman's dramatics, but she definitely resonates with them; Being stuck in this small room—that can stand to be a few degrees warmer—with its shitty fluorescent lighting, rereading the same chapter and still not understanding the concept, has her feeling dumber and dumber. 

It’s probably not even her fault, maybe it’s the arbitrary way of teaching her professor has that makes it so difficult for her to understand his notes. Either way, she's ridiculously close to throwing in the towel. Who needs to stress over words when she could be relaxing with a self-care day or going to parties like her other peers? 

The thought of her parents hearing that is enough to snap her back to reality.

“Ámerei, I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

She blows out a breath, tucking a couple loose strands of her sew-in behind her ear. “Me neither.”

Sitting up with the rush of a new idea, Solayne's eyes widen with excitement. “You tryna eat? Matcha and brownies on me!”

It’s a tempting offer. Too tempting. An immediate ‘yes’ comes into her mind before she can even think twice about it … until she does.

Her teeth gnaw at her bottom lip, the last smudges of her lipgloss stuck to the pink skin despite having licked most of it off in the stress of studying. 

She can’t take another “study break.” Messing around with Solayne, she’s already pushed this off more than she should have. And now, her midterm for Qualitative Analysis is just two days away and she’s nearly clueless about the most heavily covered chapter on the test. This could make or break her grade for this class, and a dropped class is not something her parents can afford.

Solayne’s face falls before she can even break the news of this truth to her. 

Worry folds creases in her forehead and drags the corners of her lips downward. “I want to, Sol', but I can’t.” 

A groan. “I knew you were gonna say that.”

“I’m sorry!” A remorseful laugh tumbles out of her. “I can’t fail this midterm. That’s gonna be my ass if my parents see that.”

A second is spared by the other woman to dwell on the misfortune, only for her sadness to vanish within a second, leaving behind a look of indifference.

“Well!” She shrugs. “I know how I’m going to spend the rest of this study sesh.”

And with that, Solayne stretches across the table to collect her books, notes, laptop, and any pen or highlighter left behind—likely even sneaking some of Ámerei’s.

“Enjoy one for me,” Ámerei smiles sadly.

"Of course.” As she stands to shove her laptop into her purse, Solayne looks to her. "But, seriously, don't stress yourself out too much. You've been studying for this test for like a week straight now, and that class is notoriously hard. I'm sure your professor's gonna give y'all a curve."

Leaning back in her chair, butt aching from how long she's been sitting, Ámerei exhales softly. "I hope so. I could honestly really use it, because the way I've been failing these quizzes is ridiculous."

Solayne purses her lips with the shake of her head, zipping up her tote bag. "You'll be fine, you always are."

"I don't think so, Sol'." Her lips twist into a frown. "I've really been stressing—"

"And that's your problem right there," she announces as she throws the hefty bag over a shoulder. "You're stressing when you don't need to. If you've already done all that you can, there's nothing left for you to do but trust yourself."

There’s not much Ámerei can say to that. All she can do is bring her laptop close to continue studying.

Solayne scoffs. “You need to relax. You don’t gotta stop studying now, but at the very least, let tomorrow be your day off. You can’t cram the day before the test.”

“No … but I can review.”

“Review my ass,” she rolls her eyes. “What you need to do is have a nice, good smoke sesh. Use that to calm your ass down.”

Ámerei kisses her teeth, the sound slipping out before she can stop it. “Or I can use that valuable time to study some more, so I can boost my chances of passing this midterm.”

Dismissively, Solayne waves a hand, turning for the study room’s door. “Blazè-blah. Good luck with that,” she shrugs. “And, by the way, access to this room expires at four, so make sure you’re out of here before one of those fucking monitors catch you. They are not about to fine me for this.”

Chin resting in her palm, Ámerei doesn’t spare her a glance. Instead, she squints her strained eyes at the small text on her screen. “Stay safe.”

“You too, text you later!”

A second later comes the abrupt shut of the study room’s heavy door. Alone in peace and quiet, she lets out a sigh.

‘Time to take this chapter from the top.’

ᝰ

TRUE TO SOLAYNE’S IMPRESSION OF HER, Ámerei is cramming the day before the test. Or at least, she’s trying to.

A set alarm had her up by seven, and after rushing to get ready, she raced her way to the campus library to snag a room before they were booked out.

Now, it’s almost half-past 10, and she hasn’t been able to retain a single word of information splayed across her screen.

She pulls her scrunchie free from her hair to retie her ponytail for about the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. Her eyes steal yet another glance at the time. She’s been here for almost two hours, and it’s starting to scare her how hard it is for her to focus.

Honestly, she’s starting to get the idea that Solayne was onto something. But, she can’t prove her right just yet.

So she thinks.

As she stares at the laptop, the words begin to swirl and the sentences stop making sense. Her eyes jump from line to line, unable to keep their spot. And the diagrams? They’re complete nonsense.

“Fuck me,” she mumbles, dropping her head into her hands.

For a moment, she stays frozen in that position, her mind searching itself for a solution to this madness. Her notes are useless, all the tutors for this class are booked up, and clearly reviewing this chapter isn’t doing anything. 

She’s ready to admit it.

Picking her head up and out of her hands, Ámerei reaches for her phone with bleary vision. It only gets to ring once. 

“Well if it isn’t my gorgeous friend! What can I do for you, my love?”

Her eyes flutter shut, holding back a sigh. “You were right—”

“Oouu!”

She squeezes her eyes tight, the shrill sound of Solayne’s voice piercing her ears.

“If those aren’t my favorite words to hear—so what does this mean?”

Peeling her eyes open, Ámerei peers down as she toys with the small, pink Tiffany pendant resting on her chest. “It means … I think I wanna take the edge off.”

Boisterous cackles fill her ears, the corners of her mouth rising. 

“You so fucking dramatic,” Solayne muses, her laughter dying down into an easy chuckle. “But, I got just the thing for you.”

She shifts in her seat, eager to hear her suggestion. 

“Now, unfortunately, I am busy today.”

The easy smile that graced her lips is wiped off in an instant as her spine straightens. “What?” She glares at her phone in betrayal.

“I know, I’m sorry! I owed Malaysia a favor, and she chose to cash it in today: I gotta drive her to and back from the mall.”

A soft groan leaves her as she throws her head back. 

“Don’t worry, though. A nice smoke by yourself every once in a while is the best thing you can do for yourself, swear. Just spark up, play some music or watch a show, eat some good food—you’re lit!”

Thinking about it for longer than a second, Ámerei finds herself taking to the idea. Smoking will definitely take her mind off of the stress of this midterm. And with that weight off of her shoulders, she can probably catch up on some of her hobbies. Like, playing in her makeup. It’s been too long since she last got cute or even played The Sims.

“M’kay.”

A squeal has her flinching. “Perfect! You’re gonna have so much fun. I know a guy that sells on campus. Good shit, too. He’s cool with Eren.”

“Who’s Eren?”

“You don’t remember? That one guy on the swim team Aneesa used to fuck with?”

Her face screws up in confusion, threaded brows pulling together. “No?”

“Uh—anyway—he’s friends with Eren, I bought from him a couple of times. Y’know, supporting a Black-owned business ‘n’ all that. But … y’know, I am loyal to my plug.”

Staring ahead at nothing in particular, Ámerei raises a brow as one corner of her lips quirk up. “Connie?”

“Well … yes!”

She laughs at her friend.

“And speaking of, I might link him tonight—y’know … for weed.”

“Weed, yeah, right,” she giggles.

“Mhm, anyway, I’ll send you his Insta when I find it. It’s the only way to cop from him.”

“Thanks, Sol’.”

“No problem,” she sings. “Let me know how the high goes. Kisses!”

“Bye.”

With a clear decision made, Ámerei wastes no time in packing her belongings and freeing up this room for the next suffering soul.

When she returns to her dorm, empty of Solayne’s presence, she picks out a simple outfit: black capri leggings and a cropped white tank top. 

As she pulls the skimpy top over her head, her phone pings with a notification from Instagram. Shirt on, she smooths the soft wrinkles out of it before grabbing up the device from her bed.

It was DM from Solayne—a shared profile. Before she can even respond, her phone buzzes with a new message:

His name is Onyankopon btw

Ámerei ‘hearts’ the message before clicking onto his page. There isn’t a face present anywhere on it, and no highlights to skim through. No tagged posts or even a name in the bio. There’s only one post up: a three photo carousel. 

The first photo is of his hand, the dark skin marked heavily with ink. One finger is adorned in a glistening ring and a tennis bracelet on his wrist. 

‘Well … at least he takes care of himself,’ she thinks, noting his clean nails and trimmed cuticles.

The second photo is an interior shot of a car, the model she isn’t sure of. All she recognizes is the sleek emblem that glints on the steering wheel—Genesis.

‘Expensive.’

The last photo is a perfect “off-guard.” A clear shot of his outfit. It’s crisp definition and high quality tells of the use of a professional camera. He had turned his face away just in time for it not to be caught in the photo. 

His arms were hidden by a Pelle Pelle jacket, but from the peak of his wrist, she can tell he’s covered in ink. At least his arms are.

‘Mysterious … okay, sure.’

The ‘like’ count on the post is off, and the comments are tame—limited, too. But, she can only imagine what the counts for each would be, seeing as he has a little over a thousand followers. She presses her lips together, telling herself that these little details about his account shouldn’t matter.

It’s not like she needs to know much about his morals or his character anyway, however, he does seem like the flashy type. She’s only hitting him up for a service—a product, really. 

Heading to his chat, she shoots him a quick message:

Hey, I was told you sell

Crashing onto her bed, she chews on her lip as she watches the chat. She’s not sure why she decides to wait on a response. Maybe it’s a testament to how much she needs this.

But luck is on her side. As she blinks, a new message appears in their chat:

Yea

She swallows, trying to think of what will be enough to cover her. She doesn’t buy often, and she definitely isn’t a casual smoker. After about a minute, her fingers type quickly.

How much for a gram?

Don’t sell less than a dub

Her head jerks back, stumped. What the hell is she going to do with all of that weed? Sure, it isn’t necessarily a huge amount, but she's definitely not going to make more than one blunt any time soon.

She guesses she’ll just have to leave the rest for Solayne. It’s that girl’s lucky day.

But Ima let it slide for uu

First time client deal

An unexpected scoff burst from her lips. A crinkle becomes evident in her brows as she ‘hearts’ his message.

Ty

This time, he ‘hearts’ her message. 

Whn uu want it ?

Today

Soon if you can, lol

2 ,by the big fountain statue ?

That's good, thank you

Aii

With just a small bit of time before their meetup, Ámerei does the next best thing to distract herself from the fate of her Qualitative Analysis grade: scroll through her TikTok’s 'For You' page.

ᝰ

THE SUN HANGS HIGH IN THE SKY, partly obscured by thick clouds. Crisp yet light winds blow gently, pushing around any stray leaves that have fallen to the ground.

It isn’t too cold, the slight breeze is something that Onyankopon doesn’t mind. He’s more concerned with the punctuality of this customer.

Her name, he doesn’t quite remember. Something with an ‘A.’ When he skimmed through her profile, he remembers thinking that it had a pretty spelling—that’s about as much as he recalls.

His saving grace will be recognizing her once he sees her, he’s always been good at remembering faces. That, and he doesn’t think he could forget hers.

She’s pretty from what he saw. Cute. But, that’s about as extreme as his thoughts went. A girl with a simple look, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Clean and minimal makeup, hair neatly styled and out of her face, and an affinity with the color blush pink.

A well-curated aesthetic to fit that of an influencer. If he has to bet, she probably has a sizable following on TikTok, posting content of her getting all done up for her viewers: “Get Ready With Me to Run Some Errands;” “Outfit of the day;” “Come With Me to Try This New Matcha Drink—”shit like that.

He doesn’t have a strong opinion regarding that. Just a blanket assumption regarding the information he was able to garner from her page. 

It’s funny; when she first messaged him, part of him thought it was someone else talking to him through her account. Simply using her face to lower his guard—possibly a nigga trying to set him up for something petty like another woman.

Then she asked him how much for a gram, and he went scouring through her account. It started making sense. It’s likely that she doesn’t smoke much, she doesn’t look like the type. And he doesn’t remember ever talking to her, so it couldn’t be a set-up … not from another man, at least.

So, he chose to be nice—this once. A first-time deal for a new client, even if this little $10 transaction is a waste of his time. His weed is good, he’s got confidence in his product. And hopefully, in seeing that he’s a business man willing to cater to any type of customer, she’ll admire that enough to become a regular. 

For a split second, he’s adverse to his own idea; A pretty girl like her doesn’t need to be facing blunts like that. Yet, just as quickly, the thought evaporates, because how much she smokes simply isn’t his business. And if she wants to smoke more of his weed, then that’s just more money for him.

His useless hypotheticals are put to stop when he notices movement in the near-distance; A sort of rushed walk of determination, heading in his direction.

For some reason, Onyankopon bites back a scoff. Everything about the way she is dressed confirms the character he’s created of her in his head.

‘Come With Me to Buy A Gram On My Way to Pilates!’

He almost laughs at the thought.

Glancing at the time on his phone, he notes that she’s almost ten minutes late. He’ll let it go just this once; “first-time client deal” and all. She’s just lucky today is one of his slower days.

Black hair, pressed flat and shining under the sun, sways with body behind her. It’s tucked behind her ears, showing off dangling earrings. A cropped, half-zipped sweater hangs boxy on her smaller frame and off of one shoulder, keeping her upper-half somewhat warm in this breeze.

As she gets closer, he notices the finer details of her. Like the subtle dewiness of her skin, the quiet definition of muscle beneath her moisturized skin, and the wispy lashes that perfectly frame her slender eyes.

Her pace slows as she comes to a pause before him, apprehension covering her like a shroud. Onyankopon relaxes his stance, trying to give off an air of gentleness so as to not spook her off. Then, he reminds himself that she’s not some deer in the forest that’ll run off at the faintest sound of a twig snapping.

“H-hi, Onyankopon? Did I say it right?”

Of course, her voice is soft. Real gentle, like … plush mink fabric. 

The blow of wind barely shifts in direction, yet that’s all he needs to smell the clean scent wafting off of her; warm and spicy, with an overall powdery essence. Not an overbearing smell. In fact, its projection is personal. She’d have to let him get close to smell more of it. 

Admittedly, it’s enticing enough to lure him in.

“Yeah,” he half-nods, staring down at her, conscious of making no sudden movements. 

“Okay.” A shy piece of laughter breaks from her, the corners of her eyes crinkling as her mouth opens to let the airy sound free. 

He gets a generous peak of her pink tongue and gums, and her white teeth—a “perfection” in hygiene that seems naturally characteristic of her.

“I was scared I approached the wrong person,” she says, laughter dying off. 

He wonders if she practiced this interaction. If she thought more than twice about what she’d ask him and how she’d ask it. Then, he tells himself to stop being a dickhead.

She’s not doing too bad. Someone like her—if she’s not smoking often—likely doesn’t get her own weed. She probably doesn’t even roll her own blunt, let alone crush the bud. 

No, she can’t risk getting anything under her nails or having her fingertips stink. Unless she uses a crusher, and not just any old crusher. It has to be cute, something pink to match her aesthetic.

“Nah, you good.” 

His gaze dips below her face for a split second, stealing a peak at her hands. As he suspected; a soft, milky pink color is painted over square-shaped nails that barely reach over the tips of her fingers.

She nods, glancing off to the side before clearing her throat. “Um—how much?”

“Ten.”

He sees the minuscule jump in her brows as she tries to conceal her shock. 

‘How much did she think it would cost?’

Nodding, she reaches for the tiny purse he hadn’t even seen tucked beneath her right arm. She barely rifles through it for more than a second.

“You don’t gotta give cash, just Zelle it.”

She freezes, eyes wide as she looks up at him. “Oh,” she mumbles. She fumbles to readjust the purse on her shoulder before getting her phone out.

The large iPhone is adorned in a powder-pink case. Her thumb does a great deal of stretching across the screen as she tries to type one-handed. She eventually gives up, using both hands.

“What’s your, um, number?” She stares down at her screen, thumbs hovering over the glass as they wait to enter his digits.

“You don’t wanna see the weed first?”

That same caught look returns to her face as she picks her head up. “Oh—shit. Sorry—”

A dry, amused snort leaves him as he finally allows himself to smile—albeit, a faint one. “I’m just fucking with you.”

“Oh, alright,” she snorts. The tense energy in her shoulders releases a bit.

“It’s in my car, can’t do this out in the open.”

She nods quickly, like she suddenly remembered the nature of this exchange. He turns to head to his car, silently calling for her to follow along. And she does.

Just a few inches from his side, he watches her from his peripheral vision. Another new thing he notices: the simplistic, earthy green slides on her feet, showing off her toes that match her nail set.

When they reach his car, he isn’t surprised that she’s stopped a few feet from it. He takes no offense to it, either. Instead, he opens his door, sliding into the driver’s seat. He does a quick reach over the console to retrieve a small dime bag from the glove box. 

Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he toys with its seal as he nods over to her. “Take my number.”

Springing into action, she opens her phone back up to enter his number for the transaction. As he recites it, her fingers move quickly. 

“I’m sending a dollar first.” She peers up to look at him, her shiny lips parting as she inhales. “Just to make sure it’s the right … thing.”

“Do what you gotta do.”

He turns his head away to survey the scene—campus is quieter than usual, most students crowding the libraries or indoor lounge spaces to study for midterms.

It’s silent for a minute before his phone pings with a deposit notice. He gives her a confirming nod when she looks at him. Soon, she sends the remaining balance, asking him “ten dollars, right,” as if she didn’t remember the total. He answers her anyway, unsurprised by her trepid thoroughness. 

Before his phone can even sound with the confirmation of the remaining money sent, he outstretches his hand, offering the baggy.

She blinks, going “O-oh,” before gingerly taking it. 

“‘Preciate it,” he nods.

“Thank you.”

She gives him a genial, close-lipped smile before tucking the baggy away in one of her sweater pockets and turning to leave. He doesn’t check to see where she’s going or to even watch her go.

The encounter went just about how he expected it to. 

He can’t tell if she’d be back, though it’s not something he’d take to heart if she doesn’t. Girls like her are usually one-time customers, just from experience.

As he shuts his door, his phone pings with the notice of the rest of his money. He doesn’t check it, sure that she’d sent him those nine dollars, just like she was supposed to.

He turns on the engine, shortly pulling out of the parking space to continue the rest of his day.

WARM VANILLA, SUGARY CHOCOLATE, AND ANY OTHER GOURMAND SCENT she can think of, fills the small off-campus apartment, courtesy of the women present. There isn’t a moment of silence here. 

And it helps, not having to think too hard about how she’s still barely afloat in that class (which shall not be named); head just above water. All Ámerei wants to think about is how lit she can get tonight with her friends.

“And you’re sure y’all won’t get a violation for this?”

Resting across the short length of the olive green couch, Solayne watches the next woman closely, seated on the floor before her.

“Girl, yes,” Aneesa responds. Face buried in her phone, she doesn’t even spare a glance. “You know how many times me and My-My smoked in here?”

“Nah, facts,” Malaysia backs up, showing all thirty-two teeth as she recounts the many times they’ve gotten away with breaking the strict off-campus apartment rules. “We just gotta stick a towel under the front door and open some windows, we’ll be good!” 

Her boisterous, raspy confirmation brings Solayne and Ámerei peace.

“Oh, then, say less,” Solayne sighs out in relief.

“Yeah, and no one’s gonna snitch, even if they do smell it,” Aneesa adds.

Seated at the small kitchen island, Ámerei pulls an open bottle of a cranberry Prosecco wine closer to her as she watches her friends work out the plans for the night. Grabbing her cup, she replenishes on the bubbly drink as conversation continues amongst them.

“Only thing is … I'm out.” She bares her teeth in an expression of awkwardness, sucking in a breath of air. “All I got is papers." 

Aneesa's confession comes out with apprehension. Quickly, Solayne turns to Malaysia for hope.

"Facts," the second choice frowns, reaching to tug on a stray curl at the nape of her neck. "I do got cones, though."

"Fuck!" Solayne groans out. However, she quickly remembers Ámerei, looking to her roommate.

"Mei, you have any left?"

Malaysia and Aneesa look at their quiet friend in mild shock. 

The unsuspecting business major gawks at them with wide eyes, like she'd been caught in headlights. 

"Left? Girl, since when have you ever got any?" Malaysia asks, an incredulous smile on her face.

"I hooked her up with a plug," Solayne answers, popping out her tongue as she flips a good amount of braids over her shoulders.

With pursed lips, Aneesa looks her up and down, holding back a laugh. "And you look proud of it."

"Look at you," Malaysia shakes her head. "Corrupting the poor girl."

Swallowing a sip, Ámerei shakes her head, holding a hand out to catch their attention. "Hold on, she didn't corrupt me. I wanted to smoke—"

"Tell 'em," Solayne defends.

Ignoring the interjection, Ámerei continues smoothly. "And I only bought a gram, anyway. It was supposed to be a once in a blue moon type of thing."

Malaysia raises an eyebrow, watching the other woman with skepticism as she moves to the kitchen for a drink of her own. "You rolled?"

As Ámerei turns her head away to hide the growing smirk on her glossy pink lips, the others burst out into laughter. 

"Right," Aneesa laughs.

"Girl, you know she had me roll that shit for her when we came back from the mall,” Solayne confesses.

"I'm crying," Malaysia says, grabbing herself a cup and stealing the bottle of Prosecco.

"Well, I hope you still got that dealer's number, 'cause he's about to make a cute coin tonight." Pushing herself up from the ground, Aneesa heads for her room.

"But was his shit was good, though?" Cradling her cup, Malaysia reenters the living room space.

Ámerei nods. "Yeah, I liked it. Pretty smooth."

Solayne scoffs. "Girl, of course it was good. She got her shit from Onyankopon."

Just as those words had left her mouth, Aneesa emerged from her room, her wallet in hand. She pauses in her tracks. "Onyankopon?"

All heads turn to her, seeing the way her face screws up.

"Yeah, what's wrong?" Solayne asks, eyeing the woman as she rejoins their circle. 

She offers a weak eye roll. "Nothing, I just hate hearing about anything or anyone related to Eren." Her legs fold under her body as she takes her seat on the floor near the couch, wallet in-lap. "And what about Connie? We can't just get from him? I'm sure he'll give us, like, a discount—y'know, off the strength that it's you."

Both Ámerei and Malaysia glance at each other, cracking twin smiles as they catch the subtle shade.

Solayne only waves her off. "Oh, girl—please! And Connie not even on campus right now. He went home for the weekend." 

Malaysia scoffs, lifting her cup to her mouth. "Yeah, your ass would know," she mumbles into it.

Solayne looks at her with faux confusion. "Something was said?"

Ámerei giggles at the two. "Guys, it's fine. I can text, um, Onyankopon." Licking her lips, a bad habit of hers whenever she gets tipsy, she plucks up her phone to go straight to Instagram.

"How much should I ask for?" she asks as she taps around on the screen, brain lagging for a micro-second between each one.

"A quarter," Solayne offers.

"Bitch—no. Ask for a half, please, Ámerei."

Solayne scowls at Malaysia. "Fucking druggie."

A mini debate over the desired quantity breaks out amongst the women. One side argues that it'd be too much—after all, they're only going to be smoking for the night. The other proposes that they must consider the varying tolerance of the rest.

"Guys, c'mon," Ámerei cuts in. "I don't wanna text him then leave him hanging—"

"Relax, cry baby" Aneesa placates. "Just get the half. We'll split it, and whatever's leftover, whoever wants can get it."

Licking her lips, Ámerei begins to type in hers and Onyankopon's shared chat:

Hey

Can I get a half?

As she waits for his response, she chews at her bottom lip, careful to keep their chat open and her phone on. 

"What did he say?" Malaysia questions, leaning over her shoulder to see.

"He didn't respond yet," she mumbles as she picks up her cup. A shallow wave of dizziness hits her, but that only tells her to drink more.

Aneesa scoffs, folding her arms across her chest. "He must not want this money then."

Solayne smirks at her. "You don't wanna buy from this man so bad."

"Ou, he just texted back!" Malaysia announces. Turning back to look at the phone, she tells Ámerei: "Tell him we want it tonight."

"Calm down, you fein," Solayne says.

Blocking out the noise around her, Ámerei reads his response.

Whn uu want it

Tonight, pls

He 'hearts' her message before shooting back a reply.

Gotchu in 20

That's good, how much is it?

Once she sees the bubbles bounce on his side of their chat, she expects to see a response half-a-second later. So, she's a little bit surprised when it doesn't come.

In fact, her surprise morphs into confusion when the bubble disappears and reappears, repeating this dance for about a minute.

"The fuck? He don't know his own prices?" Malaysia says.

Aneesa rolls her eyes. "And this is who we're supposed to be buying from?"

"Shut up," Solayne groans.

Ámerei is about to swipe out of their chat when his message finally pops in.

Picking her head up from the phone, she earns the girls' attention. "He said it's $120."

"That's not too bad," Malaysia says.

The others agree, Aneesa with less enthusiasm than the others.

"Thirty each, okaaay," Solayne nods, a growing smile on her face.

Garnering the responses, Ámerei types back. 

That's good. Are we meeting at the same spot?

Yh

"Okay, it's set," she announces, much to the others' relief. "I just have to go pick it up by the statue on campus."

Aneesa blinks. "The statue? On campus?"

"Right, girl that's a cute … twenty-minute walk right there," Malaysia adds.

"Not only that—what do you mean you have to go pick it up? I hope you don't think we're letting you go out there by yourself?"

Ámerei glances around at her friends, noting the shift in energy. "I went by myself last time—"

"Mei, that was during the day," Solayne interjects, though she's careful to keep her voice light.

"Facts, you not about to get snatched up for some weed, going out there by yourself," Malaysia says.

Refraining from rolling her eyes—all too used to the protective nature of her friends regarding anyone belonging to their tight-knit group—she relents: "Okay, we'll all go, I don't care." 

She utilizes a tired laugh to disguise her slight irritation, but it doesn't go unnoticed, not by Solayne. However, it's ignored in favor of keeping the mood high. Besides, she doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions just yet.

ᝰ

THE AIR IS PERFECT TONIGHT, far warmer than the night of their last exchange—more humid, too. Her baby tee clings to her skin. With every step, the air brushes against her legs like the smooth pass of a blanket.

Her friends cling to her, their natural conversation floating around them. However, she doesn’t give much of her attention to their words. Instead, the brief memory of her last encounter with Onyankopon keeps her mind busy.

She questions why she was so nervous the first time. It was a simple transaction. Yet, it was all too easy for her to second-guess herself when it came to asking the right questions. She’s sure he could sense her nervousness, too. She likes to think that this time will be different.

As they round the corner on the path leading across the campus yard, Ámerei sees that tall figure leaning against the University’s trademark statue. 

The others spot him, too.

“Ugh,” Aneesa groans softly.

“Oh, hush,” Solayne butts in.

As they near him, Ámerei clutches the money tighter in hand, the folded bills soft in her grasp.

Tall street lamps line the path, casting soft warm spotlights around the manicured lawn. The closer they get, she notes how his body seems to evade most of it by where he stands.

Her feet pick up in stride, thong-slippers slapping the concrete as she's pushed to the front of the group as their new lead. Eventually, space grows between her and the girls. To which they don’t fail to notice, of course.

“Girl, where are you going?” Solayne asks.

A half-hearted motion is thrown in the general direction of the man, some odd-feet away, as Ámerei glances back at her. “He’s right there!”

They finally get within a good enough range of him, and a bolt of courage strikes throughout her.

“Hi,” she waves, coming to a stop before him, an easygoing smile on her lips.

Unlike last time, a durag covers the inky black waves on his head—royal blue. He looks every bit as comfortable as he portrays himself to be: Chrome Hearts hoodie, baggy sweats, and slides on his feet.

She wonders if her request had stolen him from the comfort of his bed.

A quick nod is sent her way as he pushes himself off of the statue. “Wassup.”

Going half-a-step closer, she looks up at him with low eyes. Her nose picks up the faint scent of his cologne, something she’s never smelt before; clean, floral yet woody—even a hint of amber.

It almost makes her mouth water. She squeezes the money tighter. Before she lets her mouth run unfiltered, she chooses instead to lick her lips and swallow her spit.

“You bought your friends?” 

The question sounds like an after-thought as he reaches down to retrieve a book bag by his feet, which she hadn’t noticed.

“Huh?” She glances back at the girls, seeing them converse amongst themselves, the occasional glance shot her way. “Oh, yeah,” she giggles.

As he reaches into his bag, he’s sure to keep his eyes on her.

“They, um, they didn’t want me to come alone … said it was dangerous.”

A half-hearted snort comes out of him. “They not wrong.” He pulls out a decently sized bag full of his product. The smell hits them immediately. “But how I know y’all not here to rob me?”

As the question leaves his mouth, he hands her the bag, a faint one-sided smirk on his lips.

A laugh bursts free from her. “I’m in flip-flops. I can’t run, even if I wanted to … I’m not fast.”

He hums in thought, glancing down at her toes so quick she almost misses it. “Could’a fooled me … would’a thought you did track or something,” he mumbles, analyzing her figure.

At the confession, her eyes almost bulge out of her head. “Track? I wish!” 

If his growing smile is anything to go by, he’s definitely amused.

“I, um, I-I do Pilates.” There’s an attempt to hide her own grin; she chews at her bottom lip.

“Yeah?”

She nods. “I wish I was more consistent, but yeah… I’m sorry, you didn’t ask that.” 

Her laugh is awkward, to say the least, yet she tries to quickly move past that; outstretching a hand, she offers him the money.

“You cool.” He takes the rolled up bills, quickly counting the cash before shoving it in the pocket of his sweats.

She nods, clutching the bag to her chest.

For a moment, they stare back at each other, waiting for the next prompt. He goes first.

“Y’all stay safe.”

She blinks, the corners of her mouth dropping just a fraction as she realizes this interaction is over. 

“You, too,” she nods before leaving first, heading back to her friends. She doesn’t glance back at him.

As she returns to the group, Solayne is the first one she makes eye contact with.

“Finally, I thought that shit would never end,” Aneesa starts.

Malaysia rubs her hands together, shoulders bouncing with glee. “Ouu, I can already smell it. Tonight’s gonna be so good!”

The journey back to the apartment doesn’t feel as long.

ᝰ

THERE’S A REASON WHY he tries to be on campus as little as possible. The slow-walkers and corny people, the dick-riding ass security guards, the useless administration, and overall atmosphere of the school is too much for him at times.

To make a long story short, Onyankopon doesn’t have the patience for this.

His body twists, narrowly avoiding colliding shoulders with another student. With the quiet kiss of his teeth, he shakes his head, thinking, ‘This exactly why I scheduled these classes back to back.’

He readjusts his grip on the cool grey metal of his laptop, clutching it to his chest. 

“Stupid ass nigga,” he mutters with the curl of his upper lip.

Outside’s cool breeze is shut out as he finally enters the second campus building—the location of his next class. He reaches up, readjusting his headphones over his skull-cap. 

The journey to his next class is a short one, thankfully: a quick ride up the escalator to the second floor, a walk down the west hall to room 158, and he’s there. Nothing longer than two minutes … usually.

However, this time is an exception. 

As he steps off of the escalator, eyes scanning the large hall as they typically do, his attention catches on something.

Someone.

In a small area off to the side is a cul-de-sac of benches for student seating. And it seems that he’s just caught Ámerei getting up from the bench, as she hangs her purse over her shoulder.

He’s not sure how to describe the emotion that fills him as he sees her glance back—in the midst of flipping her hair over her shoulder—at a guy just inches from her.

Mild shock? Surprise?

None of those words seem to qualify, because this is definitely something he should’ve expected.

But, he doesn’t remember seeing a post about a man or even a story-post involving one when he last saw her page—about two weeks ago when he was just curious about remembering her actual name.

Her glossed lips move at an excited pace as she turns to speak to the man, the apples of her cheeks rounded and high with a smile. 

His attention flicks over to the man himself, who stares in her face like it would kill him to not pay attention to her for even a second.

Onyankopon’s left brow twitches. 

It’s not unusual for people to not post their significant other. But, it makes sense that she has a nigga, he thinks. 

A pretty girl that keeps up with herself at all times. Her vibe gives off that she’s a woman of—at the very least—some kind of class, and she’s got money. She keeps herself healthy, dresses good, has good hygiene, nails done, hair done—overall, highly attractive.

And his type.

He blinks, swallowing back at the realization. Once more, he looks at the pair, catching them at the tail-end of a hug.

‘Noted.’

With practiced ease, Onyankopon turns the other way to head to class, right down the west hall.

Hey

Can I get a gram pls

THE MESSAGE FALLS DOWN ON HIS SCREEN AS HE SCROLLS THROUGH TIKTOK, currently in the middle of a compilation of basketball highlights—his idea of decompressing after finals. As soon as it was over, he raced back to his apartment, situated off of the campus.

Onyankopon isn’t too concerned about how he performed on the test. He did too well in that class to even think he could possibly fail.

It took him a moment to recognize the username, confused as to who would be asking him for a gram—especially knowing he doesn’t sell such a small amount. His lips press together with faint irritation as he views their chat. 

He hasn’t seen Ámerei around campus since that day … almost two months ago. Nor has he heard from her. Understandable. He doesn’t expect to hear back from or even frequently see the people he deals to often.

Admittedly, after seeing her with that other guy, he decided to keep his eyes to himself. Even if he wasn’t really looking that hard. He’s had enough of the drama that comes with people, especially when it comes to women.

Making money and finishing college, that’s his top priority.

was a new client deal

1 time only

Immediately after sending the message, he swipes back over to TikTok to resume his video. He’s only granted a few seconds of peace when a new message pops up:

Oh right, sorry

An eighth then

Whn uu want it

Rn...

At the sight of the message, Onyankopon squeezes his eyes shut and releases a deep sigh. 

So much for decompressing.

ᝰ

ONYANKOPON FINDS HER at the usual pick up location, looking the most stressed he’s ever seen her. He has to admit, he’d much rather see a smile on that face instead of a pout.

With furrowed brows, she stares off at nothing in particular. All the while, the tip of her thumb is pushed in between her lips, jaw working as she nibbles on her manicure.

He doesn’t announce his presence, only walks up to her. And upon seeing him, the tension in her narrow shoulders eases some.

“Hey,” she breathes out, taking a half-step towards him.

His hand clutches the strap of his book bag a bit tighter. “Wassup.” 

A tiny sigh falls from her lips as she looks off to the side. “Nothing, really … just stress, honestly.”

A curt hum leaves him as he brings his bag around to his front to get out the baggy.

“Y’know, with, like … finals, and everything…”

He nods. “Felt that.”

She peers up at Onyankopon, watching his face closely for any small signs of irritation. He shows none. However, she does notice something she’d never seen before—the small tattoo printed near his left ear.

“It was just so hard this semester, like…” she groans, looking off to the side again. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m not cut for this college stuff.”

She chews at her bottom lip, partly noting his silence.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Ain’t nothing new, though.” Casually, he hands off the weed.

“No, I know, but…” Another sigh. “But this—it’s too much. Especially this round of finals. I honestly felt like … no matter how hard I studied, I still couldn’t understand anything. Like … my professor was so terrible! I just—ugh. I honestly want to get so fucking high I can’t even remember how bad I just bombed this final. I know I failed it.”

Her head drops in her hands, and Onyankopon is at a loss for words. The corners of his lips twitch as he’s actively trying to decide whether he should laugh or at least attempt to console her.

“I mean … you can’t be talking like that … or thinking like that.”

His voice picks her head up out of her hands. 

They stare at each other, each waiting to see who will move the ball first. Onyankopon almost cracks first.

Almost.

“Do … do you smoke?”

Confusion flashes across his face as the topic switch almost throws him off.

“Uh … occasionally?”

She nods, staring up at him with big eyes that seem to be soaking up everything in her line of sight—him.

“I only asked because … y’know, you … do this—” She gestures to the baggy in her grasp. “H-how often do you do it—smoke?”

He shrugs again. “Not much...”

Another nod, and it’s quiet again, but only for a very brief bit of time.

“Sorry—do you—did you have finals?”

He makes a face, brows scrunching up as the corners of his lips quirk up.

“I know you sell to people on campus, so—” She shakes her head. “That was a stupid question. I meant, what class did you have finals for?”

Hands in his pockets now, Onyankopon looks down at her. Eye contact is sparse at this point. Her fingers comb through the ends of her hair.

“Why you asking all these questions?”

That gets her attention; Her eyes bulge out of her head as she gawks up at him, seemingly having forgotten herself.

“Sorry, I was just curious—you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to!”

Under his stare, she shrinks in on herself, even begins to create a bit of space between them.

“I didn’t mean to, like, pry into your business—”

“You smoking alone?”

The question is enough to throw her off. Her brain shoots off about a hundred different thoughts before she’s able to stammer out an answer.

“Yeah … w-why?”

He’s quiet for a while, but it’s obvious that an idea has been set in motion. She can see it in his eyes. 

“Tryna chill with me?”

ᝰ

‘YOU DIDN’T SAY YOU LIVED HERE, my friends live in this building.’

Those words almost tumbled their way out of her mouth. Until she overthought it and predicted his “would-be” response: ‘Why would I tell you where I lived?’ That was enough to keep her quiet.

Oblivious to the metaphorical cloud hanging over Ámerei’s head, Onyankopon leads the way into his apartment. 

His stature—tall with broad shoulders—hides her view of his place for a moment. In that very short period of time, the pleasant scent of his home hits her nose.

The layout is similar to Malaysia and Aneesa’s apartment. The familiarity offers a bit of comfort.

Yet, it’s not enough to push her shoulders down or take the stiffness out of her gait. Following behind him, she is the living definition of meekness. Her palms sweat as they hold on tight to the baggy of weed she has yet to pay for.

“No shoes in the house,” he says, veering off to the side to toe-off his own.

Silently, she nods, removing her sneakers and setting them down near the door.

“You could sit on the couch if you want.” 

She glances over at the short sofa, littered with two small stuffed toys—a mini Mario and Luigi pair—sitting at opposite ends.

"Oh, that's cute." The words slip from her mouth without much of a thought.

"Huh?" He glances back to see her heading for the couch, reaching out for one of the stuffed toys. "Oh, shit, yeah," Onyankopon chuckles.

Stealing a spot, Ámerei easily plops down with the tiny Luigi in her hands. And she doesn't plan on letting him go any time soon. She pinches and twists at his little arms, even rubbing the pads of her thumbs over his smooth felt, as she watches Onyankopon move with absolutely no hurry around his home. 

She keeps trying to predict when he'll join her on the couch. Whenever he gets close enough for her to think so, her heart rate spikes, before she's flooded with both relief and disappointment as he walks away.

"You want something to drink?"

A light hum leaves her as she pretends to think. "What do you have?"

"Orange juice, water ... some orange Fanta."

"Um..." She rubs her lips together in thought, refusing to look up at him. "Mh ... no. It's okay."

"A'ight."

The soft padding of his feet melts away as he leaves the living room. In his time of absence, Ámerei wills herself to relax, even by just a little bit.

As she’s caught in the throes of trying to get her shoulders to—at the very least—not to hike up, Onyankopon reemerges with full hands.

"You could sit back, y'know. You not gon' get in trouble."

It takes half of a second for the joke to get to her. When it finally does, the corners of her eyes wrinkle as a gentle smile pulls at her face. "Oh, okay, sorry," she laughs lightly, pushing herself back onto the couch.

"You good," he mumbles, making his way over. 

On the short coffee table between the couch and TV, he sets down a rolling tray holding the necessary supplies needed for a smoke session. 

Although the couch is short, Onyankopon makes an effort to keep some distance between them, trying his best to give her a comfortable amount of space.

"You could roll?" He asks, bringing the tray into his lap and grabbing his crusher.

She glances down at his hands as he prepares his weed. "No. I just have my friends do it."

A scoff, partnered with the gentle shake of his head. "Knew it." A faint smirk lines his lips.

"Shut up.” 

She tries not to let her laughter linger for too long, however, her overthinking is done in vain as Onyankopon mumbles out yet another line.

“You and them girly-ass nails … can’t mess ‘em up, right?”

She blinks, her brain making an effort to keep up with this newfound trait of playful teasing within the stoic man. “W-well, of course not.”

His eyes stay glued to the paper in his fingers as he packs it with the crushed weed. “Yeah, they too … expensive, right? Just like all the other … shit you got on.”

Her glossy lips are parted, and they remain that way. Her gaze is no longer passive, but searching now. Searching for some kind of a reason for this teasing, and if it is truly playful.

A quiet scoff comes from him, just before he rolls the paper to form the first blunt.

“You pay for all that yourself?”

The rise and fall of her chest is more noticeable in the quiet that settles between them; him waiting on her answer, and her waiting on him to announce that he’s just playing with her.

“Are you trying to ask if I have my own money?”

His lips press together in a simple smile, almost like he’s laughing with himself, just before he lifts the blunt to his mouth to lick.

“That ain’t what I asked.”

It’s quiet as he finally seals the blunt. 

Their eyes meet.

He catches a flash of recognition across her face.

‘There she go,’ he thinks, suppressing a smirk.

“I do…”

Onyankopon grabs the lighter before reaching forward to place the tray down on the table. Sitting back on the couch, he rolls the flame beneath the blunt, turning it over the tiny fire.

She expects him to say something, another response to her answer, maybe? A new topic?

But, nothing comes.

All discussion goes out of the window as Onyankopon lights the packed blunt. He takes the first hit with ease. He only needs about two more pulls before he leaves it hanging between his lips to outstretch a hand her way.

“Hm.”

She looks down, seeing his palm open for something. She glances back up to catch him nodding towards the baggy beneath her arm.

“Oh…” She passes the bag over to him.

Wordlessly, she watches him take out the bud he’d sold her to crush down. It sort of impresses her, how fast he’s able to roll a blunt. And when it’s done, he lights it before carefully handing it over to her.

“Thank you.”

He nods lazily as she takes her first puff. 

“‘Thank you.’”

The soft, high-pitched voice almost makes her choke. She pulls the blunt from her lips, face twisted in a mixture of confused amusement. “Did you just … mock me?”

A small grunt leaves him as he readjusts to sit more comfortably on the couch and face her. He’s got an arm resting atop the back cushion, blunt in hand. He exhales the smoke through his nose.

“You got some good manners.”

There’s a calmness present in his voice that makes goosebumps rise on her skin.

His legs are spread wider. If he were to move by just an inch, their knees would bump together. The proximity alone is enough to make her slightly dizzy.

“‘Can I get a gram, please?’” He takes a pull. “‘Onyankopon—did I say it right?’”

A chuckle brews in his chest as her own embarrassment makes itself known on her face.

“Oh my gosh,” she laughs shyly, hiding the lower half of her face behind a hand. “Stop, I was being polite.”

He scratches at his chin, blunt dangling between his plump lips. 

“Yeah … you a good girl.”

A gentle wrinkle disturbs the smoothness between her brows. The urge to disprove him rears its head within her. She opens her mouth to retort, but he stops her before she can get the chance.

“Don’t gotta deny it,” he shrugs with the simple shake of his head. “It’s cool …”

Weakly, she rolls her eyes. “But why do I have to be that, though? I can’t just be normal?”

“You is. You a normal … good girl.” As he emphasized the word, Onyankopon made sure to keep eye contact. 

Her upper lip twists ever so slightly. It almost makes him laugh. Even her most sour face is polite—hardly offending. Even just chilling on his couch, her poster is straight and her head is held high.

“Nah, matter fact—you more like a princess.”

Ámerei gawks at the word. “A princess?”

His lips twitch into a smirk, clearly having fun with this.

“Stop—” She outstretches a hand towards him. “Stop playing with me.” But her attempt at strict delivery falls flat as a giggle bubbles out of her.

Onyankopon kisses his teeth, taking a hit as he turns his head away. “Acting all proper…” He exhales a thin cloud of smoke. 

“Bet you always follow the rules and shit … handing in your homework on time, studying for tests—”

“Like a regular student,” she defends.

Nevertheless, he continues: “Parents don’t even gotta worry about you going away for college.”

“I’m grown?” She raises a brow, a half-smile on her lips.

“Right, a ‘grown,’ goody-two-shoes … probably can’t even take dick.”

The statement almost feels like a stab to the chest—unexpected. Tingles echo through her skin. Those soft-spoken words shut her up immediately, and any semblance of a smile is wiped off of her face.

“Matter fact…” Onyankopon rasps. He reaches forward to ash his blunt on the tray, moving at a relaxed, unrushed pace. “I know you can’t take dick.”

When he sits back, his eyes bore into her again. “Too good to just fuck on any random ass nigga, right?”

She peers down at her hands as she plays with a ring on one of her fingers. For a moment, she loses herself in thought as she twists the dainty metal around.

“Well … I’m glad it’s so obvious that I don’t have sex.”

The words come out in almost a soft mumble. Yet, they’re loud enough to break him out of his weed-induced spell as he sits up just a little bit straighter, a rift appearing between his brows seconds before they lift up high. 

“What you mean?”

A quiet groan slips from her. “I’m a virgin … duh.”

For his reaction, she watches him closely out of the corner of her eye. And she can’t lie to herself, what she notices gives her a sense of … disappointment?

Onyankopon sits up entirely, turning his body away from her to look forward. His legs no longer spread as wide as before, increasing the amount of space between them.

‘Is he … not interested anymore?’

It throws her brain for a loop how quick he switched up on her. Was she not supposed to say that? It’s not like she was broadcasting the news to him—he started it!

Her chest caves in the longer she sits in this suffocating silence. She doesn’t even know what to say.

The blunt is fizzling out between her fingers, the paper itself growing damp from how much her hand sweats.

“Um—”

“You watching any shows right now?”

Ámerei doesn’t allow herself to remain stunned for longer than a second before she’s giving a nonverbal response; a shake of the head.

“A’ight,” he groans, reaching forward to grab the remote. 

He goes silent as he sifts through his Hulu account, flipping through titles to see what can best fit the vibe for this hangout (and even resuscitate it). 

“I-is there a problem?”

His eyes don’t stray from the screen before them, the TV speaker emitting low clicks as he moves onto the next title. “Nah…”

Her eyes narrow. “Why’d you get quiet when I said I’m a virgin, then?”

He takes a slow inhale, finger freezing on the remote. There’s a handful of seconds before he spares her a brief sideways glance.

“You not watching any shows right now?”

Confusion and irritation twists her face up as she glares at him. “So, you’re just gonna be weird now?”

The sigh that leaves Onyankopon only offends her further. “I’m just tryna find something to watch. We don’t gotta talk about nothing—”

“Bullshit.” She sits up straighter in her spot on the couch, leaning over to get in his face. “I know I’m a virgin, but I’m not stupid. I know you’re interested in me … kind of. At least, I am. Obviously, that’s why I came over here, and it’s probably why you invited me over here, too.”

“Listen—”

“Like, why would I come to a random guy’s apartment just to smoke with him? I know what the fuck people do in situations like these.”

He refrains from showing his mild shock at her change in demeanor. Nevertheless, he faces her as he tries his best attempt at showing remorse. “You seemed cool, maybe I was just tryna chill with you. That’s what you came over here to do?”

Her gaze falters under his own, and her shoulders curl in tighter around her. With a shrug, Ámerei confesses, “I just wanted to … try something new.”

His “guilt” melts into something else: amusement. All there is to show for it is the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “Try something new? That’s … funny.”

His words regain her eye contact, and just as easily she shrugs off her humility for anger. “I’m just going to leave.” Ámerei puts out her blunt and pockets it before reaching for what’s left of her uncrushed weed. “Clearly you think … I’m some little fucking girl, and I’m not gonna sit here and be treated like that—”

“Hol’on—”

“No, I’ll just go—”

As she prepares to stand, he reaches out an arm to keep her in her seat.

“Calm down, just—” Yet another sigh is released as he assesses the situation. “You being a virgin isn’t … a issue. I just … I’m not tryna be the guy that you get first—”

“Why? Because I’ll get attached?” She says the words with air quotes. “Please,” she scoffs. Her arms cross over her chest as she falls back against the couch cushions.

Staring at her, Onyankopon licks at his back molars as he weighs his options with this situation. Catching his eyes, Ámerei staunchly raises a brow in question—in challenge, actually.

“A’ight, you wanna fuck?” He nods to himself, shifting in his seat. “Fine, we could do that.” 

It takes a second too long for her brain to get a firm grasp of his words. “Wha—a-are you—really?”

An unflinching stare is the only answer he gives her.

With apprehension, her arms unfold to push herself up higher. “O-okay … um.” She swallows. “A-are you clean?” 

He wants to laugh, but keeps it at bay. “No, I don’t got nothing. You wanna get tested before we do something?”

“No…?” She doesn’t acknowledge his sarcasm, she doesn’t think she can. “If that’s fine with you?”

He shrugs, eyes softening as he looks at her changing demeanor. “I’m cool.”

The gentle sound of his voice and the heat of his stare boils her in her seat. “Where … should we start?”

His eyes travel to the object of his thoughts: her lips. “I could kiss you?”

Her mouth parts with a silent stutter of words she has yet to mumble. “Y-yeah,” she nods.

Turning his head, Onyankopon ducks in to press his lips against hers. It almost makes her dizzy—them finally touching. Not too wet, his lips are perfectly moist as they slide over her own.

Whereas he moves smooth and fluid, her lips remain pursed against his own, frozen with timidity. And then the wet smooches of each kiss are so loud in her ears, it’s all she can hear.

As he opens his mouth further, he lightly laughs against her. “You gotta kiss back.”

“I am.”

He pulls back to stare at her fully. “You not.”

Brows pulling together, she looks off to the side with a frown and a huff. “Well … it’s awkward.”

“Wha—how you expect to fuck if you can’t handle this?”

Her eyes dart back over to him, growing wide. “I can handle a kiss! It’s just quiet as hell, and I don’t only wanna hear us kissing! Then, it’s just awkward only using our … lips, like—ugh. Can’t we just use tongue?”

“A’ight, if that’s what you wanna do,” he scoffs. “Was tryna ease you into it.”

She doesn’t say anything as she rolls her eyes. Instead, she surges forward to smash her lips against his. This time, she moves with an eagerness that screams she’s trying to prove herself. 

And, honestly … she uses just a little too much teeth.

Yet … Onyankopon can’t find it in himself to be annoyed or even the slightest bit peeved. Instead, it’s kind of cute to him how … not great she is at this.

But, of course, he’s still a man; His cradle of her jaw is light, yet guiding as he tilts her head and holds it in its new position, granting him the perfect access to slip his tongue inside. 

The muscle is velvety smooth and wet; addicting. Her fingers clutch awkwardly at the closest parts of his shirt, eyes fluttering shut as she loses herself in the action of sucking on him.

Maybe she knew what she was talking about. Onyankopon revels in feeling her body sag against his, the warmth of her more apparent the longer they continue. Even her kissing is more relaxed, slow and perfect.

His hand sinks to her neck—not squeezing. Just ... holding. He pulls back by just a fraction, peeling his dark brown eyes open to stare down at her through his lashes as he laves at her bottom lip.

The pretty pink skin glistens with their spit, bouncing with the release of pressure as he lifts his tongue. As she opens her eyes, the fresh wispy set of lashes framing them so perfectly, the kiss drunk gaze she's got makes something in his stomach drop.

'Fuck it,' is all he thinks before dragging her light frame on top of him. Their lips are back on each other without another thought. In fact, their brains buzz with excitement. 

Neither of them can stop.

The only coherent thought he formulates, is the realization of her heartbeat. Her pulse beats like a bunny rabbit's beneath his thumb. His fingers twitch as he barely stops himself from squeezing any tighter.

He's moving purely off of instinct, already knowing which actions to take; his lips veer off of hers, traveling down to the side of her face, underneath her ear, and the column of her neck.

Her mouth hangs open, puffing out swathes of air; it feels empty, missing the feel of something in it.

The hand at her neck slides behind her to cup the back of her head. He pushes her body closer into his. Ámerei's hands clutch his shirt tighter when his lips press firm into the heat of her skin and suck, pulling a hoard of blood just beneath the thin skin.

Yet, the pull isn't strong enough, and she catches herself almost whining out in complaint. When he releases her from his mouth with a weak pop, he licks over the clean skin, pleased that he hadn't left a mark.

In his arms, Ámerei shifts ever so slightly, but it's enough for her to feel him beneath his pants, pressing into the seat of her ass.

'Fuck, I'm really gonna do this,' she thinks to herself.

"Your heart beating fast," he whispers in her ear, his voice sounding distant.

She swallows. "Sorry."

"Don't be."

Before she can think of a response, his hands grip her thighs firmly. In the blink of an eye, she's suspended in the air, held up in his arms as her feet dangle at his sides.

She doesn't ask anything as he whisks her away from the living room, the couch shrinking over his shoulder as they head down the short but dark hallway and towards another room.

The bedroom.

It smells just as good as the living room, but a different scent. One softer, cleaner. The only messy thing in here is his bed, as it was left unmade.

She doesn't judge him, though. She can't remember the last time she's made hers either.

Those thoughts are quieted as she's set down on the pillowy bundle of his comforter. As her back sinks into the gentle warmth, she's engulfed in his natural scent: a faint, manly musk with an air of powdery cleanliness. 

She half expects his body to already be on top of hers. Instead, he's standing over her, looking down at her with eyes full of an alertness she hadn't expected.

"What happened?"

"You wanna do this? Like, actually?"

She's nodding, sitting up on her elbows to get a better look at him. "Yes, I want to ... you don't?" The beginnings of her brows itch to pull to each other.

"Nah, I do. I'm just making sure ... don't need nobody crying 'cause I took they virginity—"

"Which is a social construct," she sasses, softly jerking her neck as she does so. "And you’re not taking anything. So stop talking about it, and let's go."

He can't lie, she got that one. All he can offer is a scoff and the shake of his head. "You keep talking like you Billy Badass."

A grin teases at her lips. "Then shut me up."

He pauses for a moment, staring at her as he decides on what he should do to her first. One hand at the hem of his pants, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. "You just let me know when it gets too much."

His hushed tone gets her wetter, she can feel it. All she gives is a nod of her head.

"Take your clothes off for me."

"Okay," she breathes out, pushing herself to sit up on her knees. 

Her capris came off first, leaving her in the pistachio green panties she decided to throw on today. Next is her sweater, which she throws softly to the floor. And then, it's her camisole.

Onyankopon doesn't try to be polite or chivalrous, there's no reason to hide how he feels; his gaze is exactly where he wants it to be.

He reaches out a hand before he can think, warm fingers cradling the side of her ribcage as he runs his thumb over the pert hill of her left boob, lazily playing with the taut, almost maroon nipple.

"Perky ass lil' titties."

Her spine bows, pushing them further into his touch. "Shut up," she mumbles, her lips pulling around her pretty teeth as she can’t keep herself from spilling a smile.

“Mhm,” he hums, moving his hand to hold her jaw and angle her chin up.

His low-lid stare has her feeling stuck in the spotlight. Ámerei can’t tell if she loves all of the attention or if she’s too shy for it.

“Why you still got them fucking panties on?”

Her breath hitches, hearing his soft voice harden around the profanity.

“I-I thought you were gonna take them off,” she says softly.

Kissing his teeth, his hand falls away from her face, leaving the skin cold. “You really think you a fucking princess.”

There was no malice in his tone at all.

Before she can even fake a frown, he gently pushes her back down on the bed. Her mouth hangs open, speechlessly watching as he softly hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of her underwear. He stares for a moment, before he even thinks to pull them down.

Between her legs, he takes heed to how the thin fabric sticks to the curves of her pussy, showing what usually goes unseen. Only slightly does he pull them up, just to further pronounce the outline of her folds. And that’s when he sees the small wet spot previously hidden.

“What’s wrong?”

The fear in her voice is poorly hidden. 

“Nothing, you good.”

His smile matches that of his tone: plain and simple.

Without much more delay, Onyankopon takes great care in ridding her of her underwear. The small garment in his hands, he begins folding it with the tips of his fingers, like it’ll rip if he pulls at them too hard.

“Scoot back,” he nods in the direction he wants her to go, just before placing the folded underwear on his dresser.

Ámerei shifts to the middle of the bed, Onyankopon moving into the new space she made for him.

His hands get her by the underside of her legs, pushing them back against her stomach. As he lowers himself between them, she doesn’t lean back, only staying on her elbows to watch with … morbid curiosity.

Once again, he halts, concern befalling his face. “You good with this?” 

She nods, chewing at her bottom lip as worry brings her brows together. “Y-yeah, I’m just … kinda scared? Not of you, but, like … w-what if I, like …. stink?” 

He laughs softly. “You don’t.” 

“I don’t?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Was you supposed to?”

Her eyes widened. “No—no! I was just—ugh, nevermind, keep going. Sorry.”

For a moment, Onyankopon eyes her, searching for any signs that he should stop. “Do you wanna do this?”

“Yes,” she nods eagerly, never breaking eye contact.

“So lay back, then.” He kisses his teeth, hoping to calm her nerves with a playful tone. “Moving like you supervising me.”

She only rolls her eyes, her back sinking into the sheets.

Face to face with her second set of lips, Onyankopon can’t say that he’s surprised with what he’s seeing, only pleased by the sight of her. A clit, swollen with arousal, heading the curtains of her inner labia which come to peek past her lips.

Right above it, he places a soft smooch on the hill of her mound, feeling the hot and smooth skin under his lips. Then one right beneath it, where her lips part. Just in the crook of her leg and hip, he plants another kiss there. 

The hitch in her breath is complimented by a subtle flex of her inner leg muscles.

“You ticklish?”

Her hands, awkwardly tucked at her sides, twist the sheets beneath them as she stares up at the ceiling. “U-um, not really—”

Pressing his tongue to the opening of her pussy, Onyankopon flattens it against her, barely dipping inside. But, he doesn’t let it linger, as he licks a long, wide stripe all the way to her clit.

Her stomach sucks in and her hips press into the bed, thighs fighting to close around him.

“O-oh—”

Another lick pulls his lips over her clit, slowly rolling his tongue over it. “Hm?”

“Mm—I don’t—“ She shakes her head, eyelids lowering by the second.

He pulls back, creating a soft smooch sound, then another lick. All before he pulls her clit back into the warmth of his mouth to suckle on.

“Mh … mmh … mh, uh … uh—”

His lips tighten around her as he holds in a laugh. He readjusts his grip to better handle her hips as they rock against his face.

“Yes … mh—please,” she pants out. She licks at her drying lips, only for her mouth to drop open again as he continues to suck at her clit.

Her knuckles pale, hands twisting and pulling at the sheets as she bears the feeling of his tongue flicking against her clit—each one pushing her towards a familiar feeling.

At the back of her head, the sound of her own voice—moaning in a way that she’s never heard before—is honestly … embarrassing. 

But, she can’t bring herself to care. Not with how he has her folded up and shaking against his face.  

She can feel his chin moving against her, almost digging into the underside of her thighs, and perfectly so. Right above his head, her ankles cross and her feet arch.

He switches his tempo, tongue swirling circles on it. That pulls a shiver out of her.

“Hmmm, mmh, mh—” 

Using all of the strength she can muster, Ámerei pushes her hips upwards to rut against his face, chasing after a fastly impending climax.

And she’s so eager for it, she doesn’t even notice the shifting of his hips against the bed. How contained he’s trying to be. How hard he tries to not to let it be known that he enjoys getting his face fucked by a pretty girl. 

Her thighs press harder against the sides of his head, drowning him in the sweet scent of the lotion that coats her skin.

“Ooh—”

Her body jumps, tightening as her body flutters, and her own release leaks down her middle. 

As he licks at her, a clammy palm pushes against his forehead. He clutches tighter as she squirms beneath him, broken laughter spilling from her mouth.

“Fuck, stop, stop!” She twists and turns, twisting to slip out of his grasp.

Letting go of a soft chuckle himself, he releases her out of mercy. “You didn’t wanna continue,” he asks, sitting up, a grin on his wet lips.

Through hooded eyes, Ámerei watches him as she tries to regain her composure. She notices a speck of her cum on his chin just before he wipes the bottom half of his face with his shirt.

“That was good for you?” As Onyankopon talks, he comes to stand up.

Immediately, her eyes fall below his waist. Straight to the print in his pants that is impossible to ignore. Wordlessly, she nods, her stare unmoving.

The corners of his mouth raise into a grin as he hooks his thumbs on the waistband of his pants and drags them downwards. It pops out as it's freed from his clothes. 

In her eyes, his dick bobs in slow motion, solid and stiff in the air.

She struggles to get a good breath in as he rejoins her back on the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of her.

“Look at me.”

Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Her attention is wrangled in by the soft grip he adopts on her chin. He tilts her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Tell me how you felt.”

She blinks herself out of a daze, just barely realizing the soothing rub of his thumb against her chin. “It—I—g-good.”

A soft snort leaves him. “Yeah? It was good?”

She nods, growing bashful again. As she ducks her head, she subtly jerks back, having almost brushed the tip of his dick with her lips. She looks back up at him, noting the almost expectant look on his face.

“You wanna suck it?”

“Mh—I…”

She glances at it again. Sepia blooms over the crown of it. The tip is blunt and wide, a perfect surface just inviting her to curl her tongue around it.

A thought flashes in her mind as she wonders how many women have had him in their mouths. How many women have made him cum, and how fast. How much … better they’d be at it than her.

With a thick swallow, she peers back up at him. “Not—I don’t think I could do it this time.”

He nods, the grin on his face unchanging. “A’ight, that’s okay.”

Bending down, he plants a kiss on her cheek, then, one on her neck. “Lay back, again,” he whispers to her.

“Why,” she questions, leaning back anyway as she watches him lower himself to her side. 

“Put your legs up.”

There’s a buzzing present in her brain, like she’s moving on autopilot. And it feels so good. Hence why, she doesn’t think twice when he whispers a command, performing the action as she speaks to fill the space.

She curls her legs into her chest once again, tucking her manicured hands beneath her knees, just to have something to hold onto. Yet still, there’s ample space for him to slide a hand between her thighs. Right where her lips are pushed together.

“G-go slow, please,” she urges timidly.

He doesn’t mind her words as he runs his fingers through the plush skin of her lips. Slow and soft, teasing her as he gets the tips of them wet. They’re relaxed, petting. 

Her eyelids start to grow heavy, limbs relaxing into the mattress as he rubs messy circles over the bundle of nerves between her legs. The walls of her pussy hug themselves as they flutter from his touch. 

Even as he’s right there—not daring to pull away—her hips chase after his touch. They stutter and roll beneath him.

Her head lolls to the side, eyes barely open as he stares down at her falling apart.

“This good?”

“Mmmhm,” she nods lazily, moaning softly into his arm.

“This how you want it? You gotta tell me.”

Her legs quiver. He feels a trickle further wet his hand.

“Y-yes,” she whispers, the sound barely slipping out past her lips.

“Hm?”

The pads of his fingers rub so perfectly against the small pearl, overwhelming her with their gentle roughness. 

“Yesss, Ony,” she weeps, her face contorting in desperate pleasure as she nods against him. “Yess—”

A gentle gasp slices her plea in half; a finger, long and thick, slides through her lips and pushes in, gliding easily. It almost takes another moan from her.

And as that thick, long finger dives deeper, it presses right up against that spot perfectly inside of her. So deep that the knuckle of his hand presses to her opening with a soft squish.

“Mhm,” he hums, peering between her legs as he pulls that finger out. But, only about halfway before he’s pushing back in to hear her body croon around him. He pulls out again.

It doesn’t surprise him, seeing the thin, slimy film coating his skin—viscous and sticky. It’s built up in some spots more than others.

“Creaming already.”

Before she has the chance to get bashful at the off handed comment, he’s sliding his finger right back in, the tip of it just kissing her g-spot.

The pressure is a dull ache that knocks something deep in her tummy.

Her eyes roll shut, shoulders tensing up as her body tries to handle the steady strength of his finger fucking into her. It curls so perfectly in her, pushing against her walls. And yet…

“M-more,” she whimpers.

“More?”

She nods, the crease in her brows deep as her eyes fall closed. She doesn’t even see the way his lips curve upwards as he kisses his teeth.

“Wasn’t you just begging me to go slow?”

His question doesn’t get a real answer, only an irritated whine.

“Huh?” As he works his finger in and out of her, always aiming to hit that one spot, her body gurgles around them, splishing against him. “That wasn’t you?”

There’s an effort to keep her lips pressed together, even as her eyes roll back at the feeling of someone digging her out in the most pleasant way possible. “Mh—Please.” The word drags from her mouth, weighed by an attitude that reeks of entitlement.

He doesn’t mind it. Without a second thought, he gives her just what she asks for, pushing his ring finger in right alongside the middle one. A moan that perfectly encapsulates utmost satisfaction leaves her lungs as her body welcomes him.

She’s sopping, her walls velvety and soft. They mold around his fingers as he presses into the spot right behind her bladder.

“Ouu … shit,” her voice drags, cracked and heavy. Above his head, her feet arch like they’re in Louboutins. Her hips twitch, thighs shuddering perpetually.

She’s a vision that he has to sit up further to see in its entirety. He licks his lips, trying to get a trace of her taste again as her cream seeps around his hand. 

“You feel that?”

Bunched up together, her eyebrows don’t separate. She can only manage a weak nod. Her body offers no friction, welcoming him in with weeps of milky arousal all over the intruding fingers.

“Fuck,” he groans to himself, shifting on his knees. “Why you creaming like that?”

His answer is a shaky mewl as her thighs tremble around his wrist. Square acrylics with perfect corners bite into the skin of her legs as her grip only hardens.

His mind is on its own bender, this sight enough of a drug to last him the entire evening. Onyankopon doesn’t question the next thought that pops into his head, he only does it.

With too much ease, he slips a third finger in, curious to see how much she can take. 

There is no resistance. 

No struggle.

No hiss of pain or tightening to stop him. 

Just pretty pink walls, bending and stretching to accommodate the weight and size of three big fingers.

“She greedy like that, huh? Been starving… Why you kept her waiting this long, Ámerei?” He bends down close to push his face into her neck, lips right at her ear. “Hm?” Her pussy spurts around him, the sound of wet clicks accenting his words. “Tell me.”

Her whimpers are too perfect. Anyone could hear them, and here she is, making all of this noise about his fingers. How does she expect to take his dick?

“Wanted to wait until someone could do you right, hm? Give you some princess treatment,” he teases.

He runs his lips, slowly, down her neck and up the hill of a breast. At its peak, he laves at a pearled nipple before suckling. Her hips cant against him, like they’ve been brought back to life.

He’s relentless, fucking her good enough so that she doesn’t even notice when he grabs the condom—only slipping his hand out to tear open the aluminum packet. That’s when she finally has a clear enough head to open her eyes.

To look up.

Her eyes go wide.

“W-woah—wait.”

He freezes, the condom having already been rolled half-way down his dick.

Her eyes flit up to his face, almost shocked by the concern splashed across his face. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I … I just…” 

She takes another peak at him, noting the way the latex stretches thin around his tip. There’s only one hand around himself, but Ámerei can tell that it’s feasible for him to grip it with two. It curves just slightly to the left. A small web of veins, laying just under the skin, ribs the length of his shaft.

“Look, we don’t gotta do this—”

“I do. I … I do, just … please, go slow.”

“Okay, Ámerei. I heard you,” he stresses. “I’m not doing nothing you not okay with, a’ight?”

She nods, still looking between his legs. Her gaze is torn away when there’s a hand at her chin, pushing her head up. 

“I hear you.”

She nods again, rather stiffly this time, on account of the hand still at her chin. And yet, he gently squeezes her in reprimand.

“Something hurts, say it. Don’t gimme that fake-moaning shit if you don’t like it, ‘cause I’ma be able to tell.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

He scours her face for a moment. 

“Okay.” He releases her face to finish putting the condom on. “Lay back … I ain’t gon’ tell you again,” he mumbles, voice less stern than it had been in the last minute or so.

Swallowing back her fears, Ámerei does as told. He doesn’t give her room to ruminate. Or, he gives her no space to, rather; his face is back in hers.

There are kisses dropped one after the other on her lips, as a knee of hers is lifted and pressed against her stomach. 

“Look at you—” a kiss. “—doing all that worrying … Like you don’t got me this fucking hard.” 

Ámerei holds in a gasp as the weight of his tip drops against her lips with a firm tap. She jumps at the impact. It surprises her, that’s for sure, feeling how solid he is.

He looks in her eyes seeing the lust bloom behind her shrinking apprehension. Taking his hand off of himself, Onyankopon gently grabs her other hand to place it around his dick, so that she can see for herself.

“Feel that?” he breathes out as she makes a clumsy fist around him. Her hand is so soft. It’s almost a shame. “Ain’t even have you suck my shit, but you got me giving you dick.”

His stare is unflinching. Her hand tingles, like it’s in shock at how he feels in her grasp. It almost makes her head hurt, noting how even if she really tried, one hand won’t be enough to fully hold him.

“That’s what you used to … getting everything you want, w-without having to do nothing for it, hm?”

He can make a comment about how easy it’ll be to split her open—he’s definitely thinking it. But, Onyankopon watches his words. Tries to keep it tame for her sake.

She bites at her lower lip, nodding shyly as she tries to hide her face in her shoulder.

“Don’t get shy, I ain’t shaming you. S’what you used to…” Staring down at her, he licks at his lips before nodding down to where she holds him. “But you gon’ do some work today. Rub it in, c’mon.”

Huffing softly, Ámerei tightens her grip as she takes the reigns. Onyankopon pulls his hand away, using it to aid in his balance above her.

Where she would typically have a comeback, Ámerei keeps her mouth shut. Her thoughts are hazy, body too eager to make contact with him.

Her eyelids lay low, bottom lip tucked neatly between the rows of her teeth as she gently swipes the head of his dick against herself. It brings a shudder out of her, the feeling akin to the licks he’d given her just moments ago.

‘Heavy,’ she thinks. Thick and weighted, like he’s carrying a pipe between his legs.

It’s slow, her movements, as her body gradually wakes to the feeling of his dick against her. But, it’s inevitable that she starts to gain some sort of confidence, especially when he hums in encouragement.

“Mhm.” His breathing is messy and less composed. Louder, too, even as he rolls his lips into his mouth and tries to keep quiet. 

Peering up at him, eyes glossed over, Ámerei chews at her lower lip. Her movements grow surer. She doesn’t stop, even as her wrist burns from the angle made by their closeness and his length. 

She pulls him further and further, dipping the head past her clit. For a moment, he catches just where she opens. Where her cunt seeps around nothing.

“Shit … you so wet.”

The soft rasp of his voice sends a fluttering feeling down the line of her stomach. Her clit jumps as she clenches.

“S’for you,” she mumbles, still keeping that eye contact.

When his eyes flick upwards to meet hers, his face twitches with the effort of a man close to losing self-restraint.

Kissing his teeth, he squeezes his eyes shut. “Stop t-talkin’ like that.”

Her brain vomits out a response too quick for her liking: ‘Sorry, Daddy.’

But her lips quiver as the words die on her tongue, unspoken. Can she say that yet? Should she? Maybe it’s best to save that for someone who’s more of a permanent fixture.

Instead, she revises the thought.

“Sorry, Ony.”

The tiny pout on her pillowy lips is enough for him to reach for her face—better balance be damned. He squeezes her cheeks, pushing those lips out further to plant his own on them as he leans in.

“Don’t gotta apologize,” he says against her mouth, the words garbled and smushed.

Her shoulders shoot up, body tensing as the weight of his head starts to press heavier against her.

“Ony—”

Her warmth is inviting, his hips stutter. “It hurts?” His lips are still pressed to hers. So close, suffocating either of them in the best way.

She shakes her head.

“Let me in, then.” He kisses her softly. “You was just taking my fingers, I know you could take this.” 

One of her hands slip from behind her knees to grip at his upper arm.

“C’mon,” he pants, gently rocking his hips against her, pushing his tip through her lips to spread her arousal. “Be good, you could take this.”

He presses back against her hole, feeling himself inch inside by way of her wetness.

“You know you could take it … know you c-could,” he groans.

“Oh, G-God—”

Her body widens slowly, the feeling foreign as it stretches around the blunt crown of his dick. He pops it in, her walls doing small spasms around him.

“Fuck,” he pants. “It’s hurting?”

A whine is caught in her throat. She tries to swallow it down. 

“Keep going,” she messily shakes her head, strands of her hair getting in her line of sight.

Her face is scrunched up. Onyankopon takes heed to go slow. His hand leaves her face to hold himself at the base.

“Keep holding them legs open … fuck, you real pretty.”

Unexpectedly, a nervous chuckle falls out of his mouth as he looks from where they connect to her face. He breezes past the slip up as he starts to use his body weight to push in. Her breath gets caught in her chest for the umpteenth time with him. 

“O-oh—ohh—”

The weak, high-pitched whine hits his ears as his dick slowly sinks into soft, wet heat. Pushing, pushing, pushing. It’s a far bigger stretch than just three fingers. And it only gets wider the farther in he goes.

He’s hardly even half-way in when he meets resistance, like he’s hit a wall inside of her.

“Fuck—stop, please—”

He freezes, immediately looking down. Her lips stretch as much as they can around him, gripping the sides of him as her walls try their hardest to take him. Their contractions are weak, her body giving its best effort to take something it’s never experienced before.

But as his eyes move just inches upward, he finds the real source of the issue: the barely noticeable swell in the pit of her stomach. 

Right where he is.

Her face contorts in pain, and immediately he takes action to slowly and carefully relieve her of the pressure sitting in her gut.

“M’sorry—fuck, it hurts—”

“Quit that, you good. It’s me, th-that’s my fault,” he grunts, trying to keep his movements slow and controlled. 

When he pulls out, he can’t help but to notice the minor stretch he gave her, the opening of her cunt winking back at him. No doubt, she’s a little more open now.

“My fault, I’m sorry,” he mumbles, reaching for her face. “You want me to stop?”

“Uh-uh,” she shakes her head, peering up at him, a wrinkle still in her brows. “Try again, just—”

“I’ma be careful.”

She nods. Beneath him, she shifts to regain a sense of comfort, reaching down to spread herself open.

French shorties frame shiny wet lips that give away to a pink center, coaxing him in with the promise of a gushy hold. Below her pussy, her second hole puckers tightly. 

“You look good like this,” he rasps, smiling as he takes his dick in-hand. “You helping me?” 

Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she nods. Her toes curl in excitement above her. Her hair is messy, in need of a good brushing. A thin sheen of sweat covers her, adding spots of highlight to the high points of her face. Yet, here she is, still so eager to follow through with this.

He grips his dick tighter as another rush of blood makes him pulse.

“Just like that … keep that shit open…”

He guides himself back to her hole and goes for another try. This time, he’s slower, watching carefully as her body accepts him with an ease of familiarity, right up until that spot where he stopped.

She hisses again, body tensing up as she’s unable to hide her discomfort.

“Ow—s-stop—”

“I’m stopping, you good,” he quickly comforts, stilling his hips. 

At his sides, her legs tremble. The pain settles, but not completely.

“You want me to pull out?”

She doesn’t give an immediate answer, eyes and lips sealed shut.

“C’mon, Ámi’, talk to me.”

“I … it’s too mu-uch.”

Her voice waivers. 

She half expects him to be pleased hearing those words. Isn’t that what most guys like to hear?

“Want me to put you in a new position?”

Her eyes pop open. His face is close to hers. She gets a front row seat to the concern laced within his features. And, through her pain, manages a shaky but grateful smile.

“Yeah,” she nods.

The room spins as he pulls back out, still careful. “Turn on your side.”

Wordlessly, she does so. Her head rests against the arm she has splayed against the pillow, a sigh of relief leaving her as her eyes fall closed.

Scooting closer to her, he lifts a leg, pulling it straight up as he lowers himself to sit just at her cunt.

“You comfortable?”

She peels her eyes open just to look at him as she nods. Fatigue is written all over her face, what little they’ve done enough to zap her of her energy.

A real pillow princess.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

Upon pushing back in, Onyankopon is pleasantly surprised to find that he’s able to do so with ease. In fact, they both are.

“Mmph,” she mewls pleasantly, eyes falling back closed as he slips in further than he was ever able to.

“Fuck … there we go,” he breathes out.

She isn’t too taut around him. It’s a perfect stretch that makes him feel elated, because he can tell she’s enjoying it, too. 

It takes a while, but he bottoms out; her stretched cunt pressed flush to his balls. The cool skin paired with the light dusting of hair on his sack makes her shudder. It’s such a pleasant feeling, the fullness. There’s still that ache in her lower tummy, but in the sweetest of ways that only makes her want more.

“Onyy,” she whines softly.

“It’s okay?” He’s almost breathless. In this position, he fits a lot more snuggly within her. No awkward poking. 

She nods against the sheets, lips parted. 

“I’m moving slow.”

“Okay.”

He starts out with a slow rock. Back and forth, back and forth. Until with each one, he’s pulling out more inches. Yet, his strokes remain slow and soft. Gentle and rolling. Amazing.

“Oh … ohh … o-oh,” she whimpers softly, eyes rolling back as she twists and turns, gripping the sheets. 

“You enjoying this?”

He doesn’t even need to ask. Not with the way her pussy squelches like she’s got something to tell him. It’s like every time he pulls out, her body cries, only getting wetter.

He finds that he can hit her deeper. "Feels good, right?”

“Uuuh—!”

“Know it does... Could hear it.”

Plap, plap, plap.

Her body claps against him in applause every time he bottoms out. Still going at a moderate pace, still careful with her.

“Ohh, God!”

“I know, I know.” He reaches down to grip her jaw, turning her head to see that pretty face. How much it twists into an ugly expression, hair all over her face, as he digs her out in the best way.

"Had to get you ready, but I'm not gonna go too hard... Too soft for that, can't break you, hm?”

A shrill whines leaves her lungs, the small peaks of her breasts jumping slightly as he fucks into her. All slow, nice, and polite.

"Gotta ... treat you all nice 'n' soften you up. Like you a princess, huh?”

The teasing only makes her clench up.

"Couldn't fuck you in my car … n-not like them other bitches, right?

Before the words cement themselves in her brain, her body is wonderfully stunned by a stroke just an ounce heavier than the last. Meaner.

“Huh?”

She shakes her head, having barely comprehended anything past the first few words of that sentence. He leans in closer, bucking his hips harder against her. Faster.

PlapPlapPlap!

Her whines get chopped and screwed as she writhes beneath him. They turn into silent moans as her mouth hangs open. The whites of her eyes are what he sees.

“Nah, right?”

Her pussy flutters nonstop, sucking him in, begging him to never leave. He grips her ankle tighter, never putting her leg down for rest.

“You want princess treatment... only want niggas to treat you nice and sweet, huh?”

“Oh … mh—mh—mh—ohhh fuuuuuck—”

“Yeaah, right?” A breath chuckle tumbles out of his lips, even as a bead of sweat rolls down his face. “You … t-taking this shit like a … n-natural.”

He sees it: the way she creams around him. How can he not? All of her arousal packs at the base of his dick, translucence building up until it’s thicker and more solid in color; a tight slip and slide for his dick.

“Taking you home … fucking you in my bed like you my girl... This what you came here for?"

It’s like her heart is fighting to get out of her chest. Ámerei struggles to keep a grip on the reality of the situation at hand. Genuinely, it’s like he’s beating her pussy out of its frame. And yet it feels too good for her to want it any other way.

Then again, what does she know?

As expected, there’s a bit of resistance as Onyankopon pulls out. The mild suction tempts him to stay in.

“Please,” Ámerei croaks as Onyankopon gently puts her leg down to rest.

“Relax, I still got you.”

He sits back on his knees, staring down at her with a lust that overpowers whatever fatigue he might be feeling. He can’t tell if it’s the weed or if he’s actually this horny for her.

He’s putting a pin in that thought for later, in favor of putting her face deep in the sheets and her ass high in the air.

“Arch that shit—c’mon, you know what to do… Bet you studied for this shit, too.” Onyankopon wipes the sweat from his forehead with the corner of his comforter. “Deep, too, I don’t do that shallow shit.”

Shifting on her knees, she spreads her legs wider and sinks her back in. And part of her is thankful, relieved that this is the new position. Because being spread open before him, her most private parts on display for him in this manner, has her growing unbelievably shy—she doesn’t want to think too hard about it.

Or about the fact that he might not achieve what he wanted from this position. She’s never had a fat ass, just a noticeable set of hips on a small frame. 

But—see—Onyankopon isn’t worried about that. Not when he’s getting the best view from behind; dribbles of slick ooze from her pulsing cunt. She’s dripping, pussy still wanting more of what he can offer.

“Lil’ thing hungry, hm?”

A lazy slap is dropped on the plane of her right ass cheek, before he softly grips and shakes what little fat is there. The little jiggle is too cute for him, especially when another whine escapes her.

It seems that’s one of the only sounds she’s been able to make lately.

“Speak to me, Ámi… Can’t be the only one talking.”

Blindly, she reaches back for him, searching for his hand.

“Y’know I’m not a talker.” He captures her wrist, gently pressing it to the small of her back. With his free hand, he repositions himself, swiping his tip through her lips. “You supposed to be the one doing all that for me.”

His push back in is one of his biggest highlights of today.

“Th-this shit so … f-ffucking perfect,” he groans out, voice wavering as her walls grip him up in the wettest, warmest way he’s ever felt.

His hips are just seconds from colliding with her ass when he hears it:

Pfft … ppfftt!

“Whew!” He smiles, moving his second hand to grip her hip instead. “Mhm, just like that—that’s the kind’a talking I’m trynna hear.”

That fullness has returned to her. And it’s mind-numbingly amazing. Shaking and sniffling, Ámerei only takes it as Onyankopon pounds into her, just like she wanted.

“Oh God, Oh God, Oh Go—”

She tenses up as he uses his strength to pull her ass back on him as he meets her halfway. Each smack of their skin is sharp and quick. 

“Oouuuuuuuu—ahh,” she cries out embarrassingly, feeling herself just leaking around his dick as he slips in and out of her.

“Quit … l-losing that arch—fuck I just tell you?”

Every new stroke felt punishing, and in the best way possible. She wants to cry and rejoice at the same time. Her knuckles pale as she clutches the pillow beneath her tight. Lord knows she needs something to hold on to as she tries to inch up on the bed.

All that achieves is a two second break, Onyankopon pausing to yank her back before he continues.

“A-another thing … that running shit—” 

The cracks in his voice make her stomach swoop and her pussy flutter.

"Don't know … why you was asking f-for … all this … C-can’t even f-fucking take it—”

The swing of his hips are so heavy against her. The skin on her ass stings and every thrust has her afraid that she’ll lose control of her bladder. 

And yet, it’s bringing her closer to something.

“Why you squeezing me like that? You ‘bout to cum?”

His breathy voice gives her enough of a high to ride off of. But, the timid musk of his sweat is something she hadn’t expected to like; it invades her senses as he leans in over her back, hips still working against her.

“Hm? Y-you ‘bout to cum, Ámi?”

A broken whimper is what she manages, aside from a measly nod of the head.

“C’mon then.” 

The hand on her waist slips beneath her body, slithering to a slobbering set of lips between her trembling legs. 

For a sobering moment, his hips still. He grunts as her pussy spasms around him, still in shock from the way he worked her.

Reprieve ends as he rubs messy but concentrated circles on her poking clit, careful not to put too much pressure on the sensitive bud. 

“Cum on me,” he pants.

Her hips stutter, tummy sucking in as her back arches. “Ony—k-keep doing…”

“Uhuh … cum on my dick. Cum on it—”

A violent shiver nearly takes her out as she lets go around him. His strong arms serve as an anchor for her, as she nearly loses herself in the lasting orgasm.

“Keep—oh fuck,” he shudders, finally letting go himself, emptying into the condom as she milks him dry.

Both bodies twitch against one another, riding out their releases.

It’s after that conclusion, Ámerei learns something new about herself: that sex is definitely an activity to put her to sleep. 

As Onyankopon separates from her—making it a point to notify her that he was just going to get some wipes—she finds it difficult to keep herself awake.

It only works but so well.

Succumbing to her body’s wishes, Ámerei’s eyes flutter shut seconds before Onyankopon enters the room, still naked yet condom-free. She wants to get up when she hears the sound of a soft snort.

“You sleeping?”

Largely, Ámerei inhales as she stretches against the sheets, turning her head and peeling her eyes open to look at him. “Mh-mh.”

His grin is faint, yet she can tell it’s a product of fatigue. And she’s not surprised, he did do all of the work.

Onyankopon makes his way over to the bed, a pack of wipes in his hands. Her eyes fall back closed before that first wipe even touches her hot, clammy skin.

“Mhm, bet you tired now, huh?” 

“Shut up,” she mumbles.

His hands move as his mouth runs, a cocky smile on his full lips. “Don’t know why, I was putting in that work.”

A dreamy smile is all she can muster, too tired to give a genuine laugh.

“Thank you.”

“That polite shit,” he mutters, that smile of his dimming to a genuine grin that he makes an effort to further hide. “You welcome.”

Chucking a soiled wipe on the ground for later, he exchanges it for a new one to wipe the slick that had run between her ass. 

Part of her is caught off guard. She hadn’t expected him to be this … chivalrous. But, she’s not going to deny herself of this service. He was absolutely correct in giving her the ‘Princess’ title. And she is going to play the part.

"Ain’t gon’ lie to you, though…” he licks at his lips, brain producing a line of thoughts that he finds himself happily following. “If you wanna keep doing this … you gotta learn how to take dick."

Without a thought spared, Ámerei sits up on her elbows, pure bliss wiped off of her face in an instant. Mild offense twists her face into a scowl.

“Don’t even trip,” he soothes. 

Onyankopon doesn’t spare her a glance as he runs the wipe down an inner thigh.

“We gon’ fix that."

𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 ᝰ @uzmacchiato @crylynnluv

Today was a podcast day for Parker’s playlist.

And that was the soundtrack that carried her into the trees.

Bag secured on her back—not too heavy but enough to keep the woman firm on her feet, navy yonder water bottle in the side pocket for easy access of hydration, breathable athletic wear for a anticipated long walk, and smartwatch tracking everything that she mentally checks for anyway.

Parker’s always prepared for days like these, until she passes the overpass above her head, which is part of where the trail leads deeper into the woods. Things are more secluded but the greenery closes you in just right.

At first she kicks up something that she thought was a pebble. In the grooves of her trainers, she picks out a miniature glass mushroom. Tiny but mighty in her hands, Parker inspects it for a minute, she immediately guesses that it’s handmade and it does bring a smile to her face.

She can’t help but to take a picture of it before shifting one of the straps to her bag to store the little sky blue and white dotted mushroom.

Thankfully her foot didn’t crush it so that had to mean the object needed to be seen.

Some things just needed to be found.

The podcast says just as she starts listening in on the host again and Parker can’t help but to raise her brows, laughing to herself while she starts to walk again.

The second object she passes is a lime green ribbon tied around a tree.

It’s not really an odd thing to witness since most usually represent something in the world or something that’s happened here.

Time to time Parker kept up with the news…as much as she can take anyway.

The world can definitely be a scary place but that’s why she needed these days where she tried to be more present with herself; being embraced by the earth in this way did something for her entire system.

She hums to herself, doe eyes locked on the dainty ribbon before carrying on.

The third object sits on the banister of the wooden bridge that she walks across, it holds strong over the rush of a small creek below. It sits at the end of the bridge and that stops Parker in her tracks. It’s too still to be real, her neck pushing out when she finds it’s a sculpture left behind.

She didn’t see it here last Sunday.

The bird has a black matte finish—ceramic maybe? The only thing shiny about it is its beak and beady eyes, pointed forward for any hiker to greet. Parker doesn’t know much about birds but crows usually never meant good things.

At least that’s how they’ve always been depicted.

She snaps a picture to send to Shen.

His reply is instant:

$40 bucks if you touch it.

Parker laughs out loud, there wasn’t enough money in the world for her to be voluntarily cursed.

She doesn’t stay on her phone long because that’s the whole point of a reset Sunday. However she does make it known to those closest to her where her exact location is right now.

Parker doesn’t plan to stay out here much longer, finding three objects so far seems to be too much of a coincidence.

Too intentional.

Then she finds you.

Eventually.

About a mile from the bridge, crouched down by the incline digging.

Dirt flying up and back, just by one hand as you seem hunched over with something in your lap.

That’s enough for Parker to start creeping back and just to be expected, her foot steps onto a twig, snapping it and catching your attention.

‘Well, shit!’ Parker thinks to herself, shoulders curved inward, just as she meets your eyes.

Thankfully you didn’t appear as a spooky looking hag or something out of the wrong turn series.

Parker raises her hands, brows lifted, “I’m not trying to interrupt whatever you got going on. I’m cool as long as you are.”

You stand, turning to the stranger with pulled back locs and tapered sides. Her arms shine from the bits of sun that spill through the leaves above, ink a slight contrast to the glow of her skin but surely tell a story all on their own.

Cradled at your side is a doll with their eyes closed, small body, large head, and a head filled with curly black hair.

You’re dressed in a flowy brown skirt and a mixture of jewelry stood out against your own skin, some beaded and some noisy as you move.

“Hi.” Is your response, smile soft but Parker has her guard up.

Her finger points at the new object that rests along your hip.

“Who the hell is that? Annabelle?”

Your hues flick down to the brown doll beside you before a bubble of laughter flies out of your lips, “No. This is Majorie. A Blythe doll.”

Parker pushes her lips out, puffing out a breath, and backs away once again, “See…I don’t mess with voodoo.”

“You’re silly.” You move down the incline despite the distance the cautious stranger is deliberately trying to put between the two of you, “I make custom ones and then I sell them. It’s a side hustle.”

“Right. Right.” Parker nods, “And do Etsy shop owners usually bury their inventory in the woods?”

Bringing the closed eyed doll to rest in front of you by both hands, you quirk up a brow at the assumption, “You ask a lot of questions for someone who’s already viewed me as a red flag.”

Parker tilts her head to the side, “You’re right. I should just stop talking to you and leave but I’m smart enough not to turn my back on someone who’s having their own scavenger hunt with any hiker you’re targeting.”

Letting out a sigh you respond, “The objects I’m leaving behind aren’t cursed or my way to lure people to their pending expiration dates. I’m just giving back to the earth. People come here for different reasons and hopefully any of these items that someone dares to pick up—or sees—may it help further guide their purpose of the day. That’s it.”

Parker goes quiet at that.

Taking in the words and also the appearance of you.

It sounded like you were a giver.

Probably had a good heart too.

Someone who wanted to give good in anyway that you could.

“I hear you,” Parker’s tone changes some, gaining your eye contact again as your gaze briefly turned up to the sky, eyes closing as a spec of sunshine seemed to shine down on you, like your own personal halo before passing along, “You are aware how this looks though, right?”

Your shoulders lift, “If I allowed the opinions of others rule my entire life, I’d be a miserable person. But yeah, I get it. No harm done.”

Parker watches as you move over to dig through your bag for a brown and white cow printed thermos.

“I have extra loose leaf tea in here as a peace offering,” you announce, peering into your bag, “Hibiscus and dragonfruit to cleanse whatever bad energy you expected from me.”

You’re joking but there’s always a bit of truth in there somewhere.

Parker scoffs out a laugh, “You can’t say things like that, then my guard goes right back up. Respectfully, how do I know that’s not some type of potion?”

Here she was still thinking you were some type of witch.

“Cause I don’t have to put people under a trance to end up liking me.” You wink, making Parker lightly shake her head before you find the extra pouch of tea you mentioned, to shake in the air.

You explain, “Hibiscus is for the heart chakra and associated with the goddess Kali. Pitaya, also known as dragonfruit, represents good luck, protection, and transformation. If I want all those things for you, I can’t be so bad can I?”

Parker takes a step forward, her thumbs going up to tuck underneath the straps of her backpack. She takes a deep inhale when her eyes remain focused on you.

“Let’s hope not.” A reluctant smile pulls at her mouth.

You start to hold your hand out to officially greet but hold a finger up, moving to place the doll where your bag rested along the grass and dirt instead.

Then you jog back, still keeping as much space as comfortable, holding out your hand to introduce yourself.

“…Want to see the Virginia bluebells?”

“The what now?” Parker brings her gaze back to yours, trying not to dwell on how delicate your hand felt in hers.

Amusement passes over your features, “The wildflowers. They start off pink and turn blue when the air softens.”

“…yeah.” Parker tried not to remain stunned, starting to wonder if you were real or not, she didn’t have any edibles today herself—so you had to be, “I planned on making the wildflowers my last stop actually.”

“Goodie.”

Parker snorts, “That wasn’t an invitation for us to hang out.”

“Too bad.”

That actually got Parker’s mouth to drop as you spun to pick up your things, once situated on your shoulder, you nudge your head in the direction up ahead.

“C’mon, what’s life without a little adventure?”

The wink you sent her caused a physiological response Parker chose not to examine too closely.

Yet.

And Parker would by lying if she didn’t have more of a pep in her step next Sunday looking for you. She didn’t find any odd objects, well except for a acorn that looked painted that she couldn’t confirm was done by you or not, but definitely found herself muttering to herself as her brown eyes searched the scenery around her. The absence was surely felt just that quick without you.

“Please don’t tell me this girl done got herself murdered in this park. Then I’m gonna have to be late to work tonight.”

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Three years later you’re lounging on your side on Parker’s couch, fully locked in on your current survivor-like binge worthy show that Parker’s pretending not to fall asleep on.

You never got upset about it when she tended to.

Parker tried to keep her hands busy so she wouldn’t.

Massaging your flat feet seemed to do the job once upon a time, Parker was already convinced that you had plantar fasciitis long before you were diagnosed but you always believed in natural methods—which could be challenging dating a whole emergency medicine resident.

“I’m fine. It’s just the haunting beauty of the body aging.” You brushed off, while seated on the yoga mat at your place, as if Parker didn’t just hear you yelp followed by a thud afterwards.

You can’t stop her from dragging you by the ankle, yanking off your sock to see for herself. Her stare is flat as soon as she locates the key part of what she’s been trying to knock into your hard head for weeks. You were hardly a complainer but it was evident something was going on, which was more noticeable when your shifts ended at the studio being a full-time flame worker.

“Don’t be a doctor right now,” you whispered, before remembering to focus on your breathing.

“What would you like me to be then?” Parker blinks, eyes focused on your face, “Regardless it’s going to be concerned and you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

Once the sleep won and you caught her—like always—you were tempted to lift your foot and poke her with your big toe but decide Parker needs the sleep more.

So you sit up some, eyes moving back to the tv as your hand reaches out for her wrist, tugging her.

Parker’s always been a light-sleeper, so immediately she pops up, looking around, alert.

“You’re okay.” You state gently, moving to rest on your back, still pulling her towards you.

Parker gets what you’re trying to do but barely mumbles out a fight, “I’m trying to watch the show with you.”

“Sleep is the better option for you right now.”

Parker hums, crawling over you to sink her body against you. Her head turns to face the cushion of the couch before resting completely under your ribs, her hands sinking underneath your body to secure herself against you.

One of your hands lay at the back of Parker’s neck, briefly picking up on the sound of her breathing deepening, with sleep overcoming her once more.

A lazy smile appears on your face.

This wildflower that grew around you was your best adventurer to date.

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