Chapter #16A Taste of Nyssa by: Nostrum   You wake up at the by-house, on one of the rooms, with a splitting headache. You cover your eyes with your arm as your eyes acclimate, then look around. The night table has a glass of water – once chilled but now at sweaty room temperature – and some painkillers, alongside a note. As you open it, you see the imprint of a kiss in deep rouge and a note.
Hey Bestie.
Can’t stay for long, so I left you something to kill this girl’s hangover.
Phone, keys and everything is on the purse – you'll know when you see it.
Remember – you own her. She doesn’t own you.
Love you babe,
Cassie
You grimace, as the name Cassie sounds vaguely familiar. Who’s this bitch, and why she callin’ me ‘bestie’?
But those last words reassert you. Wait. I own her. She doesn’t own me. You gulp the painkillers and the glass of water, then heave to stand up.
As you move to the mirror, you bless the Lord (or rather, the Lady) for making you a big Black bitch. You fondle your monstrous breasts – so big you can’t even wrap your arms around them, let alone lift them – and admire your planet-sized ass. Your belly’s flat but wide, yet your curves give you a delectable hourglass figure – and with one of those Colombian waist cinchers, you'll sport an impossible figure.
Your face, though, hints at some non-Black features. Not your hair – it's dyed a rich goldenrod, but you spend a lot to keep those curls and baby hair in shape. It’s the thinness of your nose and your amazing amber eyes that gleam even in low light. Your face is round and cheeky, and your lips alone could swallow a man’s thing whole.
But most importantly? For as big and beautiful as you are, you are a bitch. Sure, you deal in the sex trade, but that’s not what you mean. You don’t let any guy or gal mess with you. If they fuck with you, you fuck them back. (And when you ask why, she tells you what her Mama told her – this's a bitch-fuck-bitch world, an’ only the best bitch survives.)
You quickly get acquainted with your new borrowed life. DeNyssa Wilkins, born and raised in Georgia but after her Mama died, moved to her aunt’s house in Edgefield where she studied in the local high school. (Judging by her age, she graduated long before you even entered – maybe Tina heard about her?) Her deadbeat dad was never there, and the closest thing she has to a father figure is her uncle, who tried his best for her to get a good education.
But she – you – grew up on the streets, and the streets never abandon you. You were already big in your youth, and when you started developing, you knew that little white-guy school couldn’t handle you. Way too many times you slipped to Tyneside – still a white-guy city – and started getting acquainted with the thugs and lowlifes you felt were your kin.
And once you satisfied your uncle’s (and aunt’s) desire to study and graduate? You waved them goodbye and did your own thing. You know hoping for a guy that takes care of you is a fleeting dream, so you settle for hitting it on your own. Fast-food cashier by day, vixen by night. (And soon enough, even that McDonald’s was too big for you.)
You look deep into her eyes and repeat the mantra to merge with her. I am DeNyssa Wilkins. I am DeNyssa Wilkins.
And soon, she corrects you. Bitch, if you knew me better, you know I’m ‘Nyssa’. Get your story straight.
--
You waste no time mounting atop the beast of a man that is Ja’Quale Thompson. The guy is a clear example of what makes women return to Black men – tall, fierce, determined, muscular, and hung like a horse.
Being a self-made man just adds to the traits that define him. You (or rather, Nyssa) know a hustler when you see him, and he’s one. It’s not the gold bling hanging from his chest – which he insists to wear as you fuck each other – or the rings studded with gems all over his fingers. It’s that sharp look in his eyes, that prowling smile that says “I own all I see”, and that swagger that can be seen a mile away.
Yet, even if he has the heart of a thug, he’s a clean one. No grills on his white teeth, neat cornrows under a durag and a tight fade, smooth skin other than the callouses on his large hands, free of needle pocks and ugly scars. (Only scar is near his kidney, cleverly hid by an elaborate tattoo with the words “The Lord Jesus Protects His Soldiers” as a show of thanks for his miraculous survival – the show that he’s a warrior, and a good one.)
Nyssa tells you he’s desirable, despite his reputation. Being under Tessa’s employ has taught you that she keeps the underworld elements in check, but gangs cause her occasional trouble. Ja’Quale’s gang wasn’t one, but it was easy to see that he has the potential to cause an uproar.
This wasn’t the reason why you were with him. For all of his great traits, Ja’Quale has one glaring weakness. Women.
It was easy to get this information out of him. After all, why would a ten like him pay good dime to be with a bitch like you? Only because his woman can’t offer him what you can – a banging body and sex galore.
And a vicious attitude, which you’ll have to show as his woman arrives. She’s a small fry compared to you, but you know what they say about women in small packages. She’s dressed for war, with fluttering lashes, thick straight black hair and claws for nails, her booty up and tight. You dwarf her in size, though, and you’re not willing to bend.
She arrives just as Ja’Quale blows his load on you, and as she opens the door, you lock him tight. She sees you and screeches. “What you doin’ with my man, bitch?”
You turn him around, his back turned towards the bed, and you snap your groin back, letting his cum fall like a cascade on his. “Givin’ him what you don’t, girl.”
She quavers with anger, and a tear flows from her eye, ruining her delicate mascara. “I can’t believe this, Ja’Quale... Two, years, asshole. I jus’ gave you two years of my life, and that’s how you repay me?”
“Your man wouldn’t be lookin’ for what he’s lost if you gave it to him,” you callously reply, shaking your hips menacingly while giving her a stern glare.
Of course, Ja’Quale is a player, and he’s not willing to fold. He pushes you aside, following his girl. “Nessa, baby, wait!”
“Vanessa!?” You purposefully speak her name aloud, dropping another poisonous dart. “Really? A name similar to mine?”
“You shut up, bitch! I’mma deal with you later. As for you...!”
You don’t follow them. You don’t even fight him. If he doesn’t pay, Tessa will show him the meaning of true power – a win for her. And if he does, then you get paid, and the status quo remains.
But that isn’t enough. Through your time with Sasha – that glorious week – you've learned how to play with people. That earned a lot of praise from Mrs. Wright – praise that, according to Cassie, she doesn’t deliver freely. Why not play with them?
As they discuss, you ponder how to twist the knife. How to make a thug like him fall to his knees and beg? By emasculating him. And as soon as Vanessa arrives...
“Don’t hold me!” she says as Ja’Quale tries to restrain her. “Lis’en up, you! You ain’t gonna steal my man. You can take your sorry fat ass and shove it on whatever hole you crawled up to, you nasty skank!”
“Our thing was just for one night,” you reply. “I ain’t tryna steal your man, girl. If ya gave him what he wants, he wouldn’t be--”
“I give him what he wants, and I need no slut tellin’ me what he needs.”
“Girl, he’s playin’ with you.” Typical defense, but she’ll be too distracted for your master play. “You think he’s not enjoyin’ seein’ you fight? I obviously got the curves he wants; when you finna plug some fat up yo’ ass so you can shake it like you mean it?”
“My Quale needs no fat ass ridin’ him; I’m woman enough for him.”
“You know what’d drive him mad?” you say as you approach her. You unleash your male instinct, free of moral restraints, and you shove your tongue deep into her lips the same way you did with his.
That drives her mad with shock – exactly what you wanted. “What the hell, woman!?”
“You ain’t seein’ the big picture, sugah. Come with me – I'mma teach you how to win that man.” You look at Ja’Quale, jerking your chin. “Get yo’ ass out here – I'mma talk with your girl in private.”
“Nessa, we don’t have to--”
“Ja’Quale Vinicius Porter,” she demands, in a full-name basis. “Get yo’ ass out. I’mma set this bitch in place.”
You smirk, tilting your head. Vanessa’s furious, but she’s chosen to play alone. She must be curious. “A’ight, so what’s your game, bitch?”
“You think he won’t gonna do this again? He’s a player, girl! He likes you all riled up, so he gets bitches like me to taunt you.”
“Yeah. And?”
“What if you play a different game?” You grab her loins, staring hungrily. “You a fine ass bitch, girl. You don’t deserve a player like him.”
“So I boot his ass off. Then what? I don’t like women.”
“That’s why I say you ain’t givin’ him what he wants.” You play the Devil’s cupid, tainting her with your words. “You tell ‘im you want a threesome with me, he’ll be roarin’ to fuck you silly.”
“So you want me to get down to your business.”
“Naw, girl. I want you to tease him.” You grab her, sitting her in your lap. “Tease him with somethin’ good. And when he thinks he has it? Let him eat from you pussy an’ whip him around.”
“Like I haven’t already.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t teased him with this. Just follow my lead, girl.” You shove your fingers up her pussy, nibbling on her earlobe. “When this night’s finished? You gettin’ a happy man and I get a juicy paycheck...”
As she gasps with pleasure, you glance at the door. Ja’Quale must’ve heard that.
How you’re stealing her girl. How you played him at his own game. You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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