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Shit. Everyone knows I like most of my men tatted up and on parole. Love my dicks thick, dark, and in Magnums. Love my pussy beat down to the seams. And this fat, juicy ass eaten with a buncha whipped cream and a whole lotta spit. Yes, lawd! The mofo better know how to heat this hole up right if he expects to get a taste of all this dark chocolate goodness. Flick, lick, tease the rim, and you’ll be guaranteed a night of some hot, freaky sex. Big Booty, baby . . . mmph, thought you knew!
Ain’t no shame in my game, sugah-boo. Bend me over, finger it, eat it, toy it, fuck it . . . do whatever you want with it as long as it’s filled. Yes, baby, this ass’s so good. It’ll have a niggah nuttin’ up in less than ten minutes; in less than five if I start talkin’ all nasty ’n shit to ’im. Please, most of these lame niggahs can’t hang with all this golden-brown goody-goody. Once I bounce this juiciness all up on ’em, they get all strung out on it, then wanna fall in love ’n shit.
Knees on the edge of a bed, back arched, ass high up in the air, I’m a horny bitch always eager to feed a niggah this booty, lettin’ him spread open my cheeks, then lean in and bury his face in. His thick nose breathin’ in the heat and steam from both my ass and pussy—both, hot and horny for a good fuckin’. Yes, baby! Do me right, goddammit! Give me a niggah who kisses my sweet hole, runs his tongue over and around it, then along the seam of my crack as he squeezes a chunk of asscheeks in his big hands and gobbles up this booty; his tongue lappin’my tight, hot spot, slowly wedgin’ its way in. Oooh, my pussy’s gettin’ wet just thinkin’ about it.
Yes, Lawd! I live for wigglin’ my ass up on a dick. And I love poppin’ a niggah upside the head with each booty cheek as he indulges in sloppily eatin’ it out. Big Booty, baby, likes to be ate out right, okay? And I have a whole lot of it to gobble up. Always have; always will. And not one of them nastyasses with a buncha stretch marks or crater dips in it either. Oh no, sugah boo, this ass is smooth, sweetness wrapped around twenty-pounds of hot goodness. And any niggah who gets his tongue up in this knows he better eat it up like sweet potato pie, or get his face clapped the fuck up.
And if he wants to run his dick up in it, then he definitely better bring his tongue game correct. And his dick stroke better be legit. Bitch, what? Fuck what you heard, baby. Big Booty don’t play! I love, love, love it in the ass! Love bein’ fucked deep in it. I know, I know . . . many tricks and hoes and niggahs think ass-fuckin’ is dirty. That it’s downright nasty. But, baaaaaby, don’t get it twisted. Takin’ it in the ass is eroticism at its best. Whew, yes Lawd! Some of my best orgasms have been from anal, boo. Mmmph, you better ask somebody. This asshole sucks in a cock like a Hoover vacuum. Sluuuuuuurp! And you best believe. I bring a niggah to his knees and shut him down every time. Big Booty don’t play, okay?!
Oooh, wait, sugah-boo . . . just so you know. My birth name is Cassandra Beulah-Ann Simms. But don’t tell nobody that shit. Beulah is my old evil-ass grandmother’s first name. Ann is the name of the junkie who gave birth to me; my grandmother’s daughter. And since the sperm donor’s name was Cassidy, she called herself namin’ me after his triflin’ ass. Then tossin’ in everyone else’s fuckin’ names. Personally, I think the bitch was high when she did that shit. Why the fuck else would you scar your child for life with some goddamn middle name like Beulah-Ann?
But whatever! The damage’s already done. So movin’ right along. Anyway, the bitches and hoes closest to me call me Cassie. But, everyone in the streets knows me as Big Booty. A name I was given in sixth grade ’cause I had more ass than all of them lil’ young-ass hoes put together. At first the shit bothered me. A buncha lil’ niggahs callin’ me some goddamn Big Booty and always sniffin’ ’round me like lil’ dogs in heat, always wantin’ to feel it and grind up on it. Mmmph! But, baaaaaaaaaby, once I learned exactly what this big juicy ass was worth to them lil’ horny bastards, I embraced it with pride and started poppin’ ’n bouncin’ these hips and collectin’ their lunch money as payment. Climbin’ up on this bootilicious badonkadonk wasn’t gonna be no free ride. And it still ain’t. Oh, no, baby, Big Booty gets paid and stays laced, okay. Hair did, nails did, and everything else did; I’ma real fancy bitch. Shit, I’m thirty-six and got the niggahs thinkin’ I’m twenty-six ’cause I’m hot like that. And I’ve been turnin’ heads and stoppin’ traffic since I was eleven years old.
See. Unlike these trick-ass hoodrat bitches ’round here, I don’t give out free pussy and I ain’t gobblin’ down dicks for peanuts. Oh sure. When I was young and dizzy and sizzlin’ in the drawers, and didn’t know any better, a few times I slipped and let a niggah run up in me—sometimes raw, most times wrapped—and didn’t collect them dollars, but that wasn’t no regular-type shit with me. And it ain’t now. A niggah wanna dick me down or want some of this throat work, then you best believe he’s diggin’ in them pockets, deep. Shit, I got kids to feed.
Okay, okay. Hold up, boo. I’m real with my shit. So, yes, even now . . . every now and then my pussy does the talkin’ and thinkin’ for me and I gotta jump down on some cock and give out a little sampler-pussy or do some charity-dick suckin’ when the need arises. Hell, sometimes givin’ out a lil’ free pussy goes a long way. You never know when you might have to cash in on a favor and do some things to get somethin’ handled, if you know what I mean.
Still, I ain’t dumb with it. I stay tryna school these young hoes ’bout fuckin’ a niggah up off’a his paper. But, they ain’t tryna hear me. Here’s my motto: If you can’t feed, fuck, and finance me . . . and I do mean all three . . . then Big Booty ain’t got shit for ya.
Shit, even my homegirl, Dickalina, don’t get it. Look, don’t even ask. I already know what you thinkin’? What the fuck kinda name is that? Baaaby, puhleeeze. I’m not one of them gossipy-type bitches who runs her mouth and tells everything. But, boo-boo, listen up . . . her momma, Lina May—God rest her raggedy soul, used to do a buncha dope and spent a lot of time on her knees suckin’ a buncha dick. And there you have it! Anyway, Dickalina lives in buildin’ three over in my old buildin’. And for years I’ve been tryna get her ass to upgrade her niggah picks.
But, noooooooo! That dumb bitch ridin’ the short bus on four flats. She’d rather ho-it out with them bum-ass niggahs who can’t even pass a driver’s test to get their L’s. Like that niggah, Knutz, she’s fuckin’ with. Mmmph. She’s been fuckin’ that niggah off and on—although it’s more off than on ’cause he can’t keep his no-good ass outta jail—for almost four years. And when he is out all he wanna do is fuck, drink, and control her ass. Sorry-ass niggah don’t even wanna work. His thievin’ ass would rather go out and knock a niggah in the head and snatch his shit, instead of goin’ out there and slingin’ a few packs to get his paper up. No, he’d rather stomp in a niggah’s head and run his shit. What kinda bullshit is that? You don’t wanna sell drugs, but you’d rob a niggah. Coon, boom! If you ask me, that’s one dumb, backward-ass niggah! But, he ain’t my headache, so movin’ on.
I pick up my ringin’ cell. Mmmph, speaking of the dumb bitch now. “Hey, sugah-boo,” I say, slippin’ outta my panties, then bendin’ over and pullin’ out my butt plug, wishin’ it was bein’ replaced with fingers, a tongue, then a hard, thick dingaling. My asshole is relaxed and opened, ready, for a good fuckin’. Oh, how I would love a nice, fat dick deep inside it right about now. Had I not answered this phone, I’d be ridin’ down on one of my dildos. Oh well . . .
“Bitch, why you ain’t tell me Cleotus’ son June-bug was arrested for fuckin’ that invalid down at the nursin’ home he was workin’ at? You know that’s some nasty shit, fuckin’ that old-ass lady like that. She was like eighty-nine . . . ”
I roll my eyes. “She was ninety-five, Miss Nosey. And I’m not the cock patrol out here monitorin’ what the fuck some niggah does with his damn dick. I don’t give a damn about him runnin’ his dick up in some old, dusty pussy. So I know you’re not callin’ me with this dumb shit.”
She huffs in my ear. “Well, excuse the hell out of me, Miss High Almighty. No need to get all testy. Anyway, all this pussy out here and that freak-nasty niggah had to go and fuck some decrepit bitch. Now his dumb ass is goin’ to prison. And he done lost a good damn payin’ job behind that shit. That niggah was makin’ nine-dollars an hour and he fucks that up for some old, rotted pussy. Mmmph. Niggahs are so fuckin’ stupid these days.”
And so are bitches like you, thinkin’ nine-dollars an hour in Jersey is a good damn job.
“Lina, look, sugah-boo. You’re wastin’ my time with this shit. I got things to do. Call me later when you have somethin’ more interestin’ or important to talk about.”
“Are you serious, bitch? Fuck you, Cass; you a real funny-style bitch. Go do you.”
The line goes dead.
Dickalina is a lil’ off, but that’s still my damn girl.
So, anyway . . . My guilty pleasures—besides what I’ve already told you—are designer handbags, stilettos, jewels—and not that costume shit, either, good smoke, dark liquor, and young boys huggin’ the block. Yes, you heard what I said. I also love fuckin’ the young boys who get that paper. Shit, them get-money niggahs know how to get this pussy cracklin’. And as long as they eighteen and I ain’t gotta worry ’bout DYFS comin’ up in here tryna lock a bitch up for underage fuckin’, then we good. There’s nothin’ like a super-sized order of some young, hard dick on the side. They can’t ever be my men. But they can always pop a cork in this ass and chow down on this pussy.
Shit, fuck what you heard. I don’t make no excuses and I don’t live with regrets. That young dangalang can handle an all night-long, good fuckin’. I don’t need ’em to pay these bills. That’s what four of my baby daddies do with them child support checks I collect every month from ’em. Although, now that I’m standin’ here thinkin’ ’bout it. All seven, I mean eight, of them no-good, big-dicked muthafuckas should be payin’ child support. Yes, you heard me correct. I have eight baby daddies. And ten kids. My two oldest sons—Darius, 23, and Jah’Mel, 21—have the same no-count niggah for a fahver. And my eight-year-old twins—Fuquan and Tyquan—have the same fahver as well. Then, of course, my other six kids have different fahvers.
But, uh, be clear. I had my kids when I was real hot in the ass and very young—when I didn’t really know any better. And I was poppin’babies outta me back to back, like nobody’s damn business. But, trust. I shut shit down and stopped lettin’ niggahs knock me up when I was twenty-eight, okay. Shit, after havin’ all them kids—and they all got pushed outta this pussy, I know I gotta big juicy coochie. That’s why I only fucks when them big-dick-type niggahs. ’Cause any other type of niggah swears they be beatin’ somethin’ up. They be just a sweatin’ ’n choo-chooin’ it up. Swish-swishin’ all ’round this pussy, like lil’-ass guppies tryna fuck a beached whale, okay. All they fuckin’ is a buncha air. Shit, my pussy eats the dick like it’s a snack, okay. So a little-dick niggah can’t do shit for me, except eat my ass—and, maybe, fuck me in it. That’s if I’m feelin’ generous. And after he’s dug in his pockets and sponsored me.
My phone rings again. I grin. Speakin’ of sponsors, it’s one of them now. Mmmph. Gawd may not come when you call Him, but He’s always right on time. ’Cause Lawd knows I been down on my knees prayin’ for a new handbag and now it looks like my prayer is bein’ answered. I’ma fuck the skin off this niggah, and get me that new bag.
“Heeeeeeeey, sexy niggah,” I coo into the phone as the muscles in my asshole spasm.
“Yo, wassup. You free?”
“Ooh, you must know I wanna be fucked.”
He laughs. “Yo, you stay tryna fuck; that’s why I fucks wit’ you.”
I laugh with him. “Niggah, you fucks with me ’cause I know how to handle that dick right. And you love how it feels stuffed in my ass, with your big-dicked, nasty self.”
He keeps laughin’. “Yo, you shot out, for real.”
“Whatever, niggah. What you want pussy, ass, throat?”
“You already know what time it is. I want all three.”
I grin. “Huh-uh; just what I thought. You got some paper for me? Momma wants a new handbag I done seen.”
“What you need?” I tell him two grand. “No, doubt; I got you. But, damn, I’m sayin’ . . . when you gonna let me start hittin’ that shit for free?”
“Never, niggah. So scratch that shit from your head.” I tell him I’m goin’ down to the salon to get my hair done, then can meet him afterwards. He thinks that shit’s a waste of time and money since all he’s gonna do is sweat it out. I let the niggah know, stayin’ sexy and fly is never a waste of my time or money, especially when it’s his money I’ma be spendin’.
“Yeah, aiight. Whatever. What time you gonna be done?” I tell him I should be finished by noon. That I need to be done fuckin’ him by two, so I can get home to my kids. “Aiight, cool. All I need is an hour wit’ ya sexy-ass, anyway. I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout fuckin you all up in that fat ass for the last few days. On some real shit, yo, I’ma beat that asshole up for you poppin’ so much shit all the time.”
“Uh-huh, promises, promises. That’s what ya mouth says, niggah. Now let’s see what the dick does.”
Before he can open his cheatin’-ass mouth to say anything else, I disconnect the call. Not tryin’ to hear shit else he has to say. Show me, niggah! Anyway, niggahs like him ain’t shit any-damn-way. And they’re only good for two things: givin’ me the dick and givin’ me the dollars. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less!