By the KING of Erotica
www.myspace.com/kingoferotica


Indifferent, I came into the room, disgruntled and a little pissed because at work they cut my pay by twenty five percent. Bullshit, I tell you. Two things a bitch didn't mess with, my pussy and my money. Simple. My money, because I was married with children, so unlike Al Bundy, mind you. I had bills, bills, bills and I didn't remember Kelly, Michelle or Beyonce forking over no money to help me. And Lord knows a Niggah or a bitch better not tamper with my wife's pussy because when I have a good day, bad day, somewhat day, holi-day I take it out on the pussy. And I may seem a bit presumptuous and all that good shit, I molded the pussy to where it only curbed to my dick. Seriously. I loved my wife's pussy so much I helped her douche, bathe, shower and take care of it. It's mine! And I make sure its mine, which is why she has my initials right next to it, on her thigh, so if she did creep like TLC (and remember they didn't make hits anymore, feel me?) a Niggah would see my initials and a small colored tat of my face cheesing in his face and that's enough to make any Niggah lose an erection and get gone.

You looked sexy, baby, and I knew you like to "straddle me and be in control," but sex wasn't on my mind right now because I put my (our) 401 (k) in jeopardy.

Because I had a knock down drag out bout with Boss Lady. I should say Boss Bitch! And my boss, Henrietta's bald-headed ass (who always wore skirts her twelve year old daughter should be wearing) gave me some song and dance about the company, a Cellular company by the way with thirteen million users) losing money and I told her, slamming her office door closed, "You're full of shit. Projections were ups twenty five percent last quarter, that's thirty percent higher than the previous year so don't give me any song and dance about the company losing money when the only song and dance I hear is the H.B.I.C. either authorizing unnecessary vacation times to these favorable Niggahs in here or you're nicking and diming the company to bankruptcy."

She looked stank with that Lil' Kim looking wig. This woman had plastic everything done to her face. She tired to take any image of the ghetto from her very existence. Telling people she from the East Side of New York, that her Mama and Daddy were lawyers. Running a firm together. Bitch ain't any Niggah in America doing it that big! If it was, show me! Her Mama was dead and her Daddy killed her, which was why he was currently serving thirty years in prison without the possibility of parole.

She huffed and puffed but didn't blow my goddamn house down because

I was an angry black man, not a pig, who was two months behind on a $1,200 mortgage, which is what I get for trying to splurge in Miami, Florida, expensive, sorry ass Kendall to be exact, when I was used to snow, chains on my wheels, New York and the assholes it catered to.

"I don't appreciate your tone, for one and for two I should have your job."

"Why are you nervous?"

She was shaking something terrible. "I'm not..., uh, nervous and you need to get out of my office."

I looked out of the window, loosening my tie. Loosening your tie before you clocked out was grounds for an immediate right up. These bitches were very anal retentive about men looking GQ of the year, which was why our cell phones were up by that percentage because women, lonely women, depressed women, women who needed a man only got the phones hoping to get the Agent's phone number. And it didn't quite work that way...well, not with me.

I was on a mission. Usually, when people messed with me I remained quiet. Chopped it up to the game. But sometimes these women got besides themselves, and all of 'em were mad at me anyway because they couldn't get my dick. That's for the wife. And the wife only. I never cheated on her. Never.

"It's funny," I told her.

She was picking up the telephone to call security. I been with this company five years, never missed work, put it before any and everything in my life and she was about to call security?

"What." She hit the button.

"I don't see any earthquakes, so why are you nervous? You're about to drop the phone."

She sucked her teeth and nervously ran her bejeweled hand through her long, curly Queen B wig. "I never seen you like this, and ever since Virginia Tech I have been more guardedly cautious."

"Bitch this is a cell company. Niggahs go 'postal,' not psycho. This isn't a college campus. We never fucked. I am not losing a relationship. I am not Asian. I would advise you to drop the phone."

"…Security…Can you come to my office..."

"I remember last year," I went on approaching her like a lion about to pounce a buffalo. That lion was starving, wanted blood, hadn't eaten for days, didn't care about drinking from lakes because the only stream he wanted to drink from was the stream that led to his pay cut being reinstated. She was watching me, daring me to do something. "On your walls were cheap Big Lots and K-Mart pictures, really cheap shit, shit I wouldn't give my blind grandmother on Mother's day. And now..." I looked around the amazingly crafted and decorated office. "Picasso...Leonardo...Van Gogh...pricey shit."

I stopped at her desk and moved the mouse 'til the DMX screensaver vanished. The online screen appeared. She needed to lose this "Earth Link" shit and get with America Online.

I clicked on "search." I typed in Van Gogh. Paintings come up dramatically, thanks to DSL. I clicked on the icon matching the painting on her wall. It came up with the speed of light. Hmmmm. $45,000. There was a special serial number under it, letting buyers know if it was authentic. I scribbled it down with a pen I took from her cup holder. She watches me. She says, "Disregard, false alarm. I'm ok." She hung up.

I walked over with a purpose to the painting. I took it of the wall. I lay it on the Oriental carpeting. Last year she had bare tiles in here. Now I feel Blackanese in here. The serial numbers matched. I stood up, sighed, head to the floor and she paused behind me. I looked up at her with a sneer.

She jumped out of her skin. "In a year...you upgraded yourself from a funky muthafucking Mazda to a fucking Lexus coupe. 2007. Bitch fresh off the goddamn presses. Cash! Paid for the day you rode out of the dealership. Flossed with it. Your hair done every week. Different, weird shit. Wild and eccentric. Bold and daring. Van Gogh cost 45 thousand. You make, supposedly, $30,000 a year. How in the living hell are you affording this lavishly created shit? On your salary? But the company is losing money, listen bitch if my pay isn't reinstated before the last drop of piss falls from the slit in my dick your job will be stuck so far in your ass the judge is going to say 'Henrietta, that's bullshit!' by the time the goddamn gavel drops Ho now get muthafucking busy...and oh yea, my office loves Oriental carpets, Tiffany lamps, and Van Gogh paintings, whoever that muthafuckah is. And since its my anniversary today, mail my wife some Gucci silverware and those panties with the vibrating balls on the part the pussy rests."

And I spun on my heels, snatched open the door, pat the security guard Dan on his shoulder, said, "How do you do," whistled down the hallway, out into the sun, to my simple Ford F-150 truck, and through the front door, where now my wife stands up and hugs me.

In love, I hug her. My flame was ignited, unseen gas seeping from the love in my eyes combusting in my loins where the gris gris and the Louisiana flavor of my heritage explodes in my medulla with a force that pushes me to her lips. It took a minute to realize I was on my knees, dirty little bitches, and was tongue kissing her clit through the panties. I smiled. The rotating little ribbed balls.

Yes!! Goddamn, yes! Henrietta was right on time. I lift her up, her legs over my shoulders. She faces the front door, in the air holding me head. I face the kitchen, pussy in my face. Hmmm. My legs shake because I live to pleasure her. She love those Zane and the King of Erotica novels. I hated both of them...With all this good dick and this tongue, she wouldn't be thinking about those two people any time soon.

She shivered and shook. I smiled and munched. A delightful burp. I was full. I separated her pink curtains like I was 20th Century Fox. And the red carpet found her passageways. She quivered some more. A kiss on the clit. She says I love you. I say I love you too.

You say the key to Miss Kitty is in my words. Nah, baby its in my tongue. You always liked for a man to divulge in heavy conversation. You say something, baby? Nah, I was talking to your pussy, not you. Didn't Mama tell you never to interrupt grown people when they're talking?




I could remember when I stepped off the plane in Cashville a couple years ago and you, the most beautiful thing I ever say, God's forgotten leaf he plucked when he told a sick world "He loves you, he loves you not!" smiled at me. I tried to pretend not to notice you. I was over at the baggage claim a couple seconds later...My long, resilient hair was freshly braided in micros.



Took my mother five hours of stopping, flirting with her husband, who wasn't my Daddy, and drinking her Michelob beer, just for her to finish. She mush have slapped me with the comb a billion times. I was tender headed. On both heads. He, he, he. My sculpted body waxed, nails and toes in a nice pink and white French Manicure...



I looked in your eyes. I saw your pupils separate to reveal irises that wanted me to see you as Pretty, Hot and Thick. You were Elegant, Sexy and Perfect.

And with all that behind us, and the passionate session that followed, we are now in the present scene, married with children, you are my rock and diamond, my sapphire when I was mad and my refuge when it started to rain and refused to clear out. You are number one and my soul mate. I love you, and yea, pussy I love you too. No need to get jealous.

The phone rang and we ignored it. The machine picked up after the third chime. I smiled, my mustache tickling your moist opening when I heard Henrietta's voice. You were moaning and silently cursing me. Yea, baby. Eat. Eat it good, you said, I smiled.

"This is Henrietta. Your office is re-decorated with Oriental Carpeting and Tiffany lamps. I replaced your bathroom with something more edgy and high tech. And above your cushioned chair--I threw that other old decrepit chair out--is the Van Gogh painting you wanted. And you just got a raise. You start management training Monday. Happy Anniversary. I hope your wife loved the Gucci silverware and panties she sighed for before you got home. Since it was your big day I put Rush Service on it. Luckily they had a warehouse not too far from your place of residence. Welcome to the management team. Looking forward to seeing you."


And when the phone clicked I lowered my Pretty, Hot and Thick wife down to my level and I fucked her standing in place.

In love and with a satisfied smile. Until my three year old son crushed our pleasure when he said, "Daddy! What are you doing to Mama? MAMA MAMA MAMA WHAT IS HE DOING OT YOU?!?"

All we could do was laugh. I had never ran into the bathroom so fast. Hell let my wife clean up the mess.

After all she liked men who divulged in heavy conversation. My son was about to give her hell and all the heavy conversations she wanted. Be careful what you asked for. You just might get it. But not the way you wanted it. He, he, he. I laughed as I turned on the shower, I laughed so hard tears fell down my face.