Page 30 of The Man Handler

I grin, imagining him squeezing and pulling at his dick. “You got a problem with that?” I ask coyly.

“Nah, baby. Not at all.” He pauses, I’m sure to think over what I have said. I allow him his moment. “So, let me get this straight,” he says, making sure he has heard me clearly. “You want me to walk up in your spot and take the pussy from the back without saying shit to you, then bounce.”

“Exactly.”

He chuckles. “Damn, you’re really something else.”

“And there’ll be a face mask on the glass table next to the door for you to put on. Now tell me. Exactly how much dick you holding?”

He laughs. “Eight and three quarter inches.”

“Is it thick?”

“Most definitely,” he states.

“Mmmm,” I moan softly. “And are these real or imagined inches?”

“I’m real with mine, baby.”

“We’ll see,” I say, speeding past a confused-assed driver who seems to enjoy riding the brakes. I hate that shit!

“Are you cut? And do you know how to use it?”

“No doubt.”

“To which question?”

“Both,” he says, laughing again. “Damn you ask a lot of questions. Are you taking a survey or something?”

“That’s right, I ask questions. Inquiring minds want to know. And if a man can’t answer them honestly, then I ain’t beat to fuck with him. So if you can’t get with that, then you can’t get any of this tight pussy. You dig?”

“I can dig it,” he quickly says. “Ask all the questions you want, baby.”

“Good. So…are you down with role-playing with me or what?”

“Yeah, it’s all good. So that pussy’s tight, huh?”

“Yep; clamps around a cock like a vise.”

“Oh word? What time you want me to come through?”

“At exactly nine-thirty. Not, nine-thirty-one; not nine-forty. Nine-thirty on the dot. If not, then forget about coming. I’m not the kind of chick who waits on a man or his dick, so if you can’t be on time, then let me know now.”

“Nah, nine-thirty is cool. Let me know where you rest at.”

After I give him further instructions, and the directions, I hang up.

On the rest of my ride home, I anticipate tonight’s adventure. The whole idea of role-playing causes me to twitch in my seat and my pussy to overheat. As I stop at another light, I start to fantasize about being gang banged; screwed every which way until my hot cunt is sore and tore open. Until my asshole aches and burns. Until my lips are chafed, jaws locked, and my throat is raw and overflowing with cum. Yes, I am being driven and ridden like the Orient Express. I find myself going from one extreme to the other. Then my fantasy turns to having a man on his knees with his dick and balls hanging, and I have his dick in my hand stroking it while I’m licking the crack of his ass. Not that I’d really do it, ’cause some men don’t know how to wipe their asses right. But at this very moment, my overactive imagination takes me there. I close my eyes, bringing the act into clear view. There’s something about licking a man’s ass from the back while stroking his dick that gets me off every time.

A blue Acura in back of me blows its horn, snapping me away from my thoughts. I speed off, visualizing myself walking up to a complete stranger (well, hell, I do that now). Anyway, I walk up to him and beg him to let me suck his sweet, black dick. When he says I can, I grab him by the crotch, rubbing and kneading the front of his pants, feeling him stiffen. Then I drop to my knees, unzip his pants with my teeth, and pull out his dick, sucking and licking and kissing all over it right in the middle of Times Square while other men surround us, pulling their dicks out and jerking off, watching and lusting, for a feel of this deep, pulsating throat. And as I’m gulping down my stranger’s dick and swallowing his thick nut, they all cum in unison, spraying their man cream all over the sidewalk. I get up off my knees and strut off, swinging my hips and licking my lips, with a beautiful smile on my face.

The sound of my ringing cell startles me and snatches me from my series of fantasies.

“Hello,” I say into the receiver.

“Hey, beautiful, how’s my favorite sis doing?”

The voice has me grinning from ear to ear. It’s my oldest brother, Terrance, calling from San Diego. Terrance is an eighteen-year veteran with the San Diego Police Department. He’s forty-one, married, and has three children. “Fool, I’m your only sis,” I say, laughing.

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