Page 58 of The Man Handler

Realization hits me like a lightning bolt.

“Oh my God!” I scream, feeling between my legs. I am struck by panic. Feel myself starting to hyperventilate. “GARRETT!” I yell, frantically shaking him.

He stirs, but does not open his eyes. He moans something inaudible.

I flip on the lamp.

I shake him again. “Garrett!”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, finally turning towards me, opening his eyes. He squints, trying to adjust to the brightness of the light. It is on him like a spotlight. “What’s the matter?”

“You fucked me without a condom!” I shriek. “And you fucking came in me.”

He stretches, and yawns. Scratches the side of his head, then sits up in bed. He is seemingly unfazed by what I’ve said. “I think we both got caught up in the moment,” he offers, nonchalantly.

I jump out of bed, pacing the floor. “Caught up? Caught up? Are you fucking serious? What were you thinking? I never, ever, fuck without a condom. How could you?”

“It’s not like you tried to stop me,” he snaps back, sitting up with his back up against the headboard. He watches me pace the room like a wounded lioness. “You are just as much at fault, and just as much responsible as I am.”

In my head, I know what he says is true. I am totally responsible for what I allow to happen. I could have stopped him. But, I didn’t. I allowed myself to get caught up in the heat of the moment. Still, I want to blame him. Want to lash out at him. This kind of shit never happens to me.

He blinks, the weight of his actions—our actions—finally hitting him. “Oh, shit. You don’t have anything, do you?”

I stop in my tracks. In that moment, flashbacks of the first time I really took notice of my pussy runs through my head. I was twelve, sitting on the toilet with my legs spread open, and a mirror in my hand staring at it. It was then that flashes of those moments down in the basement watching my brother and his girlfriend took on a new meaning for me. Replaying their nasty deeds in my head caused an unexplainable yearning to sweep through me. And for the first time, I touched (I mean really touched) and rubbed my pussy, pulling open my thick, hairy lips until my insides got hot and wet, and started to tingle. I watched my finger slide in and out of my slit, wet and slick. I was so amazed and turned on by how it wrapped around my finger that I started to shake. I pressed on my clit, and almost fell off the toilet when a rush of sensations swept through me. In that one moment, I had experienced the joy of masturbation. After that, I spent every day after school locked in the bathroom, exploring new things about the furry little thing between my legs.

Then I think back on my first taste of six, thick inches of cut Indian dick. And let me tell you. Once I got past the smell of curry seeping out of his pores while he sweated, it wasn’t a bad fuck. Actually, he was exceptionally long-winded, and a real greedy fuck. Exactly how I like ’em. He’d bust one nut, change the condom and be ready for more. And he ate pussy which got him extra bonus points. Besides, at five-eleven, one hundred ninety pounds, he was fine as hell with a rich, deep, cocoa-brown complexion, smooth skin, big, brown doe-like eyes with amazingly long lashes, and a beautiful set of teeth. And I kept fucking him, serving him this good American grade-A pussy for about two months, until he propositioned me to marry his ass for five thousand dollars so he could obtain his citizenship, then turn around and send for his family. Wrong answer!

I shake the thought, replacing it with a smorgasbord of cum-spurting dick, a kaleidoscope of images of men I have randomly fucked and sucked; assorted faces of men who have sucked and fucked and licked me every which way imaginable. I have had my pussy juices smeared all over so many faces, and wrapped around so many cocks, that I’ve lost count.

“It’s a little too late to be asking that, don’t you think?” I ask, indignantly. “But, no, I don’t have anything.” The nerve of him! “I get checked out every three months. Do you have something?”

I hold my breath. Wait for his response.

He frowns, pausing. And this causes a wave of concern to wash over me, pulling me under and tossing me around. I wasn’t only worried about contracting HIV or AIDS, the Herpes virus was also rampant, as well as venereal warts. And I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of any of them.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, waiting.

“Well?” I impatiently push, slicing into the deafening silence that has entered the room.

“Hell no!” he finally snaps. “I get regular physicals, and blood work done. Hell, you’ve seen the results for yourself.”

I silently exhale, relieved. He was right. I have seen his recent tests results, and he has seen mine. However, it was still a question that needed to be asked. And it is still a worry, one that doesn’t simply go away on words alone. You are only as good as your last test result as far as I’m concerned. And even then, there are no guarantees. I know I fuck a lot, so I have to always be extra-careful not to contract something.

“So, what else you need to be worried about?” he asks, furrowing his brows. “You’re on the pill, right?”

I stare at him, searching my mind for when I last took my birth control pills. Anytime I fuck, it’s always on my terms. Everything is always planned, always prearranged. I don’t do impromptu fucking. Don’t ever risk not having a supply of condoms readily available. And I am always armed and ready with my own contraception. And when I haven’t gotten my prescription filled, I only suck dick, or get fucked in the ass. Never, ever, do I—or have I—let a man stick his dick in my pussy, condom or not, without taking my pill. But, in a blink of an eye, Garrett has come and disrupted all that. And I have allowed him. I count in my head. One, two, three…Oh my God!

“I haven’t taken them in three days,” I tell him.

He stares at me, takes in my nude body. “C’mon back to bed,” he says, seemingly unbothered by what I’ve said as he pats the empty space beside him. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. Next time we’ll be more careful.”

Next time? I repeat in my head. Nigga, there will be no m

other-fucking next time. I glance over at the clock. It’s now four-thirty in the morning. I have had enough of him for one night. Hell, for many nights. He has fucked out his welcome as far as I am concerned. Though our sexual tryst was consensual, for some reason I feel violated. “Garrett, get up and get out.”

He stares at me, shaking his head. Surprisingly, he doesn’t say anything. He quietly gets up, and heads to the bathroom. I watch him as he makes his way across the room. His magnificent dick, swinging like a pendulum, glows in the aftermath of hot sweaty sex. He takes a piss. A long, angry stream hits the water, followed by a loud flush, then the sound of running water.

“You’re a real piece of work,” he says, walking out of the bedroom. I follow behind him. He moves so fast down the steps I almost think he jumps down them to get to the bottom of the staircase. He picks up his clothes. I watch him slip into his pants, glance at his beautiful dick. He doesn’t bother with putting on his boxers. He shoves them in his back pocket, then slips his pullover over his head. “Whatever it is you’re looking for I hope you find it before it’s too late. ’Cause I’d really hate to find you ten years from now still chasing something you may not ever find.”

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