Deep Throat Diva (32 page)

“This bitch is real feisty,” one voice says.

“Yeah, I’ma have a lotta fun tamin’ her hot ass,” another voice adds, laughing.

“Remember, she’s not to be hurt,” the first nigga says. His voice is not as gruff as the first nigga’s. He seems more rational.

“No doubt. I’ll just rough the bitch up a bit. Treat her like the slut she is.” He starts trying to manhandle me.

“C’mon, man…chill out wit’ all that. Let’s just get her inside,” the other guy says, stopping him. “She’s pregnant.”

The taller nigga huffs. “Whatever, nigga. Grab the bitch’s legs and let’s get this shit over with.”

THIRTY

I
can’t wait to tear that throat up,” this ignorant motherfucker says to me as he removes the blindfold, then the tape from around my mouth. Although his face is hidden behind a black ski mask, I can tell he’s smirking. He’s not one of the two who kidnapped me from the mall. He’s taller and thicker. And more arrogant than the nigga who said he wanted to rough me up. His voice is also much deeper; more menacing than the others. He’s wearing faded blue jeans, a gray wife beater and a pair of green, white and gray AirMax 95s. “Yeah, I hear you got niggas beggin’ ya ass for some of that neck, but ya stuck-up ass be on some extra shit, tryna play muhfuckas. Well, guess what, bitch? A nigga like me doesn’t take ’no’ for an answer. I take what the fuck I want. Now I’ma treat you like the nasty, lil’ freaky, dick-teasing, cumslut you are. You wanna live, bitch?”

I nod my head, praying I’m not killed.

“Then you had better suck my dick and swallow my nut for ya life…and you better not choke, vomit, or fuck it up. You understand?” I nod again, watching him massage his crotch area. A lump forms in his jeans. I shift my gaze from his growing dick to the butt of his gun tucked down in his waistband. A silent reminder of what will happen if I don’t do exactly what I’m told. “Answer me, bitch, when I fuckin’ speak to you. Do you fuckin’ understand?”

I nod. “Yes,” I meekly respond.

“Good,” he says, pulling his gun out from his waist, then holding it in his left hand. He uses his other hand to unbuckle his belt, then unzip his jeans. He lets them fall down around his knees. He’s not wearing any underwear. His balls are huge and hairy. His semi-erection is thickening with each stroke of his hand. He waves his dick in my face.
OhmyGod, if I have to suck this nigga off I hope he at least washed,
I think as he approaches me. The tip of his dick is pointing straight at me, like an angry arrow waiting to pierce through my lips. I jerk my head back. I decide I’m not sucking shit! I don’t like this nigga.

“You fucking piece of shit!” I snap. Yes, I’m deathly afraid of not getting out of here alive, but I’m also disgusted, and pissed, at the way this nigga is treating me, having me tied up and talking to me any ole kind of way, like I’m some rabid dog.

“Oh, you wanna front on a nigga, huh, bitch? Talkin’ all slick ’n greasy,” he snaps, snatching me by the neck. With one hand, he lifts me up out of the chair by the throat. “Bitch, don’t you know I will snap ya muthafuckin’ neck?” This nigga is literally choking the shit out of me. I feel my eyes starting to bulge out of their sockets. “You either suck my dick or you gonna die tonight, ho. You understand me?”

I nod my head with pleading eyes. Reluctantly, he loosens his grip from around my neck, sitting me back in my chair. Surprisingly, his dick is rock-hard. He brings it back up to my face, pressing the head to my lips, forcing them apart. “Bitch, open ya muthafuckin’ mouth and suck that shit like you love it.”

He tells me to lick it. I reluctantly do so. He tells me to kiss it. I begrudgingly do. Then he tells me to slowly open my mouth and make an ’oh’ shape. I do that as well. “And I don’t wanna feel no fuckin’ teeth on my shit, either. Or I’ma knock every muthafuckin’ tooth outta ya head. You got that?”

I nod. Under normal circumstances I would tell his ass that I suck dick, not scrape it. But I’ll show him instead. He pushes his dick slowly into the center of my mouth, parting my lips wider. He fucks my mouth as if it’s a pussy, every so often pulling the head of his dick out to the opening, then slowly pushing back in. I keep my eyes open and locked on his every move. Watch him intently as he grunts, making contorted facial expressions. He drops his left hand to his side, tightly squeezing the handle of his gun.

As hard as I am trying to get into it, I am struggling. Yet, there’s a warped, sadistic, part of me wishing this scenario of being tied up, held hostage, and having my mouth and throat fucked was a willing act on my part. Not forced. Not under threat.

My mind is reeling, trying to figure out a way to get out of here. But my first thought is getting my hands free; or at least one of them free. Though risky—and I’m sure deadly, I entertain the thought of grabbing him by the balls, digging my nails into his skin, then forcefully twisting them until I rip the mother-fuckers off.

“Suck my balls, bitch,” he orders, removing his dick from my mouth. He slaps it up against my lips before lifting up his balls for me to put in my mouth.

I grin, slowly licking them. Then I open wide and let him drop them down into my mouth. I suck and swallow them. Get him moaning. I look up at him. Watch him enjoying every minute of my mouth, then bite down on them, clamp my jaws tight and chew down on his balls. He yells and screams, punching me about the face and head to get me off of him. But I am too numb by anger and hurt and fear to feel anything. This nigga wants his dick and balls wet, thinks he can disrespect me, then I am determined to give him a little extra to remember me by. I continue chewing his
balls until I draw blood. He grabs me by the face, tries to pry my mouth open.

“Aaaaah, shit…fuck! Aaaaaaaaah! Somebody come down here and help me get this bitch off of me!”

Someone runs down the stairs. “Yo, what the fuck?!”

“Nigga!” he yells. “Don’t just stand there. Get this bitch offa my muthafuckin’ balls…Aaaaaaah, fuck!”

The other nigga tries to help him pry my lips off of him. But I’ve become a pit bull. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs. Hearing his agonizing cries only fuels me. “Yo, nigga, what the fuck did you do to her? She’s not letting go, son.” He squeezes my nose; tries to shut off my air, thinking that’ll get me to open my mouth. But this dumb fuck doesn’t know that I’m an avid swimmer; that I can hold my breath for four minutes without blinking.

“Fuck! Get this bitch offa me. Goddaaaaaaamn it! She’s biting my balls off! Shoot this bitch!” I don’t let go until the nigga’s knees buckle and I have blood seeping out of my mouth. I spit at him, satisfied.

He grabs his bloody balls, screaming. The nigga’s sweating and shaking. His partner catches him before he hits the floor. “You a dead bitch,” he screams, stumbling. His boy helps him up the stairs with his pants still wrapped around his ankles. “You hear me! Dead! Aaaah, fuck!”

“Fuck you! You ball-less, bitch-ass nigga.”

I yell and scream at the top of my lungs, hoping someone on the outside hears me.

THIRTY-ONE

I
am not sure how many hours or days go by before I hear someone else unlocking the basement door, then flipping on the light. I have to blink a few times to adjust my eyes. I see a pair of Timberland clad feet, followed by long, muscular legs coming down the stairs. He’s in a pair of Duke Basketball shorts and has on a white wife beater. Like everyone else, his face is masked. He’s carrying a tray of food. I’m not sure what is on the tray, but whatever it is, it smells good. Like curry. My stomach growls as he gets closer to me and the aroma assaults my nose. I am weak to the point that I actually feel sick.

He sets the food on the pool table, then grabs a wooden dinner tray and sets it up in front of me. He removes the tape from my mouth. There’s something about him that’s different from the others. He seems calmer. And hopefully, he has a heart.

“Listen, I brought you something to eat and drink. You hungry?” I nod. Attempt to speak, but the back of my throat feels like it has been swallowing sandpaper. He grabs the drink from off the tray, then kneels down in front of me. “Here, drink.” He holds the straw up to my lips. I take long, deep sips, allowing the cold, sweet elixir to soothe and moisten my throat. It’s an Arnold Palmer—a mixture of sweet tea and lemonade, one of my favorite drinks.

“Thank you,” I am finally able to say in a whisper.

“I hope you like curried chicken and rice and peas,” he says, scooping up a forkful, then bringing it up to my lips. My mouth
waters. Again, I nod. I open my mouth and let him feed me. I stare at him; try to see his eyes, but he won’t make eye contact with me. He shifts them, almost nervously.
Maybe he has a conscience
, I think. There is something strangely familiar about him.

I chew, then swallow. “Please,” I beg in a whisper, “let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone. I just want to go home.” I feel myself starting to get choked up. Tears well up in my eyes. “Please…”

“Listen, that’s not gonna happen,” he tells me, dashing any hopes that he might have an ounce of empathy for me, maybe even become an ally. “But if you wanna get outta here alive, then you gotta do what they tell you, understand me?” I nod. A single tear rolls down my cheek, then another.

“Don’t let them do this to me.”

He shifts his eyes again. “No one wants to hurt you,” he offers.

“Then what do they want with me? To rape me? Fuck me all night, what?”

He hangs his head. “To teach you a lesson.”

“A lesson? What kind of lesson can I learn from being tied up like some dog?” He lowers his voice, glances over his shoulder to make sure no one’s around. “Look, I shouldn’t be tellin’ you this, ma. This shit’s almost over. All you gotta do is handle ya business and it’s gonna be over. We gonna let you go as long as you do what you’re told, feel me?”

I nod. “Why you telling me all this?”

He stares at me. “I have my reasons,” he tells me. “Eat it up.” He scoops up another forkful of food, then shovels it into my mouth. He alternates between feeding me and giving me sips of my drink. Although he isn’t willing to help me get out of here or to give me any more information, I appreciate him not manhandling me like the others. I appreciate him saying as much as he has.

When I am finished eating, he tells me that he is going to untie
me and let me use the bathroom, take a shower, then put on clean clothes. My mind immediately begins to race, plotting my escape. But, again, my hopes are quickly shot to pieces when he tells me that the bathroom door will be open. That there are no windows in the bathroom, or exit doors with the exception of the one that is chained up so if I have any ideas of trying to escape to forget it. He tells me that there are other niggas upstairs so it wouldn’t be in my best interest to try, or do, anything slick.

“I’m your safest bet,” he adds, standing up and removing the tray table from in front of me. “But I’m warning you. Don’t take my kindness for weakness. We understand each other?”

I nod. “Do I have to suck your dick, too?” I ask.

He shakes his head, walking toward the steps. “Nah, I’m good. I’ll be back to help you get cleaned up.” The way he walks, his body build, is familiar to me. I stare at him.
I know this man…I know this man,
I think, watching him climb the stairs and disappear behind the door—to freedom,
but where?

THIRTY-TWO

I
t is night out. There is no light coming in through the small window over in the corner. Calm One has been the only one coming down to check on me, uncuffing me, taking me to the bathroom, and allowing me to stretch. He hasn’t said much more than what he’s said to me earlier. I guess he knows he said more than he should have. Still, he can barely keep his eyes off my body. He glances at his watch, then looks over at the door. He whispers, “Yo, ma. It’s ’bout to go down. Keep ya head, aiight? This shit’s almost over.”

I nod, knowingly. The next minute, the door opens and a bunch of loud, rowdy niggas come stomping down the stairs. The moment of reckoning has come.
The grand finale
, I think, swallowing back my nerves. I count—one, two, three, four, five, six of them. They all have on ski masks. And different color basketball shorts. Easy access, I suppose. They start talking shit, cat-calling and whatnot. I can tell they’ve been drinking.

“Gottttdaaaaamn, this bitch is fiiiyah.”

“Word is bond; she sexy as fuck!”

“Daaaamn, she’s the bitch suckin’ niggas outta they minds?”

“Wooo-ooooh, she got my dick hard already.”

“Yo, she bit the shit outta L. Tried to take that nigga’s balls off, yo.”

They laugh. “Yeah, I heard she had that nigga cryin’ like a lil bitch. She try that shit on my joint and I’ma take her pretty head off.”

“Word up,” they all agree.

“Yo, uncuff that bitch,” the nigga wearing red shorts says to Calm One. “I’m ready to get this party started. He has a blunt dangling from his mouth. “I wanna see what all the hype is about this ho. She got muhfuckas talkin’ like she’s the new Superhead or some shit.”

Calm One walks behind me, squats down, then whispers, “Remember what I told you.” He uncuffs me, then walks over to the other side of the room.

Red Shorts walks over to me, grabs me by the face and puffs on his blunt. He squeezes my face. “Yo, ma, you pretty as fuck. But I will beat you the fuck up if you scrape, cut, or bite my shit, ya dig?” I nod. “That’s what it is. Now let’s see ya work.”

I look around the room, scan the niggas gawking at me, then catch Calm One’s eyes. He nods his head on the sly. Funny thing, I’ve always prided myself on being a phenomenal head giver; on knowing how to take care of a man’s dick—to not only suck it, but to make love to it. To slob it because I love it; because I adore it. There’s something about slobbering all over a dick, twirling my tongue all over it—its slit slick with sweet precum, gliding my lips and mouth up and down its length, engulfing it—that has always made my pussy wet, but not this time. And not under these conditions. I never imagined I’d have to do what I enjoy in order to save my own damn life. Still, if these motherfuckers want a five-star show, then damn it…that’s what they’ll get.