Synthia gave me a light smile before walking up the driveway. I waited for her to make sure she was safely inside the house before pulling off and heading back home to my spot in Midtown.
“Much better off is my life since you cameee. And your heart spoke my name. Bringing me so much joy. To a lonely boy, your love is hmmm mmm hmmm. Exhaling smoke from my lungs after smoking my blunt,”I softly sang off-key to the song "Much Better Off" by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles in my mancave.
After a long day of moving around, nothing beat a hot shower, a blunt, some home cooked food, and some good pussy. As of now, I had accomplished two actions: a hot shower and rolling my blunt. As far as a home cooked meal followed by some good pussy, I wouldn’t reap the joys of that. Trecee couldn’t cook. She’d burn toast if I left it up to her, and she couldn’t give me any pussy because of the antibiotics she was taking. Neither was a big deal; it was a preference, but it solidified my spot as a king, and it’d be something nice to come home to because I’m the one footing the bills and keeping shit afloat around here.
Seems like every time I turn around, Trecee’s bustling through the door with shopping bags at her feet or she’s gossiping about somebody in the hood. I put up with it long enough for it not to bother me, but I’d be lying if I admitted I wasn’t tired of it. The old me would have new pussy in a second after throwing her out on the curb, but that was pointless and I don’t like too many people in my house, wandering around, scoping shit in awe and admiration at the way I lived.
Trecee was straight, not different from the rest, but she was cool and didn’t give me a hard time about certain shit, so I settled for her. Now, every other day as time passes, I’m becoming aggravated with her ass. Aside from not cooking and cleaning, she had a smart-ass mouth on her. Only off the strength of being my girl did she remain untouched until Synthia tapped that ass and put her in her place. Honestly, if it were any other bitch, I’d step to them or get them dealt with. I don’t hit women, but I know how to get a bitch touched if they thought shit was sweet. Trecee knew that too. But Synthia didn’t bother nobody. She wasn’t problematic from what I knew, and the way the hood talked, I never heard anything bad about her that would make me side eye her. It was no secret that she stole shit, but it’d be breaking the code in the hood if niggas went aroundsnitching on her. Everybody in the hood knew she was the best of the best at the shit.
It’s common for somebody in the hood to have a hustle, and you didn’t have to go far to get what you needed. With me being notorious for having some of the best dope in the south, niggas knew to cope shit from me. My nigga Allen sold guns. I had a nigga in the east—Que, who sold coke. My sister, Bentley, makes fake check stubs and CPNs. I got another nigga, Brock, who works for the post office, and he cashes 401k checks from elderly people. Most of those checks come from retirement funds and pension plans, from Jane Doe’s already deceased. None of it is right, but it’s a hustle. The motive is to scheme long enough not to get caught.
As far as me, I own a cellular company called Telo Wireless. I used to embezzle drugs through the pipelines and cleaned my money through laundromats. That was years ago, before I stopped and found a more lucrative way to make money, triple what I was bringing in before. I set a deadline; if it didn't prove lucrative income, I'd pursue other options. My ability to flip a dollar got me far, and I’d never be somewhere sitting around being broke. I've been doing this long enough to approach things more wisely.
Growing up, I’d always been the jack of all trades. That’s all I was trying to instill in Trecee. My bitch is a beast at doing hair around the hood, but she doesn’t value the property of a dollar. When we met, she didn’t have the means to open a salon, but I propositioned her with the idea to triple her income by opening a storefront here in Midtown. That would boost her clientele, and most of her clients came from word of mouth. I fronted her $50,000 to do her thing and make me proud, but she did what most money hungry bitches did and fumbled that shit instead of adding wealth. You can make a nigga a plate, but you can’t force him to eat from it, so I took that as a loss. Part of thatwas my fault because I believed in spoiling my bitch, and giving her whatever she asked for, but Trecee didn’t reciprocate that energy, and that was a slap in the face to me.
The bass was booming from the music. A subtle vibration pinged throughout the room when the song had ended, and another one began. Leaning over, I put out the blunt by sticking the tip in the ashtray and leaned my head back against the cool tufted black leather sofa. My arms extended on the outside of the couch like angel wings, then I closed my eyes. The sound of a door creaking open didn’t jar my head away from the peace coursing through my body. Besides my housekeeper, who knew not to come down here, I knew it was Trecee. She knew not to come down here either, but figured those rules didn’t apply to her. The feel of her cool hands kneading the knots in my shoulders caused me to release groans of satisfaction. The feeling was unfamiliar, but it felt good. Usually, she uses physical touch to swoon me into giving her something when I’d already told her no. It is curiosity that I exhibit a duality of character, being streetwise yet lacking assertiveness when interacting with my girl. Trecee didn’t deserve this side of me because she acted like a fucking heathen.
“This shit feel good,” I muttered.
“Daddy, you’re tense,” her sultry voice whispered in my ear. “Hopefully, this relaxes you too, besides the weed.”
“I was cool before you came down here though. This ain’t you, bruh.”
My eyes shot open, and I turned to the side to see her grabbing my phone to pause the music. My mood was fucked up, but that seemed to be the only thing she was good at doing.
She stood in front of me, with her hands on her bony hip. The skimpy, red lace negligee looked good as hell on her, but it was only for show. I hadn’t stuck my dick in her for a while now—six months to be exact.
Trecee had a stank ass pussy. We could be sitting on the couch doing nothing, and she’d be freshly showered, and I could smell the stench coming from her. I figured it was habitual because maybe she forgot to clean up a little more down there or she was in a rush, but I figured out the cause of her unruly demise. One day after shitting, I walked in on her wiping from back to front. Now, certain shit just be common sense, but she broke down and cried, claiming that she wasn’t taught the difference. I taught her how to properly clean her pussy by modeling on her, and we got that squared away, but the odor still lingered. A doctor’s appointment determined that she had recurring BV. Even after teaching her how to properly wipe, we still didn’t fuck. Most of that stemmed from my discomfort, so I don’t know how she was able to get it back-to-back.
Her doctor confirmed the normality of it and not to feel bad. None of that came from me, but part of it lowered her self-esteem. As helpful tips, her doctor recommended a slew of probiotics to take daily, but explained that it’s not uncommon for pussies to have a natural scent, but I done fucked enough pussies to know that it ain’t supposed to smell like week old mop water and mildew.
The thing is, I love sucking on pussy, sticking my tongue in it, lapping up the juices, and smacking my tongue against the roof of my mouth from the after taste, and Trecee had a pretty ass pussy, but that odor was unbearable, and I wouldn’t dare stick my tongue or my dick in her. That’s why I said her wearing this red negligee was just for show because although she looked good in it, wouldn’t shit be going down. As far as I knew, she hadn’t been taking her daily probiotics either.
“What do you mean by that Rome? I can’t come down here and rub on my man? You’ve been down here for two hours now. Your food is upstairs getting cold, and we were supposed to be in bed watching a movie,” she pouted.
“You talking about that stale ass Chinese rice from that slaw ass take out spot?”
“Well, it’s stale now because you’ve been down here for so long,” she argued back.
My eyes zeroed in on hers. Her lip was big and busted but she was still fine as hell. She was a dimwit ass bitch, but she was cute. Regardless of whatever she came down here for, she was trying to swoon me into giving her something. I knew Trecee, and she acted like a child all the time—going on rants, stomping, and pouting when she couldn’t get her way.
Her face looked dewy from the facial regimen she swore by, but there was no point in doing all of that, keeping the face clean if the pussy stank. That’s like putting on lip gloss without brushing your teeth. Bitches don’t take hygiene serious nowadays, and with the amount of money I was lacing her with, she could afford a whole new pussy at this point.
“Aye, let me ask you something and I want you to be honest?”
“Ask me what, baby?”
Kneeling down in front of me, she started groping my dick with her small hands through my Ralph Lauren pajama bottoms.
“That fight with Synthia, tell me what you said?”
Removing her hands from my dick, she looked a bit taken aback. “I told you what she said?”
“Naw,” I grimaced. “You told me she was talkin’ shit, poppin’ off at the mouth. What did you say to her for her to do that shit?”
She placed her hands on my knees as leverage so she could stand up. Her hand hugged her bony hip again as she gave me a look of confusion. “That poor ass bitch got anger problems and wish she was in my shoes?—”
“Aht aht,” I cut her off. “Tell me what the fuck you said,” I spoke in monotone as I glared up at her.
