Sister Souljah - Life After Death

Since the Jag windows were tinted, I instinctively turned to look out of the rear. I still couldn’t see anything. The atmosphere had turned completely black again. I could hear whipping winds that howled like a wind war. The winds were so forceful that they rocked the ride from side to side even though it was speeding forward. He didn’t react to the rocking or the darkness or the deafening wind-whip sounds. Instead, he was leaned back in his driver’s seat like a real hustler riding dirty. Chilling so hard as if it was just another day in his neighborhood. He turned on the radio without reaching. Music finally! It was the provocative and arousing instrumental track to the song “When Doves Cry,” by Prince. I pictured him in my mind. Prince was not the style of man I would want to fuck. But he is king of those guitar strings. Furthermore, he is hands down definitely one of the rare ones, who got “that thing.”

“You tryna burn a hole into the side of my face?” he suddenly asked me. I must’ve been staring. I was digging his carved-up arm and the way his strong hand held the steering wheel. Of course I was checking him out thoroughly and examining his whip. Couldn’t believe he had the new joint. I had read about the Jaguar XJ. The timing caught my attention. Both me and the car released in 2010. The dash was mean and the controls were embedded in his steering. He’s shifting gears smoothly while enjoying the sounds. As Prince’s music was ending he lowered the volume with the press of his thumb while reclining. The high speed of the ride decreased and soon we came to a smooth stop. We were sitting there in the blackness. I heard the radio jock say, “And this cut is by the Scissor Sisters. It’s titled, ‘I Can’t Decide.’ ” I never heard of them. How could the DJ try and follow up Prince with some unknown performers singing an unknown song?

“My place is down this hill. Before I downshift, I want to make sure you want to be with me. If not, you can get out,” he said calmly. But I thought it was strange. It was total blackness outside. Why would I get out? Where would I go? And without him, would my legs go back to being paralyzed after his touch had caused them to feel alive and move properly?

“Nigga what!” I said, instead of telling him the thoughts in my mind. “When I ride with a nigga, I ride with a nigga,” I confirmed. He leaned my way, reached up and pulled down my seat belt, then locked it into place. His gesture got me feeling even more open.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, smiling some. “But it’s good to double-check. When the action starts, I don’t want you pretending that I forced you,” he said.

“I don’t let nobody force me,” I said. “That’s not the type of bitch I am.”

“So you ready to handle me?” he said, smiling again. He knew his teeth were perfect and his smile convincing.

“I don’t really know you like that, but I handle whatever comes to me,” I said in my first sexy tone.

“All you need to know about me,” he said, “is my stroke is strong and my dick is longer than my tail.”

The Jaguar dropped, angled, and then sped downhill like a rocket instead of a car. My heart was racing. It felt good. Reminded me of the drop on the Kingda Ka roller coaster at Great Adventure. When I was teen young I’d choose the fastest, steepest, wildest-drop roller coaster and ride it repeatedly the whole day. My cousins and them would be like, “Come on, let’s try something different.” I’d be like, “Nope, I already know how this ride makes me feel.” They’d leave. I’d stay. I was straight riding alone. Told them I’d meet them at six at the haunted house. In his Jaguar speeding down I was thrilled. Most drivers would be cautiously riding the brake downhill. He was all gas pedal. I was curious and turned on. I couldn’t wait, My dick is longer than my tail … kept repeating in my mind. I could feel my pussy pumping.

“You are probably hungry,” he said as he carried me over the threshold of his front door. It was not a palace or a mansion. It had more of a weird warehouse feeling. Or maybe more like an old fire station that he bought and redecorated. That was genius to me. Inside was as dark as outside of his building. Maybe that’s why he held me in his arms. He didn’t want me to trip or bump into walls in an unfamiliar location. I dig that. He put me down on my feet.

“Stay there,” he said. I didn’t reply, just waited. The area suddenly lit up. It was a flame, though. A torch on top of a metal pole that was cemented into his hard-top floor. That’s crazy. I laughed. Fuck the utility companies and power bill. And since this was an old fire station with high ceilings, no worries about an uncontrollable fire burning down the entire spot. Only thing is, with a flame, I could only see but so far. I hoped he didn’t want to do what we were about to do in the dark. I like to see my man’s muscles moving, the expression on his face and in his eyes, especially the desire as he admires me, my look, and my body.

“We’ll fuck first,” he said. “Fucking is better when both parties are thirsty and starving to death,” he chuckled.

He’s bold , I thought , a take-charge type of nigga. Usually I’m in charge. But I liked his rough style. He approached, removed my mink and dropped it right on the floor. He picked me up again, then sat me on the mink and began carefully removing my red python boots and sat them together to the side. He began massaging my legs. Ooh, that felt nice. He tore my Chanel dress right off of me as though it was made of silk and not the thick luxurious brocade. I like that his desire for me makes him too impatient to search for a zipper, a string, or a set of buttons. He got a Jaguar and a strong house so I’m telling myself to disregard that he ripped up my six-thousand-dollar custom Chanel made just for me.

“I should shower first.” I said softly like I was some shy bitch. Hovering over me, he ignored me for some seconds as he pressed his nose into my armpit and inhaled deeply. He moved to the next pit and inhaled deeply. He moved to my bare pussy and inhaled deeply, his nose creating an extra sensation when it grazed against my clitoris.

“Shower, but don’t get too clean. I get high off of the funk,” he said, exhaling.

“Oh yeah,” I said, sultry like. The reality was, though, I had never heard no line like that. “Well, you got some real get-high?” I asked him.

He smiled and said, “Why, of course. I’m the master of smoke.” He stood and went into a clothing closet and pulled out a bag from a coat pocket. He lit the blunt so swiftly I never saw him strike the match or click the lighter. I didn’t give a fuck. He got high off the funk. I get high off the blunt. He passed it to me. I’m puffing la… finally.

“The shower is down that hall to the left,” he said, pointing. “But don’t wash too long. Leave your pussy as is. I’ll clean it with my tongue,” he said.

I leaped up, the ripped mini offering him more than a glimpse of my juicy. But it was a glimpse that he would have had to catch through only the flicker of the flame. I ran straight. Knew he was watching. Let him see my booty bounce. Then I turned to the left, turned on like a motherfucker. In the warm downpour of the first water that I could actually feel while cleansing my body, my feelings towards this nigga began to multiply. He had brought feeling back to me after death. Said he preferred his woman to have a few scars. He made me able to walk when I had been stuck seated by the sewer inhaling something fouler than sewage. He fastened my seat belt, carried me into his home, gave me my first after-murder blunt, and now he had made it possible for me to shower and not be some strange invisible waterproof bitch.