Sisters Friends & Lovers

By Eisha Coutee

“Sisters Friends and Lovers.” 103,670 words, by Eisha Coutee’, is a realistic fictional story revolving around Evie Carter, her best friends, and their journey to find balance between self love, life, and relationships. Evie Carter, better known as “Fashion Queen” and backbone to both, her family and friends tends to always say all the right things. She’s inspiring and motivating to everyone around her, including her ten-year old adopted son. She’s an aspiring writer with dreams of one day landing a major book deal, and a struggling entrepreneur with hopes of finding true love in her very near future. Yvonne is Evie’s girlfriend of over ten years. She has more baby daddy drama than the law should allow, and a case of Multiple Sclerosis that sends her on the most never ending emotional, and physical roller coaster of her life. Sasha is Evie’s busiest friend. She’s the perfect soccer mom, internet business connoisseur/photographer/dance instructor. It’s a wonder why she suspects her husband of five years is cheating on her with a younger Asian woman! Roquel has been on the brink of divorce ever since the day after she got married to the father of her child. She’s never been in love with any man as much as she finds herself in love with her lover of over ten years. Hint: He’s not the same man she’s married to! And last but not least, there’s Babie, Evie’s younger sister who can’t seem to find a man of her own. She seems to be walking around with a sign on her forehead advertising...”I only date men who are not available!”

The five women appear to be going through life revolving round and round in the same never ending cycle of love come quick disasters. They seem to keep falling out of love as quickly as they stumble into it, while trying to conjure up reasons to leave, reasons to stay, or most importantly, reasons to come to their common senses. Their individual roller coaster rides through love’s crazy cycles seem to take them on ups, downs, twists, and turns that are none the less, inevitable, but undesirable all the same. Evie is approaching thirty faster than you can say happy birthday, and the pressure is on. She believes she’s got her groove back with a twenty-two year old NFL rookie who sells her the dream of being the mother of his first born and the wife with the house and the white picket fence. But as the new season progresses, he begins to get big headed and shows his true colors, which breaks Evie to pieces. Yvonne’s baby daddy ends up in jail for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, leaving her yet again stranded and helpless in her duty as mother to their son. He can’t seem to hold a job for chasing hoop dreams that he won’t commit to long enough to make anything become of them. Sasha has everything under control, except for her mystery of a husband who finds excuses to stay out all night, every night. Roquel is in a dangerous love triangle that can only end in a love suicide or divorce, and, Babie has still got a lot to learn about the whole relationship thing.

Either way, these women, though different in many ways, are all similar in their desire to rekindle the dream that true love really does exist, and the reinstatement in their faith to achieve their individual divine destinies. Finally, life altering decisions have to be made by each of them, which inescapably end in divorce, growing closer together, accomplished dreams, and new additions to an already existing family, but for one of them, it’s back to square one, the beginning of a brand new love affair. Self love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eisha Coutee
• Release date: Mar 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452425139

Eisha Coutee

Eisha Coutee was born and raised in Oakland California. She has been writing short fiction and poetry since grade school. She has taught in the private school sector and throughout local bay area school districts where she serves as an advocate for teen education and advancement towards academic and artistic achievement. She is currently working on her upcoming fictional collection of short erotic stories entitled Fetish as well as her long awaited book of poetry entitled “What Brown Girls Are Made Of.”Coutee has obtained Associate Degrees in both, language arts and social sciences from Laney College, Oakland, and presently holds a BA from Cal State East Bay University, Hayward, in Creative Writing.

Book preview

Prologue

Evie

Hey. My name is Evie—Evie Carter. My girls call me The fashion queen. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old African American entrepreneur on my journey to financial freedom and spiritual enlightenment, or, as Oprah would put it, renewing my spirit. If you’ve read the Cinderella story, then you know all about who I am. I’m the middle daughter of three girls—the lightest and brightest, with slanted eyes, almost waist-length dark brown hair and beauty marks in all the right places. There are too many for me to count, so for the ones I can actually see, I guess you can say they’re all where God meant for them to be.

My mother and father have been divorced since I was two. She took the three of us from California to Alaska on a hope and a whim that true love actually loved her, but one peeing-in-the-bed thirteen-year-old stepdaughter, one trifling, weed head of a fifteen-year-old stepson, and one alcoholic lightweight gigolo later, she packed us all up and headed right back to California quicker than you can say American Airlines. She married again when we were about seven, nine and fourteen. That relationship lasted nineteen years before she realized she’d wasted her youth on a money-hungry loser, whose sense of intimacy and quality time meant get it while she’s asleep. After three sexual harassment cases, three or four lost jobs and one mistress (that we know of), she finally decided to serve him the divorce papers. My grandmother had just passed two weeks prior, so I guess enough was finally enough. It was probably one of the dreariest years of all of our lives. Ironically, somehow, even at your weakest point it seems that you can actually become the strongest you’ve ever been. She made him leave, bought him out of the house and hasn’t looked back since. And in case you were about to ask…no, she hasn’t found a good man yet, but she hasn’t given up.

Me, on the other hand, I’m still waiting for my knight in shining armor and my darned fairy godmother. I have been the backbone to my mother and sisters for as long as I can remember. The irony of it all is that they call me the quiet, passive one. I don’t like arguing and I don’t curse…well, unless I’m really, really pissed, but it takes a lot to get me to that point. And I don’t actually say the words—I spell them…I don’t like wasting useless energy on trying to prove my point or making other people see things my way. The truth is, I have never been one to care what people thought of me or what they believed, as long as I knew who I was and whose I was. My mom taught me that a long time ago. Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you. She’d chant that and make me repeat it every time I came running home talking about the girls at school and the drama they were causing in my life. Because of those lessons, I’ve learned to pick and choose my battles.

For years my family has grown accustomed to my being the maid, the live-in babysitter, the cook and the handywoman. And up until this year, I thought I was going to have a serious breakdown. But my New Year’s resolution was to start saying no to things that were not conducive to my physical, spiritual, or emotional health and growth. I’ve even edited my phone book again to eliminate some of the people in my life, be they friends, acquaintances or foes, who’ve only served as hindrances to the above mentioned, rather than assets. Now, that brings us all up to date.

My mother’s whole life seems to consist of constant nagging about how sorry all of her children have turned out to be, making excuses for all three of her twenty-something-year-old daughters not being married and not able to take care of her yet financially, church gossip and endless doctors’ appointments for one ache, pain or another. Now, don’t get me wrong. We have a beautiful relationship—when she’s not busy being the control freak that she is, which she has passed on to my two evil stepsisters. Okay, okay, they’re not really my stepsisters. However, they both still drive me crazy.

My youngest sister, Babie, reminds me of Bird from that Showtime series,

Soul Food. She’s the baby, and cute as she can be. Even though she appears to be all grown up, she has a lot of learning to do. But heaven knows she’s not nearly as sweet as Bird. She’s an assistant hairstylist and has been one for the past three years…still building a clientele, mind you. She’s extremely talented, but too bullheaded to take my advice and venture out, step out on faith and stop being an assistant so she can finally start making some real money—not to mention her own money. But that is neither here nor there. In addition to being a control freak, she’s also a know-it-all, so she’s always had to learn everything the hard way. She and my mother barely get along, and sadly, they don’t even realize that the negative characteristics they point out in each other are the traits they share…hello!

Then there’s my older sister, Monique. She reminds me of Terry’s character on Soul Food, except that she is more of a jack of all trades, but master of none. Monique is so talented that I can’t even begin to think of the effort it would take to organize a resume extensive enough to prove my point. Being a control freak, she always seems to feel the need for directing people on what to do with their own personal business. I know she does it out of love, but God knows it drives me bats. However, if I were to be stranded alone on some deserted island in the middle of nowhere, I wouldn’t want to be stranded with anyone else but her. She has great wit, and she is a diehard survivor. But when she’s angry, you do not want to feel her wrath. We all have our issues, but sometimes I think my big sis is a little special. She’s always so secretive and quick to judge. She’s the most opinionated person I know, but I love her just the same, of course. It’s just that she knows everybody’s buttons, and she pushes them for the hell of it I think. Actually, I love both of my sisters, and no matter how dysfunctional I think my family is, I can’t help but love them. Sometimes I just think that we’d be better off miles away from one another.

Anyway, I can’t quite remember how me and all my girls met. I think it all began at the new church we’d all joined back in ‘96. We had started our little ‘girls night out’ meetings once a month at each other’s homes to get familiar with one another and to start hanging out with other females that were trying to walk the Christian walk. Let me be the first to say that the walk is rarely straight and narrow. But every fall is a learning experience and motivation to get back up and try yet again. We all sat around the marble fireplace cracking jokes and discussing everything from Sister Avery’s moustache to baby daddies and stupid boyfriends. We were all barely twenty-one back then. It’s hard to grasp how quickly the time passes, and we’ve all changed so much over the years that it’s almost unbelievable. Now Sasha is married with another daughter, which makes two altogether. Roquel is nearly divorced after seven years of a most interesting union. She has one daughter, my godchild, whose name is Sade. And Yvonne, well, she has one son, one sad excuse of a baby’s daddy and a case of Multiple Sclerosis. We have all changed so much over the years it’s almost unbelievable. And…well…then there’s single old me. I have an adopted ten-year-old son, and no baby daddy drama. I’m still looking for the one. And believe me when I say he’s got to be a marvel. I say that because I’m just coming into knowing my own worth. I know my merchandise is good and you can take that however you want, but I assure you I’m a good catch, and whoever he is better know that nothing this good comes easy.

I’m an aspiring writer, and hopefully one day soon I’ll get my big break. Apparently there are only so many token black authors that can be afforded the chance to actually get published each year, but I’ve got the Big Man on my side, so I expect a

breakthrough in my life real soon. I’ve been abstinent for a while now and trying to keep myself grounded with prayer, reading The Word and asking God to expand my territory like Jabez. And in the meantime and in between time, while I’m patiently waiting, I know I’ve got to stay focused. But I ain’t gon’ lie to ya—my sugar bush is gettin’ a little antsy from being on lockdown for so long. Lord, please forgive me in advance if I do somethin’ stupid real soon.

Chapter 1

Yvonne

Oh my goodness. Where do I even start? How about with my baby daddy drama? Or maybe I should start with my alcoholic father. My mother’s been pondering divorcing him, but why? They’ve been together ever since before I was born, and I’ll be thirty in another year. I didn’t even know that my brother had a different father until I was sixteen, and that almost broke my little heart. I had always thought up until that point that we had come from the same two seeds. Of course, he’s still my brother, no doubt, but that took me for a loop. Maybe not knowing his real father is the reason for his fear of commitment. He’s cruel to women and he is the most trifling man you could ever know. He spits and probably pees in the shower and half washes out the tub. He smokes, drinks, and his house…let’s not even go there. I’d be afraid to ask for a glass of water out of an actual drinking cup, and I’d advise you to refuse if he ever offers. He is the epitome of unhealthy living. I mean, he gives new meaning to the term pig pen. But somehow he still manages to meet, greet and beat new women, and then leave them on a regular basis. And I don’t mean ‘beat’ in a physical abuse kind of way, but beat as in slang for ‘gettin’ the booty’ kind of way.

Anyway, back to me. I’m a Lipton Tea brown with short blond hair, texturized to a tee. I am most conscious about my teeth being bright white, so yes; you can say I’m a little obsessed since I had to wear braces in high school. I don’t wear much makeup, but gimme a nice gloss and a little shadow over the lids on a good day, and I’m neck-and- neck with the rest of those overpaid, skinny broads you all refer to as super models. Shoot, I’m a size four, too! I wish there was more to say about me, but unfortunately there isn’t. I’ve never been outside of California, never been anywhere that actually matters, never finished college and never had a man to just be a real man to me. I seem to always draw young-butt, irresponsible fools into my life. Now I’ve been with my son’s father going on seven years, but the situation is ridiculous. I’m talkin’ constant break-ups to make-ups and fighting and arguing out in the street, or in my house for that matter. It’s gettin’ real tired, and I’m gettin’ exhausted just thinking about it. The more I think I’m getting away from him, the more he finds ways to ease his way back up into my life, my apartment and my vagina too. Yes, I said it. I do feel the need every now and again. It ain’t that often, but when I grow weak I’d rather be with him than increase my list of booty calls and one night stands, if you know what I mean. And I’ll be damned if I ever resort to plastic ding-a-lings and vibrating balls. Now that just about sums up my life experience of relationships, love and travel. I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis almost five years ago. It has definitely been a difficult road to travel—shots every other day and constant prescriptions. I’ve learned to live with it though. It’s not like I have any other option. It’s depressing, but my son keeps me balanced and optimistic. I work off and on, here and there—until I go blind in one eye or the other, my legs go numb or if the migraines return. And for some reason, every time I start a new job it only lasts a few weeks before I have another exacerbation.

I just wish I had a man who could take care of me for a change instead of me always takin’ care of him—a man who understands that any hint of stress or strain brings on my symptoms…a man who values my worth.

Oh, and before I forget, just for the record, let me also state that I don’t drink and I’ve never been to a club. Well, I did go for the first time to a New Year’s Eve celebration at one of the clubs to bring in the 2003 New Year. It was a total drag. If I see one more Nelly look-a-like or wannabe Dave Hollister, I think I’ll scream. And let me tell you, I was glad to know that after all these years I haven’t been missing much. Well, I guess that’s all there is for my intro. Sorry I couldn’t be a little more interesting. But hey, I’m working on it. I think I might actually plan to go to Las Vegas soon. Yeah, that’s all I need to get my mind out of this slump. My temporary assignment just came to an end, and I’ll have plenty of free time on my hands until I find another job. But I’m not in a rush. I think I’ll call the airlines in the morning and at least check out the rates. Until next time, toodles!

Chapter 2

Sasha

Hello, ladies and gents. I’m Sasha—Sasha Mcpherson, your average light-skinned, big legged, southern belle kinda gal, but minus the southern belle and the country accent. My hair is usually brown with honey blonde highlights, but those babies always put extra stress on my tresses, and I eventually end up having to cut a few inches off, so I’ve decided to let them grow out again. It’s resting in the middle of my back as of today, but I’m sure my upcoming visit to the shop next week will mean it will soon be just past my shoulders. All of my girls call me the black Julia Roberts because of my facial features. I guess in a weird kind of way they’re right, but I’ll take a compliment any day over an insult. Hell, I worked hard to lose these sixty plus pounds, and even though my boobs left with all of that weight, it ain’t nothin’ a couple of implants and a tummy tuck won’t fix. I’m just being financially frugal right now, but just you wait; in a couple of years, I’ll be on the red carpet with the rest of those Hollywood hotties. My husband better get his act together…shoot.

I’m happily married at least half of the time, and I have two beautiful daughters who run me ragged but whom I love to death. Most of my friends call me Miss Goody Two-Shoes. I guess I’m probably the most organized of the bunch. I can’t help it if I’m always on a prearranged schedule. I like paying my bills on or before their due date, I am always early to my appointments and my girls have the best attendance and punctuality record out of everyone in their entire student body. I obviously hate being late—especially to church—and I simply despise my family thinking that I am their personal teller machine. Can I have? Can I borrow? Can I this? Can I that? My oldest sister, Taj, is probably the smartest of us all. She moved to the opposite side of the country just to get away from our truly dysfunctional family. Me and my girls used to get together to exchange our dysfunctional family stories, but believe me, I have them all beat about a billion to one. Even my mother is cuckoo. She always has been. She’s always made her six children her last priority. Hell, I can remember times we had to go hungry because she used the grocery and bill money to get her damn hair and nails done so she could go out with yet another one of her pimped out, sugar daddy wannabes. I couldn’t wait until my eighteenth birthday and my high school graduation. She literally kicked me out of the house because her new boyfriend at the time said that she would have to choose which one of us would stay. My mother gave me two day’s notice before my Senior Ball. I immediately found a job and got the hell out of dodge. I can’t be mad at her though; she’s never really known her worth, and she’s always been one to settle for the first piece of attention any man can give her. I never understood why; she’s beautiful, tall, well built and looks twenty years younger than her actual age. I guess now I’m too grown to care why anymore. I never really knew my father until I was old enough to know that I would rather not know him. And I swear it seems like my mother has had it in for me to pay for all of his mistakes since the day I was born.

I have four sisters and one brother who, needless to say, can never do any wrong. Chuck is the youngest, and probably the stupidest. Well, let me take that back. That would actually be a tie between my two sisters, Sunny and De-De. They’re both involved with total losers and can’t raise their kids right to save their souls. God help them. Sunny’s husband has never worked a day in his pitiful life. I don’t think he brushes his teeth or washes his ass to be quite honest. And I am only judging by what my sense of smell tells me. De-De’s two kids are by the same baby daddy, thank goodness, but you know your man is a loser when he asks you for a ride to Mcdonald’s because he doesn’t want to take his new car out of his mama’s garage for fear of his loan company looking to repossess it the first chance they get. Then when he gets to McDonald’s with you driving him and his two hungry kids around in your bucket, which is on its last limb, he orders one Quarter Pounder for himself. Two starving kids in the back seat, one Quarter Pounder for daddy. You do the math…that in my book equates to Loser. My sister’s youth is dwindling away and she can’t even see it. Then of course there’s Taj, who had sense enough to join the military so she could travel and develop some sense of diversity. She lives on the east coast now, but she’s the only sister I actually call and who knows what I go through—or at least somewhat. And last but not least, there’s Audrey. She’s been working on her singing career for the past twenty-nine years. Now, it’s not that I don’t want to be supportive. I just think that if something was going to happen for her it would have by now. I can’t understand what the hold-up is. She has two beautiful girls who she is finally starting to actually raise after nine and a half years, and, well, she does get an E for effort. However, my case still stands: my whole family is a nut case.

Oh, my goodness. Look at the time. The girls will be out of school in fifteen minutes. Sorry I gotta go on such short notice, but I do have a schedule to keep. See ya.

Roquel

Helloooo. I’m Roquel. Need I say more? I will very soon be separated from my husband, Donald. I mean it for real this time. And baby, if it wasn’t for my Christian morals and values, I’d be screaming, Look out men! to the top of my lungs. I feel like I’ve just figured out a flawless escape from the zoo, and the tigress in me is finally about to be unleashed. But please, don’t get me wrong. I still have a few things I’ve got to sort out, and to be quite honest, as unhappy as I am in my marriage, I’m still having my doubts about whether I’ve made the right decision. What can I say? We were together for going on eight years of my youthful life, and from that I’ve gained a beautiful daughter who’s starting first grade this fall and a good friend. There was no big fallout or anything like that; I’ve just been really unhappy. Seems like ever since the excitement of the baby being born six years ago, I’ve just been lost…feeling like I’d gotten caught up in the moment just because I was pregnant and alone. I had moved halfway across the country to escape my delusional family only to start another delusional family. I tried to make myself happy in the relationship. Honestly, I did, but it seemed it would last no longer than a day or two, the time span of a weekend trip, which we hardly ever took. Or other times it would last as long as my orgasm, which by the way, Donald has never given me. But when all was said and done, and the lights went off, I’d turn over and cry myself to sleep. My husband never knew that I was crying because I was unhappy. He probably thought it was like one of those female moments during climax where we cry for no apparent reason. Unh-uh…wrong. I was crying because I was never in love with him, because I felt sorry for him and the fact that he was so in love with me and I would never be able to reciprocate it. I cried because I knew that I’d married him for all of the wrong reasons, because my youth was being wasted on a make-believe happy marriage. There were times we’d go months without sex, and he’d never bother me about it. He was just always grateful when it would happen. Hell, I can admit it now. I was in love with another man. Who could I tell that to without judgmental opinions and all eyes falling upon me, huh? Only Evie, ‘cause I knew she’d think no less of me or my character. She knew me and the man I was in love with.

This year I decided that I would make no more excuses, and I wouldn’t feel sorry for him or myself anymore. There was nothing to it but to do it, and so I did. I told him that I was not in love with him, and that I wasn’t happy. I told him I was thinking about divorce. A part of me feels like it has died, and it’s sad. But the other part of me feels like it has just come back from the dead, and honey, I’m feeling all brand new; so I’m getting ready to cut this hair off and add some color, paint my nails and get a new gym membership. There is yet so much happiness to get in this life, and I deserve some of it while I’m still young enough to grab it. Don’t I?

Chapter 3

Babie

Well, here I am, the baby of the bunch, so everybody calls me Babie. I’m about 5’4 or 5’5, with red hair in a style like Destiny’s Child’s Kelly Rowland. Evie calls me Bird. You know, like the one from Soul Food, because she says I look like a golden brown version of her. She means the one from the Showtime series. I guess I can see it, but not really…I don’t know.

And yeah, I’m a little bullheaded, maybe even a little unorganized. Okay, well, a lot unorganized, but I am me all the same. You’d never know by my superstar attire. I gotta be on point at all times. That’s my industry of expertise—hair, makeup and fashion, so I can’t be out and about lookin’ any old kind of way. I gotta be representin’ at all times. That’s how I pass out cards and pull clients. If I look good, then they’ll wanna look as good as me; thus, if I can sell myself, I can sell them on allowing me to make them look like a superstar, too. Got it? Well, you will eventually. I’ve been at this hustle for about three years now. I’ve had more than my share of affairs with older, married men who gamed me by saying that their relationships were going down the drain and their wives weren’t as beautiful, smart or feminine as I was, and so on and so on. And now, here I stand, a little hardened to the whole relationship thing, but still yearning for a healthy one all the same. I look back and can’t believe how silly and naïve I’ve been in my past, but it’s all good. I’ve learned plenty of valuable lessons, and as soon as I build up a clientele of my own, I’m gonna be outta that daggone shop. That man, the owner, is trying with all of his might to run me away. But I refuse to run anywhere. When I leave, it will be on my own terms, and because I want to, not because some jealous fool ran me away. He’s mad because I’ve finally come to my senses. He’s never leaving his wife and family for me, and he’s controlling and conniving and I just don’t like him anymore. The thrill is gone—literally, which brings us to the here and now. I’ve met someone new. Well, actually it’s an old friend I’ve known since high school but never paid any attention to until recently when we unexpectedly bumped into one another at my girl Sasha’s nightclub. He was one of the featured Chocolate Chippendales. Mmm, mmm, mmm. Men that beautiful oughta be guilty of a crime.

Guess I seem to be a magnet for drama. I don’t know if it’s just men with drama, or just drama period. If I’m not running out of gas or getting pulled over for my registration not being up to date, it’s a flat tire or I’ve locked my keys in the car. But thank God for Evie because she usually always comes to the rescue or sends one of her friends. However, when I’ve got drama in the man department she does offer advice, but I always feel that it’s biased and I never listen to her stupid opinions. She doesn’t know what I go through or how I feel, but the truth is love really is blind, and when you’re in love or falling into it, can’t nobody tell you that roses smell like boo-boo, ‘cause to you, a rose is still a rose. I don’t know if I’m making any sense, but I’m sure you understand where I’m going with that. Anyhow, my client just walked in…gotta go.

Chapter 4

Evie

Beads of perspiration are forming like translucent polka dots over Victor’s face, and my back is drenched. My legs are spread wide in a perfect V as he puts his finger in his mouth, then inside of me. I can’t see what he’s doing but it feels like he’s making circles against my walls, which makes me open my mouth. Nothing comes out because I’m trying not to make too much noise; these walls are thin. Finally he takes his finger out, and I’m feeling my wetness drip down my inner thigh to the crack of my behind. It tickles a little, but I’m too zoned and too turned on to crack a smile. I’m ready for him to stop teasing me and just put Mr. Long and Thick inside me. He grabs my butt and forcefully pulls me directly up underneath him. It almost hurts, but it sets my insides on fire…I want him so bad. My legs are still spread but slightly bent at the knees. He reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a Magnum. He punctures the package with his canines and rolls the black latex onto his jimmie in a matter of seconds. He looks at me without flinching, and it makes me nervous. I feel like a virgin. What in the hell am I doin’ feelin’ like a virgin with a youngster? He moves his waist in closer to mine, and I feel him enter me. At the very first stroke I want to explode. His breath gently grazes my face as we find our rhythm and move eye to eye, never breaking our glance. It’s too intense for me. Why am I feeling like this? Butterflies are in my stomach. I’m shivering, but I’m not cold. He moves in and out of me, slowly and gently at first, then deeply.

Ah, baby, I manage to sigh.

"Damn, girl, you feel so fuckin’ good. I don’t ever wanna stop…ahhh.

You like that, daddy? I say as I squeeze my kegels tight.

Love it, baby doll. Damn, girl…

Mmmmm…

You like it when I go deep, don’t you? You can take all of it, can’t you, baby?

You know I can, daddy.

Well, tell me if you like this.

He thrusts hard and deep and holds that position for a few seconds, moving around like he’s trying to find something. Whatever it was, he found it ‘cause it makes me scream. Shhhh! he whispers with a sexy grin on his face.

Well, you made me do it. You shouldn’t have…Oh! He goes deep and hard again before I finish my sentence. Now he’s playing with me.

I said shhh! It feels good, don’t it, baby?" he says arrogantly.

Yes, yes, yes…yes...

That’s right, baby.

"Oh, okay, you wanna play, huh? What’s my name?

"Baby doll…ah shiiit, baby! He whispers loudly, almost in a shout.

I tighten my muscles again, since he wants to play. He tries to pull out and regain control, but my kitten isn’t having it. Finally I push him out slowly. What’s my name, youngsta?

I said baby d…auuuuugh!

Uh huh…you like that, don’t you, daddy?

I love you, baby. I love you, I love you, I lo…shit, you feel so damn good. Shit.

Wait, wait, I gotta pee. I think I gotta pee.

"Baby girl, you just think you have to. Let it go. You’re about to come, baby…"

But seriously, it feels like I gotta pee.

I know, sweetie. Just let it—