Chapter 69 A tale of an African stripper (2)
POV: Zuri
I’m still buzzing, skin tingling like a live wire, when Big Rico knocks on the dressing-room door.
“Zuri, baby girl. You got a whale.”
I raise an eyebrow at the mirror while I blot the oil from between my thighs. “How big are we talkin’?”
“Private booth. Whole hour. Already dropped ten on the table just for the pleasure of your company. Says he wants the Queen in all her glory. No limits.”
Ten grand on the table before I even walk in?
My pussy gives a greedy little clench. That’s the kind of money that makes rent disappear, makes passports fatter, makes Mama’s medical bills shut the hell up for another few months.
I slip into the tiniest robe I own sheer black mesh that hides exactly nothing and let it hang open.
My nipples are still swollen and dark from the stage, still sticky with a few stray bills I haven’t peeled off
yet.
I leave them. Let him see what he paid for.
Rico leads me down the velvet hallway to the biggest champagne room we have.
The door is cracked; purple light spills out like smoke. Inside, there’s only one man.
He’s sitting dead center on the low leather couch, legs spread wide like he owns the building.
Dark skin, close-cropped hair going silver at the temples, suit so black it drinks the light.
Gold watches are heavy enough to sink a ship. He looks like money that learned how to fuck.
When he sees me, his eyes drop straight to my bare breasts, then lower, lingering on the wet patch still darkening the front of my thong. A slow smile curls his mouth.
“Close the door,” he says. Voice low, accented maybe Nigerian, maybe Ghanaian.
Doesn’t matter. It slides over me like warm palm oil.
I shut it behind me. Click.
He doesn’t stand up. He didn't need to. Power radiates off him in waves. Instead he crooks one finger.
“Come here, Zuri.”
I walk slowly, letting the robe slip off my shoulders and pool at my feet.
My skin is still glistening, money stuck in random places, a hundred on my hip, a fifty curled against the underside of my left breast.
I stop between his spread thighs and look down at him.
“You paid ten thousand dollars to look at me?” I ask, voice soft and filthy. “Or did you pay ten thousand dollars to touch me?”
He chuckles, deep and dangerous. “Both. And more.”
His hands settle on my hips big, warm, sure.
Thumbs trace the dimples above my ass like he’s reading braille.
I feel the calluses. This man works with these hands when he’s not spending stacks on pussy. The thought makes me wetter.
He pulls me forward until I’m straddling his lap, knees sinking into the leather on either side of his thighs.
My heavy breasts brush his silk tie. I can feel how hard he already is, thick, long, pressing up against my soaked thong like it’s trying to punch through his slacks.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes locked on my tits. “These are criminals. A man could die happy suffocating right here.”
I laugh low. “Then die happy, baby.”
He takes the invitation.
Mouth closes over my left nipple hot, wet suction while his huge hand cups the other breast, squeezing until milk-chocolate flesh spills between his fingers.
I moan, loud and real, grinding down on the ridge of his dick.
He bites gently, just enough sting to make me gasp, then licks the hurt away.
His free hand slides down my back, over the curve of my ass, and two thick fingers slip beneath my thong from behind.
No hesitation.
He finds my dripping slit and pushes inside slow, deliberately, stretching me open.
I’m so wet his fingers glide like they belong there.
“Jesus fuck,” he groans against my breast. “You’re flooding.”
“Been flooding since I saw that ten on the table,” I whisper, rocking back onto his hand.
“Now give me the rest of what I came for.”
He pulls his fingers out, brings them to my mouth.
I suck them clean, tasting myself, staring him dead in the eye. His pupils blow wide.
Then he moves fast. One arm bands around my waist and he flips us my back hitting the couch, him looming over me.
My legs fall open on instinct. He rips the thong clean off fabric tearing like paper and tosses it aside.
For a second he just looks. Spreads my thighs wider with rough hands and stares at my bare pussy like he’s memorizing it.
Glossy lips swollen and dark, clit peeking out, everything shining.
“Beautiful,” he mutters, almost reverent.
Then he drops to his knees on the floor, drags my hips to the edge of the couch, and buries his face between my legs.
The first lick is long and flat, from my entrance to my clit, and my back bows off the cushions.
He eats me like a man who’s been starving tongue fucking deep inside me, nose grinding my clit, strong hands pinning my thighs open when I try to close them from overstimulation.
I fist his hair, grind against his mouth, babble filth in three different languages.
He slides two fingers back in, curls them hard, and sucks my clit like he’s trying to brand it.
I come instantly harder than on stage, thighs shaking around his head, juices flooding his tongue.
He doesn’t stop. Keeps licking me through it until I’m sobbing and pushing at his forehead.
Only then does he rise up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild.
“Turn over,” he growls.
I scramble to obey, getting on my knees on the couch, ass high, face pressed to the leather.
I hear his belt, the zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then I feel him hot, blunt, impossibly thick pressing against my entrance.
He doesn’t ask if I’m ready. Just grips my hips and sinks into the hilt in one slow, relentless thrust.
The stretch burns so good I scream into the cushion.
He's bigger than any toy I own, and he doesn’t give me time to adjust.
Just pulls back and slams home again, setting a punishing rhythm that has my tits swinging like pendulums, my ass rippling with every smack of his hips.