The Engagement

It was still dark when I sneaked out of the Sheraton. I say "sneaked" because I'd promised my mom that I would spend the night before my wedding at home, in my childhood bedroom. I hoped that she hadn't stayed up for me.

I got home, sneaked up to my bedroom and pretended I'd been there all night. I was still awake when my mom peeked in on me at six a.m. I saw her smile and knew that she'd been deceived.

She went downstairs to stir up a breakfast of grits, bacon and eggs, my favorite since childhood. Then she came upstairs and hustled me out of bed, saying I had to be at the hairdresser in forty-five minutes.

"Hurry girl!! Go shower up!!"

I couldn't tell her that I'd already showered an hour and a half before. So I went and showered again. We wolfed down breakfast together, then she hustled me into my car and drove with me to the hairdresser, ten minutes away in a small strip mall. Hattie Jefferson had been doing my hair since I was a little girl. Mom was so excited. You might have thought it was her wedding day.

Hattie welcomed us. She wasn't usually open at seven a.m. She made an exception for me. She ushered us into her shop and locked the door behind us. There would be no other patrons this day. Hattie was going to do my hair and then attend my wedding.

While I was in the chair, I called Nicole and Lisa to find out what was up. Nicole sounded like she was drunk on dick. I'd never seen a heffah that could be so vibrant in public and such a sex addict in private. Once she got her cock injection, she was as mellow as a Parkinson's patient.

Whose dick was it this time? ARTIE. Somehow I'd thought Artie and Lisa were the ones booing up. No. Apparently, Artie had knocked both of them off last night. Nicole even told me a side story about the people in the room next door pounding on the walls as she loudly screamed her pleasure. Did she care? Not one little bit. Nicole cut off our conversation, saying that she and Lisa were sitting down to breakfast with 'the fellas'. She said they'd meet me at the church to help me into my dress.

I settled into the drudgery of a three-hour hairdo. I wanted to sleep but found I could not. Somehow my thoughts drifted into the vision of Nicole's sexual encounter with Artie. Not knowing how Mrs. Hotbox would respond, I tried to rid my mind of this vision. I didn't need another major clit flare up. Three hours ago my sleep creep with Kevon had gone unrequited. Nutless. That certainly was incentive for Mrs. Hotbox to act the fool.

"BITCH!! CHILL THE FUCK OUT!!!"

Try as I might, I couldn't clear my mind of the vision of Artie's dick. Was he hung like Mandingo? I thought not. It's impossible for a man to be that foine and have a twelve-inch dick, too. God doesn't work like that. In my mind I ratcheted Artie down to a nine-incher, like his friend Kevon.

Maybe he has a fattie? That's just as good. I could see that. A nine-inch fattie. Kevon is thick, but he doesn't have a fattie.

Mrs. Hotbox stirred.

I envisioned Artie moving up between my thighs with an erect nine-incher as thick as a Coke can. It had been sweating all day in his Calvin Klein boxers. I could smell it.

Mrs. Hotbox leapt.

Whenever I fantasized about sex (and I did this often), I always envisioned myself as a hymen guarding the gate to my vagina. I wasn't a hymen, per se. I was a woman, well, a girl. I stood guard at the entrance and demanded credentials from whichever tongue or penis that sought entry. Too small? Nope. Too skinny? Nope. Next!

In my fantasy/masturbatory world, if a penis was up to snuff, I granted entry. Then this smaller version of myself would watch as this penis, many times the size of my smaller self, eased its way into me. My smaller self would grasp this penis with outstretched arms, kissing its opening while wedging my body into the split just south of the urethra. It's a slippery perch, if you happen to attempt it. I shuddered there as the penis drove in and out of my snatch. This vision was often the animus behind my ardor.

So I'm sitting in the hairdresser's chair and I'm fantasizing about riding Artie's dick in and out of my own pussy. On one shoulder there's my better angel saying: "Shame!! This is not your husband!!" On the other shoulder there's a wicked angel saying: "Fug dat. It's a dick, ain't it? What dat got to do wit' Kevon?"

These two voices were always chattering at me each time Mrs. Hotbox had a flare up. Conscience, I suppose. Most of the time I already had that imaginary dick up in me. So the wicked angel won out. What was I gonna do? Say: "Pull out!"?

Fug dat.

So Hattie is washing my hair. She's got those nice fingernails. She's giving me a VERY nice scalp massage. Each time she goes to rinse I stop her.

"A little more, please. I noticed some flaking."

This was a lie. I was in the midst of a VERY nice orgasm, what with Artie's imaginary dick and Hattie's very real hands each doing their thing. Getting rinsed was analogous to asking Artie to "Pull out!!". And I didn't want that.

Finally I unleashed a telling moan. I gave a full body shiver. Hattie understood exactly what was going on. My mom thought I was in pain.

Hattie smirked at me. She shook her head, not wanting to be party to any lesbian engagement, even if only a scalp massage. I could see she thought I was imagining Kevon.

"Hold your horses, there, girlie. Save that for later tonite."

She moved deliberately to the rinse cycle. I slumped. My panties wettened. I sighed contentedly. Hattie shook her head. She remembered me as a snaggle-toothed little girl squirming in this same chair. And now I was having orgasms in her chair on the morning of my wedding. She smiled at me knowingly.

Having nutted, I fell asleep. The hours passed quickly. The next thing I knew, Hattie was shoving a mirror in my face, asking: "What do you think?"

Oh my god, was I fine? Yes. I was. Hattie nailed it. I had a twisty curl that fell down to my nostrils. She had my kitchen perfectly coifed along the edges of my forehead, ear to ear. It was straight at the top and curly along the sides and back. ANY amount of sweat or humidity or rain would nap it up. I AM a sistah, after all.

Hattie reminded me to move slowly the rest of the day.

"Whatever you do, DON'T git to sweatin'!!"

I already knew that much. She gave me that look again, as if to remind me not to go fantasizing about my wedding night, as I had earlier. I returned her look in kind. We were on the same page.

My mom covered my head with a scarf. She went to pay Hattie who, of course, refused acceptance.

"Chile, it's my wedding gift. I ain't got no money to give."

A rather expensive gift. This three-hour hairdo would normally cost about three bills.

I thanked Hattie profusely and slipped her a hundred dollar bill as a tip. She accepted it. I knew she would. My mom hustled me out to the car. We were on our way to the church.

"DON'T GIT TO SWEATIN'!!!" Hattie called after us.

Mom and I got to the church and started the process of getting me dressed for the ceremony. My aunties came drifting in. Even Teralynn and Jennie showed up well before Bea, Nicole and Lisa, probably because these latter three had "man" business to attend. My grandmother brought finger sandwiches, fresh fruit and Pepsi. She said we didn't want to be too full ahead of the event.

"Nothing worse than being lined up at the church and having to pee!" she said.

So we all primped and nibbled and gabbed and took our time getting dressed. I sent Lisa out to make sure that Kevon and his boys showed up. (All the women I knew worried whether their men would actually show up for the ceremony. Kevon was there, on time, which made me feel warm.) We positioned Bea at the door, you know, to make sure Kevon didn't accidentally pop in and see me in my dress ahead of time. That would have been disaster. He and his boys were getting dressed on the far side of the church. I doubt if they even knew where we were.

When I finally poured into my dress I have to admit, I looked lovely. I was FOINE. We all took group selfies and posed outrageously, exposing nipples and cameltoes. I had my girls shuffle my mom and aunties out of the room on some pretext. Then I eased out of my panties. I'd promised Kevon that I'd do the ceremony commando. I queefed before I took my panties off, then I had Teralynn set them aside as a surprise gift for my husband.

The wedding went off without a hitch. My worries about my wedding party's ineptitude proved unfounded. Everyone performed his or her steps to perfection. My dad walked me down the aisle and handed me over to Kevon. By the time my pastor got around to pronouncing us man and wife I was beyond ecstatic, ready to spend the rest of my life as Mrs. Kevon Simpson, for better or worse, for richer or poorer.

After taking wedding photos, we went back over to the Sheraton for the reception. That, too, went off without a hitch. The hotel catering service brought in food for the wedding party. We picked at the plates and had them sent back. Once the catering service finished cleaning the tables, my uncles hustled in big platters of home-cooked food. We had us a PAH-TAY, you hear me? The food was excellent. We had fried chicken and potato salad and lima beans and dirty rice and green beans and corn bread and honey baked ham and I don't know what all. It was better than the hotel could have provided, I can tell you that much. We even sneaked in coolers full of Heineken and hid them under the tables. We passed beer off as champagne.

The music was great. I danced my ass off. I tossed my garter; Teralynn caught it. Mike Simpson gave a moving toast to his brother and I. The wedding cake was both beautiful and delicious. When it came time for Kevon and I to go upstairs to the bridal suite, I was having so much fun that I almost didn't want to go. Then, of course, it occurred to me what I'd be missing: the start of my honeymoon. So Kevon and I graciously retreated upstairs, followed by the entire wedding party throwing rice.

We burst into our room and slammed the door behind us. Whereas we'd been laughing uproariously with our friends on the trip upstairs, the bridal suite took our breath away. The room itself was magnificent. King-sized bed. Corner room with floor-to-ceiling windows showing panoramic views of the city. There was a huge basket full of fresh fruits, meats and cheeses on the bed, along with numerous congratulatory cards strewn about. There was also a huge pile of wedding gifts in one corner. I was confused. We were flying out to Aruba first thing in the morning. There was another pile of wedding gifts downstairs at the reception. My mom, dad and my sister were in charge of making sure these gifts made it home. Where had these other gifts come from? Who was going to take them home?

I didn't have time to consider this problem. Kevon swept me up. Before I knew it, his tongue was in my throat. For some reason I'd always felt in charge of our sexual relations. I initiated things. I dictated pace. Usually, I mean.

That now changed.

Kevon snatched up the train of my wedding dress to expose my naked pussy. Gruffly, he reached behind to jab his middle finger into my ass, all the way up to the knuckle. Using his other hand he yanked my head sideways to continue roughly kissing me. His mouth tasted like...man. I was a little dizzy. Visions of my other lovers arose in my mind, only to dissipate beneath the furor of my husband's masculine assault.

He turned me around, bunching up all the material from my wedding dress into my back. I don't know when he found the time to whip it out, but in the next instant his penis was budging its way down my ass crack, pressing for hole. I bent over to give him a better aim. Rather, he pushed me over with a strong forearm. I could feel the knob of his steely cock sliding down along my taint then up between my labia. Usually this version of Kevon's cock reared its head after several sessions of kissy-faced lovey-dovey on the couch. By then his cock was mostly drained, needing just one more nut to put it over the top. This was the cock I loved most. It was strong and virile. This cock didn't ask whether I'd cum or not. It didn't care. This cock only cared about its own urgent needs. I bent over further and happily let it punch its way into my pussy.

This, then, was my first sexual experience as a married woman. Kevon gripped me like a Great Dane. Once properly inserted he fired away with an endless series of jackhammer thrusts that rocked my head back and forth. I couldn't see his face, but I could feel his mania, and knew his face to be the face of a madman who'd waited patiently for our wedding night to reveal himself. I was a little afraid but mostly excited to be on the receiving end of his careless abandon. The fear kept me from cumming. The excitement kept at the verge of capitulation. Any woman can tell you that the verge of the razor blade is the best part of the fuck. I was right there and holding.

Finally the razor blade sliced me in half from my pussy upward. I came, shrieking mindless epithets of worship and degeneracy. The dick in my pussy continued to churn, heedless of my surrender. We did not cum in tandem.

Kevon fuck-walked me over to the bed. He pushed me down upon it, then yanked my hips up, forcing me to draw my knees under me for support. By now my ass cheeks were sloppy wet--not with his cum, but mine. Standing behind me, Kevon began to punish me for sins I'd never confessed. I could feel my pussy burning white hot from his piston-like thrusts. Only the cooling salve of his jism could cool her. Kevon didn't seem to be of a mind to offer up the needed lubrication. He reared back and slammed his dick into regions only visited by better endowed men. It was as if he knew of my adulterous permutations. I cried out for mercy. None was forthcoming. I came again and hoped that he would slow, if only to enjoy the sweet clasp of my trembling vagina. He did not. I came again, this time unwittingly.

He seemed, at last, to realize that my pussy was fucked out, burned beyond recognition. The steam blasting his testicles gave him a hint as to her disability. He pulled out. I was so grateful...until...I felt his cockhead widening my sphincter. He used his thumbs to pull my ass cheeks apart.

Normally, in describing anal sex, I use the phrase "he eased into me". On this night Kevon was not easing into anything. He rammed his cock up my butt. Oooooomph!! If I was shrieking before, now I was outright hollering. This was painful. I tried to pull away. How was Kevon withholding his essence? There'd been enough friction down there to sap a hundred dicks of a hundred nuts. My husband was oblivious. His stamina in the face of the best pussy I had to offer seemed otherworldly. And now my rectum was in play--the second third of my sexual arms package.

Every nerve in my body was afire. My toes trembled. Heat lightning crackled behind my eyelids. And let's not talk about my kitchen. My three hundred dollar hairdo, she of the wispy edges and the dainty side curls, was peasey full of naps. Huge droplets of sweat trickled down my forehead to congeal at the tip of my nose, from there to wicker out into space. A wet spot widened on the bedspread before me. It was not jizz.

Kevon was still pounding away behind me. His big hands gripped my buttocks as if they were basketballs. I could hear him grunting with fury. Did he know of my infidelity? If so, who'd told him? I wanted to say:

"This is YOUR pussy, baby!! Those other guys are just...GUYS!!"

But maybe he didn't know. And if I told him, maybe I'd be ratting myself out.

I drew a deep breath. Where had this twenty-four carat, eighteen-wheel fuck machine come from? Kevon was an ANIMAL. His whole being seemed focused on driving his dick into every available hole. I liked it, but DAMN!! Give a bitch a break, you know? He'd slowed by now. Each thrust consisted of a power bomb insertion followed by a slow, deliberate withdrawal and often, on my part, an embarrassingly loud release of gas. How could I not? He had my sphincter pressed wide open. Upon insertion he was driving air into my bowels. And when he withdrew that air had to escape someplace, in this case out the same hole it had entered. Kevon didn't seem to mind.

This was a first for me. Cynthia Preston, er, Simpson is not a farter. On those occasions where I had to pass gas, I got up and left the room. No test farts for me! I couldn't take that risk, especially if people were around. Unfortunately, there would be no leaving the room today. I was getting fucked for the first time as a married woman. And if I farted during the fuck, oh well.

You know what happened next, of course. This nigga hurls me over. His dick is in my face. He wants some SKULL. I'm sorry, baby. I'm not sucking any "farted on" dick. I'm just not doing it. And the nyugga had the nerve to be perplexed about my attitude! He looks at me, all like, "WTF!!" It's not like we hadn't gone ass-to-mouth before. We had. But we hadn't ever gone ass-to-mouth after threescore rocket farts. By my account his dick was crispy with flatus. I had to draw the line somewhere. I rolled onto my back and opened my legs.

"You can have some more pussy. You can't have any skull. Not without washing."

I mean, if he would have washed his dick in my pussy, I would have sucked it. What the fuck, right? Straight from the source? No way.

So what happened? This nigga doesn't take 'no' for an answer. He aims his dick at my mouth, I give him some cheek. He aims his dick again, he gets the other cheek. He aims his dick a third time and comes away with some nostril.

Girls? You've been there. Every one of us has.

My husband, who for the entirety of our engagement had been so amenable to my wants and needs, now grabs my head with both hands and lines his dick up at my mouth. By his account I was going to suck that dick and complete the trilogy. Obviously somebody had been talking to him.

I closed my eyes tightly and held my breath. Maybe this wasn't going to be a full skull fuck. Maybe if I gave him some half-ass head he'd retreat to a more appropriate orifice. You remember Bernie Mac (with his big mouth) ratted out this top-secret female strategy in his Kings of Comedy routine.

"She gotta learn! She gotta learn!!"

Well, Bernie, I already knew how to suck dick. I was good at it. If I was reluctant to slob a knob, that knob had sump'n wrong wid it. Ain't no flies on ME.

I opened my mouth just the littlest bit. My teeth were clamped shut. I ended up with a chipmunk cheek full of dick. Kevon let me know that this was not good enough. One side of his cock was sluicing cheek. The other side was scrubbing molars. Kevon wanted, no demanded, some tonsil.

I didn't know this at the time, but I know it now. A lot of times, if you hold your breath, you can't taste what's in your mouth. Your sense of smell is stronger than your sense of taste.

So I'm holding my breath. With this advantage, I eased Kevon's "farted on" dick into my mouth. I couldn't taste a thing! I drew a tentative whiff, you know, the way you'd do with a test fart. It wasn't too bad, certainly not nearly as crusty stank as I'd expected.

So I blew him. What the fuck. He's my husband. I completed his trilogy.

Don't you know this nyugga completed another full trilogy--ass, pussy, gullet--before he came? He completed another full trilogy after that!!

I began to suspect a rat. This son-of-a-gun fucked me ragged IN MY WEDDING DRESS!! Any other time Kevon would have busted his nuts WAY before he completed the first circuit. He would've fallen asleep with a dick as dead as a four-day-old donut.

He fell asleep after the third full trilogy. I pushed him from atop me and worked my way out of my wedding dress. I noted all the cum stains with a grim frown. (This dress cost me five grand!!!)