Coming from a life of drugs, money, and women, Michael "Meechie" Jackson had the world in the palm of his hands. He had power and his business, which he built from the ground up, morphed him into one of the most well-known drug lords in the city.
I...
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Their bodies were tangled in Persian red sheets moving like a seiche. Missionary was the position that he was penetrating her. Just above them on the ceiling was a mirror showing their reflection that gave their intimacy a more erotic feeling. He sucked the flesh of her neck where he left his mark, and with her short acrylics she rewarded his skin with long red markings on his back. He dug deeper and deeper into her. Their moans filled the silence in the darkness of the room with the only light coming from the full moon sitting perfectly in the starry night sky through the balcony window.
Positions were switched to her being on top. She was given a smack on the left asscheek and then another on the right as she rode him good as he told her she was. It was so enticing the way he coached her, telling her what pace to go, how to move her lower body, and to keep eye contact. He would grope her busty mounds of flesh and toy with her erect nipples. One hand would grab her neck while the other her waist. She picked up the pace and started bouncing, creating those heavenly sounds of skin coming in contact harshly. It was repetitive and loud; she was giving them both the ride of their lives.
His words of affirmation weren't poetic or something out of an erotica but more urbanized—hood. He loved like a hood nigga and fucked like one too. It had her hooked like a drug fiend. He would say things such as "I fuckin' love you", "you look so pretty taking my dick like this", "you sexy as fuck", "I love the way you ride Daddy's dick" and "cum for Daddy". And when she came for him, he praised her and told her how much of a good girl she was.
Positions were switched again with her face down and ass up. She had the most define arch as he thrusted his hips. His hands gripped her waist to make sure she kept the arch in her back because the view alone was enough to make him spill his seed inside and impregnate her again. He was concentrated moving in and out at a steady rate. She took charge by fucking him back. She always knew how to fuck him back and that in itself earned several slaps on the ass and more words of affirmation. He would just remain still for half a minute before matching her movements again.
Positions were switched for what would end up being the final time. Missionary was the position but with her legs spread wider than the first time. He moved his lower body like a professional dancer—rolling and wining his hips. With his face in the crook of her neck and feeling the vibrations of his grunts, she opened her eyes and sighed as she did so. Who she saw staring back at her made her eyes close and then reopen them. In the reflection was her body and on her left hand that stroked the back of his neck were her wedding rings. The visage that was strikingly pulchritudinous wasn't her, though. The way it contorted into many love faces by letting her know her husband was giving it to her so good was not her.
The unknown woman just stared at her, biting her lower lip and opened her mouth soundlessly everytime her husband dug deeper inside her. Then she smiled. That smile wasn't genuine. It was far from it. The more she stared, the more maniacal it appeared like she had the upper hand. In fact, she did because there was nothing that could be done about her husband fucking another woman. And as she tried to scream and reach out to them, black hands that she hadn't noticed there all this time kept her body attached to the mirror and tortured her with the imagery that brought her to instant tears.
