Want You

Thick'em's: Part 8

By the next day, I was ready for her. There was no need for the simple pleasantries, an introduction or the usual inquiries I asked. I sat comfortably on the couch, as she asked her questions. I answered with ease and lack of any given thought. My mouth moved without me knowing it and if I did notice, I never hestitated to say what was on my mind.

". . . You like tits?" Deja asked, "Or booty?" Her dark eyes watching me.

I crossed my legs, allowing the hem of my skirt to run up along my thighs. I watched her eye's slowly flutter down to my exposed and delicatible limbs. It was the second time she had done that. Her tongue sliding in and out the corner of her mouth. It better had have. I shaved away every hair I could find and soaked myself in scented lotion and mineral oil for an hour. I spent another hour getting my hair dyed, trimmed and styled at the hairdresser this morning and the last thirty minutes picking a skirt that was classy but screamed "fuck me". In other words, she could stare all she wanted. "I prefer breasts."

She nodded, licking her glossy lips. She leaned back in her chair, her red and white baseball jersey expanding. It was unbuttoned all the way down, exposing a fine line of her hersey chocolate skin. I spotted her white lace bra peeking out from underneath.

"So what about you?" I suddenly asked. "You um got a preference?"

Deja smiled slyly. "Why you wanna know?"

I bit the inside of my cheek. "Just curious," I said, shrugging.

Deja looked at me without saying anything. She grabbed her Gucci bag from off the floor and unzipped it. " Curious about what?"

I shrugged, "I don't know . . . about you and . . . what you like, I guess."

"You think I'm gay or something?" she asked. She frowned as she looked to me.

"Oh, no," I said, shaking my head. "I-I don't think that at all, I mean, a lot of girls wear guy clothes. It's the style now, right? Yeah, I totally dig it. I mean, I'm not saying I would wear it but you-you pull it off, great. But yeah, I didn't think you were that way. I'm sure you like guys."

Deja's frown slowly turned into a smirk. "Yeah, I do." She dug into her Gucci bag and pulled out a bottle of liquor, it was branded with the name Hennessy. She unscrewed the cork from the bottle before putting it to her lips.

I gazed at her in awe, I had never seen a girl drink it straight from the bottle like that. "Cool."

She took the bottle away and nodded. I nodded in return and for a while it seemed like we were just nodding with each other.

I eventually gained up the courage to ask, "So um which um-which one's do you prefer better. Small or . . ."

"I like big dicks," she said, cockily. The smirk now gravitated to her eyes.

"Really?" I asked. I was half hopeful but feeling more and more defeated.

"Yeah, like'em big hairy, sweaty mothafuckers, you know?" she said. "The kind that you know will break yo' ass in half."

"Oh, you like that? Huh?" I asked, a little surprised and yet, disgusted.

Deja nodded, grinning. "Hell yeah. That's a real nigga dick . . . It be all slick and shit-he be feeding me and I slurp that shit up like it's breakfast time," she said, bluntly. She moaned, licking her lips.

I couldn't say anything, I only gulped.

She looked at me, holding the bottle of Hennessy between her legs. Then she laughed and leaned forward before saying, "You know I'm messin' wit you right?"