BitchBoy

I sit at my local spot at the café; sipping my mocha and watching the time pass me by in colors. It won't be long before the closing time hits and I'll be forced to leave my chair and find another spot to brood and grumble.

I haven't received the financial aid that was promised me in weeks. I can honestly say, as a black woman of pride, I need that money. With bills due, my job cutting back on hours, and laundry piling up, I'm stressing. My roommate Bernice is sweet enough to let me slide on the rent last month, but I can tell she wasn't too happy with me living with her if I'm not carrying my weight in finances.

I spent 50% of my cash on food, 25% on gas, 20% on water and the other 5% on my daily caffeine fix here at this coffee shop.

I blame Fuckboy.

Fuckboy was an old classmate of mine that I had a thing for since Sophomore Year. He's smart, goal-oriented and driven, the object of my affections. The only problem: he left before I could ask him out on a date. He's off at some fancy, all-white college that is miles away. He used to work here; I would buy mochas just to see his face, hear that deep voice that makes my panties wet. He's gone, but I'm still coming here.

Why?

Because of his brother.

His brother is a few years younger than us; fresh out of high school and taking his brother's place. It wouldn't bother me if he didn't look so much like him; he's like Fuckboy's carbon copy. Same build, same voice, same facial structure, same piercing green eyes that renders me stupid. He's even tall like him; towering over me whenever I ask for my usual. He smells like coffee, of subtle cologne and aftershave.

He even smells like him.

Unfortunately, his attitude and personality ruins any feelings of attraction.

He's rude, vain, and ignorant; he seems to have it out for me whenever I walk in. Be it his condescending tone, or the way he acts like I'm some trash that he doesn't want to touch when I hand him my money, he doesn't like me and he makes it clear when no one's around. He comments on my size, my dreadlocks, even the way I smelled when his coworkers weren't looking. In return I remind him of his own shortcomings and if I didn't get my respect he'll be dealing with my fists. He gave in every time, but a part of me felt that was the reaction he was looking for, like he was getting a kick out of seeing me angry.

It's weird; having a blatantly rude barista crack jokes about me, yet he takes extra care in how he prepares my mocha. He knows exactly what I like and he makes it down to a science. Perhaps that's why I'm always coming back. For Fuckboy 2.0, he can make the hell out of some coffee.

"Closing time, Shaniqua," His voice brings me back to reality. He knows good and well my name isn't Shaniqua; It's Claire. Claire, the most plain and Caucasian of names to give to a black girl growing up in the ghetto.

Oh, the irony.

Giving him my infamous death glare, I drank the last of my coffee and left, taking care to leave my trash for him to clean.

I made it home, only to find Bernice gone and a half-scribbled note on the fridge.

Claire,

Staying with Jonathan for a few weeks in Cancun. Will call to check in. Take good care of the apartment while I'm gone.

XOXO,Bernice.

Ripping the note off the fridge, I opened its door looking for a nice mid-afternoon snack to compliment my coffee and became gravely disappointed. Rotten orange, expired milk, wilting celery and a half-eaten tub off cottage cheese is all that remained; I guess Bernice forgot to stock up on groceries.

I made my way into my room, kicking off my shoes and undressing. There's a pervert that has a window across from my room; he likes to jack off while watching me undress. It may sound disgusting, but I find it kind of flattering; a guy finds me so sexy he thinks about me while touching himself! Isn't that hot?

I looked out my window and to my disappointment, he isn't there.

I close my blinds and dig through my dresser for my special prize.

I'm feeling pretty horny; the thought of having the apartment to myself for a few weeks has some perks. Maybe I could schedule a circle jerk tomorrow; I've been having a taste for the bukkake scene after I stumbled upon a few good vids surfing the net.

I close my eyes, my hand rubbing against my clit.

Before anything good can happen, my phone buzzed.

Sighing with frustration, I dug through my purse and fished out my phone.

"5296 Flamingo Lane Avenue, Apt. 57. 5:30. Don't be late."

Who text me this?

The author is under an unknown phone number, making me worried and agitated. I stared at my phone, questioning whether or not to ignore this text. It could be meant for someone else. It happens all the time.

Another message popped up.

"Now, Claire."

Claire?

I'm a little spooked. But then again, there are millions of Claire's in America, no need to be worried. Maybe it's a friend of mine who wanted to spook me.

My phone began to ring. It's the unknown caller.

"Hello?"

"5296 Flamingo Lane Avenue, Apt. 57. 5:30. Don't. Be. Late." A deep and strangely familiar voice made me jump.

I should call the police, I should hang up right now, but something stops me from doing anything.

Instead, I grab my keys and head out to the car.

I found the location within the hour; 5:15 at the moment. The apartment complex is run-down and on the seedy side of town, with questionable patrons and a landlady who couldn't give two fucks. My apartment looks like the fucking Marriott in comparison. I ask her where apartment 57 is and she points to the other side of the complex, in section X. Thanking her, I walk over, trot up the steps and knock on the door.

Mace in my coat pocket and anticipation welling in my gut, the door swings open and I can only hold back a scream.

It's Fuckboy's brother.

"Well, I'm surprised you made it. I'm impressed." He smirks at me, grabs my hand, guides me into the apartment and shuts the door behind me.

The shock is replaced with awe as I get a good look at his apartment: Plush orange furniture, light blue walls with photos of family and friends, and some paintings of women. As I walk in more, I notice his living room has a flat-screen TV stacked on top of a state-of-the-art surround system. His kitchen is neat and clean; placards of prayer and cliché family quotes litter the walls, giving it a homey feel. The theme of this place seems like a beach-house getaway for bachelors, with tribal wall art and tiki statues that hang on the walls. The surfboards posted by the door and the straw lights give it an added touch. Maybe he's a surfer...?

"I know you have some questions, and I'm willing to answer."

I turn to face him.

"How did you get my number?"

"You left your phone number on one of the receipts. Free Latte Wednesday, remember?"

"Why did you decide to call me?"

"I have a proposition for you."

"Are you sure it's the wisest to bring a stranger to your apartment? How do you know I'm not dangerous?"

"I watched you long enough. I know you carry a switchblade in your back pocket. I also know you're a pretty slow reactor. I could grab your hand before it touches the handle and pin you to the floor before you could even blink."

Those green eyes flicker to meet me, making my body tingle. Quite the turn-on.

He walks closer to me, pressing his body to mine. My back hits the front door, leaving me unable to move. We're so close; I could see his eyes, feel his breath ghost over my lips. Smell that cologne that drives me crazy. He cocks his head and leans in to me, his lips caressing my ear.

"Do you want to hear my proposition?" He asks, so polite and sweet. That bass in his voice reminds me of honey with a dash of Jack; it goes down easy and I want more.

"What's the proposition?"

"What turns you on?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Claire." His long fingers grab the hem of my shirt and yank it up. He then glides his hand over my body, tracing my stretch-marks, pinching the rolls of fat on my stomach, until he reaches my bra.

"I'm going to ask you again," His voice, I can't even imagine it could get deeper, but it does, turning me on even more. I began breathing faster, my body on pins and needles as my pussy prickles with need.

"I'm...I'm turned on by...ah...." His lips kiss my neck.

"Come on, I don't have all day..."

"Filthy talk, hair pulling, a dominant and aggressive nature..." His hand slides down to grab me through my panties.

"Is that all?"

"I can't think of anything at the moment..."

"Hmm."

The touches stop. He withdraws his hands from me and steps back, admiring his handiwork.

Me, panting, inner thighs slick from how wet I'm getting, biting my lips to bite back moans.

He chuckles.

"I have a job for you."

"A job?"

I almost laugh, but he looks serious so I shut up.

"Yes, a job. I'll pay you 450 a week, if you're willing to take the job."

"What is it?"

"I want you to be my dominatrix."

A...Dominatrix?

Am I hearing right?

"You're...you're not serious, are you?"

"A man is as serious as his word. I am dead serious. I want you to be my dominatrix."

"I'm not a whore, asshole. If you want to hire someone to stomp your balls for kicks, find one on the corner. I should have someone arrest you for solicitation of prostitutes."

I grab the door handle, and suddenly I'm pinned to the door. I'm face to face with Fuckboy's brother, his eyes burning into me.

"I don't want you to be a whore, Claire. I want you to be my Dom. Look, I know and you know that you need this money. Rent is due, you got bills to pay, and you might want some spending money to do whatever you wish, right?"

"You're treating me like I'm so desperate to degrade myself like that."

"It's not degrading, Claire. A job is a job, no matter how society thumbs its nose at it. Look, no one knows what goes on but you and me. As far as anyone knows, you're not a whore. You're a hardworking citizen that does a service."

"Why...why me?"

"Because we're connected, Claire; we attract each other. Don't you feel it? That attraction, that sexual energy that is so strong between us it's undeniable. Aren't you horny right now? Aren't your panties wet? Don't you lie because I felt them. You want this, Claire. You need this."

His hand rips my panties to the side and rubs at my lips in slow vertical strokes. His fingers dip to tickle my clit and then slides into me.

"Tell me you want this."

My head hits the door, my breath catching in my throat. His fingers crook and stroke, hitting that spot that brings me over the edge. He repeats the motion slowly, picking up the pace. I'm going to cum, oh please let me cum.

"Tell me you want this." He repeats.

"I want this," I caved.

"Louder."

"I want this."

"Louder." Those fingers move faster, making my legs shake.

"I want this," my voice whines.

"Do you want to cum for me?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to soak my fingers in your juices, whore?"

"Yes, please."

I'm desperate for release; he's doing all the right moves, saying all the right things, and he's making me beg for more. I'm so close to cumming, but I know he won't let me until I give him what he wants. His thumb circles my clit and I'm ready to give up.

"I want to cum," I cry.

"Please, stop torturing me."

"Tell me you want this, tell me you need this and I'll let you cum."

"I want this, I need this, I need this now!"

"How much?"

His fingers slow to an aching pace, ghosting over my G-spot oh so soft. Tears are now streaming down my face. I'm so close, I was so close.

"A lot," I choke out, "I want this a lot. Please, please, please let me cum."

That seemed to have did the trick; his fingers move faster, hitting the right spots. I'm back on that edge, ready to jump over the threshold.

"Cum," He snarls in my ear, "cum like the fucking whore you are."

I scream my release, my pussy clenching his fingers in a vice grip. He pumps them slowly before sliding them out of me. He holds them up for view and pops them into his mouth, sucking them dry.

"So," he crouches down and spreads my thick thighs apart. His breath tickles my clit while he looks at me.

"Do you want the job?"