"The Kat Trap...spellbounding and page-turning urban erotica with a plot that keeps you lusting on the edge of your seat." -- Risque, Red Light Special
"Cairo has crafted a wicked web of words in his sexually charged, drama-filled debut." -- Nakea S. Murray, "3 Chicks on Lit" radio show
A sexy, raw debut novel about the life of a young murderess who lures her victims to their own deaths by seducing them.
Ghetto-born and street-raised, Katrina -- or Kat for short, is a self-proclaimed hood goddess. With her in-your-face razor-sharp attitude, alluring charm, and exotic beauty, Katrina is vivacious, vicious, and unsuspectingly dangerous. Detached from her emotions, she has no time for regrets. The product of a neglectful mother and an incarcerated father, Katrina is willing to do whatever it takes to climb -- or kill -- her way out of the hood.
Calculated and cunning, Katrina already has two bodies on her hands by the ripe age of twenty. When a mysterious man invites her to join his multi-million dollar "work-for-hire" network of professional assassins, it becomes the opportunity of a lifetime. The first female killer on his team, she travels all over the United States and fulfills the bloody requests of her every client. With each murder, Katrina feels more and more powerful -- killing turns out to be an addictive aphrodisiac for her and the rush of violence is the only thing that satisfies her insatiable libido. Before killing each victim, Katrina tempts them with her irresistible, delectable charms -- and not one of them can resist.
Disturbingly witty and devilishly enticing, The Kat Trap is an edgy, fast-paced urban drama with fascinating psychological elements that demonstrate how anger and bitterness can perpetuate self-destructive behaviors. Readers will be enthralled by Kat's deliciously criminal world of money and glamour, shocked by her cutthroat ambition and ruthlessness, and accosted by her physical and sexual prowess.
The Kat Trap
They say the closest ones to ya are the same ones who’ll sneak up behind ya and stick the knife through ya. Sleepin’ on me is your biggest mistake. Close ya eyes, and ya’ll find ya’self in a river of blood. One for the money, one for the nut, one bullet to the skull . . . nigga, what?!
My name is Katrina, Kat for short. Voluptuous, vivacious, and vicious—at five-feet-eight, a buck-twenty-five, I’m that bitch. Be clear. Fine, fly, and fabulous with a wicked brain game and a fat, wet, deep pussy so good it makes a nigga shake the minute I wrap my walls around his dick. I’m that chick with the small waist and the Hottentot Venus ass: big, round, and juicy. The kinda ass that makes a nigga’s jaw drop and his neck snap every time I walk past. Niggas love it when I make my bootie bounce, shake, and clap for ’em. With my cinnamon skin, shoulder-length hair, thick lashes wrapped around chinky eyes, I am a hood goddess. I’m that chick the bitches bow down to, and niggas worship. I was born and bred in Brooklyn, a product of one of the most notorious housing projects known for drugs and murders. If you’re an uninvited or unwanted guest, beware. You might get in, but you comin’ out either slashed up, beat down, or bodied.
I’ma keep it real cute for ya. Ain’t shit sweet ’bout life on the compound—the hood, the concrete jungle. It’s ruthless. Game recognizes game. And ya either learn to play hard or get played. Ya either eat or be eaten. It’s that simple. Make no mistake: The hood don’t give a fuck ’bout you or the next chick. And it definitely ain’t beat for what the next nigga’s into. You either handle ya business or get handled. Ain’t no way ’round it. I ain’t tryna make excuses. It is what it is. I learned how to handle mine without sellin’ my ass, or suckin’ a string of dicks in alleyways or up on somebody’s rooftop. I studied the game, watched its playas, and mastered the rules without stuntin’ on the next bitch, or hustlin’ a nigga off his grip. I ain’t have to claw or scheme my way up to nobody’s top. I’m from Brooklyn, baby! I kicked open the muhfuckin’ door of opportunity, smashed out its windows, and fuckin’ snatched my spot ’cause I’m that bitch.
So, if ya lookin’ to hear me spit some whack-ass story ’bout some fast-assed little ho from the hood stretched out on a pissy mattress in shit-stained panties, eating dry-ass cereal out of a dirty-assed plastic bowl watching cartoons on a busted-ass black-and- white TV while counting roaches, then you got the wrong one. If ya wanna hear ’bout a bitch goin’ hungry ’cause her moms sold her food stamps to get high, nope . . . not gonna get it. If ya lookin’ to hear ’bout some young chick who got her ass beat with extension cords, razor straps, and switches because she was too hot in the ass, then ya might as well step now, ’cause that ain’t what I’m here to serve ya. Yeah, we had roaches, okay . . . who didn’t? But I never got my ass beat, always had food to eat, and I ain’t never laid around on no pissy-assed mattress.
Uh, yeah, a bitch was born poor. Yeah, my moms was clockin’ welfare, and? Her ass still worked, though. And she gave me what she thought I needed, which—outside of food and a roof over my head—was close to nothin’. Fuck what I wanted. No, she wasn’t on crack or dope or a fuckin’ drunk. Maybe she shoulda been. But I can’t give ya no fucked-up tales of watchin’ her smoke up, shoot up, or snort up. And I can’t tell ya jack ’bout no tricks or johns runnin’ up in her pussy all hours of the day and night. Sellin’ her ass wasn’t her thing. Yeah, she went through men like water, and moved one in after the other . . . okay, and? That’s her story, not mine. She did her thing, and I learned to do mine.
Yeah, I knew . . . uh, I mean, know, who the fuck my father was/is, so? It ain’t like the nigga ever did anything for me. Besides hustlin’ and robbin’ niggas, the only good thing he ever did was donate his nut to my moms, a half-Spanish, half-black chick who spit me outta her hairy pussy when she was sixteen. Other than that, goin’ in and out of prison and breakin’ my mom’s heart was the only thing his sorry ass was good for. Be clear. I ain’t hatin’ on dude. He was a street nigga who tried to get in where he fit in. From breakin’ into cars to burglaries to drug dealin’ to numerous parole violations to runnin’ with known felons to fuckin’ any unsuspectin’ trick willin’ to spread open her legs and her wallet, he was a rebel, down for whateva.
The hood raised him. Bitches praised him. And the streets and pussy were what turned their backs on him when his black ass got popped fifteen years ago. Now he’s on lock for another ten years for an aggravated assault he didn’t commit, and drug charges for shit that wasn’t his. But the nigga ain’t a snitch. Turnin’ state’s evidence on his niggas was outta the question. That’s the code he lived by, and one he’d proudly die by. That’s how the real niggas get down. So fuck what ya heard ’bout me needin’ him. A bitch can’t miss what she never had! Other than sharin’ the same DNA, the only thing dude and I will ever have in common is our love for the benjamins. Believe that!
So, you wanna know what’s really good with a bitch like me? Then I’ll tell ya. I’ma give it to ya straight, no chaser—as real and as raw as it gets. I fuck for sport. But I murder for business. And because most muhfuckas are so driven by lust and the desire for good pussy and a slow, wet dick suck, it doesn’t take much for me to lure ’em into their own death traps. My mission is simple: Wet a nigga’s dick, then put a bullet in his skull, or in his chest, just before he cracks his nut. That’s right. Send his ass to his grave with his eyes rolled up in his head and a smile on his face before he ever knows what hit his ass.
Make no mistake. This shit ain’t ’bout love. It ain’t ’bout revenge. And it surely ain’t personal. In this business, there’s no time for compassion or sympathy. And there’s no room for regret. It’s ’bout clockin’ that paper. And a bitch like me gets paid by the body. Welcome to the Kat trap, muhfuckas . . . it’s ’bout to get poppin’!
“Lay back, nigga, and let me wet your dick with my pussy,” I said, mountin’ my target for the night, then slammin’ my hot, wet snatch down on his long, black cock. I leaned forward, brushin’ my perfectly rounded titties with their Hershey kiss nipples against his lips as I galloped up and down on his brick-hard dick, positionin’ myself so that the shaft of his pole stroked my clit while I rode him down into the hotel mattress. I slowly lifted up, used my pussy muscles to milk the head of his dick, then slammed back down. I repeated it. Up. Down. Up. Down. Bounced and twirled my hips, buryin’ e’ery thick inch of him deep inside me until I had the nigga beggin’ me, until I had him practically slurrin’ his words.
“You like this wet pussy, nigga? You like this pussy grabbin’ ya dick?”
“Uh . . . uh . . . Oh, fuck yeah! Oh, shit! Ride that dick, baby.”
I glanced over at the digital clock on the oak wood nightstand. It read 11:42. I had been fuckin’ dude for almost forty minutes and was determined to cum for the third time before I sealed his fate. Murder made me no never mind. I didn’t ask no questions, didn’t want no answers. The less I knew, the better. The only thing I needed to know was: when, where, and who.
Easy cum, easy go, I thought as I took in my target’s face. The nigga had the nerve to be fuckin’ fine. Deep, dark chocolate-coated, broad-shouldered nigga with waves that spun so deep a bitch could get seasick just starin’ at ’em. His eyes were slits of lust, his face slick with sweat as he thrust upward, matchin’ my rhythm stroke for stroke, stabbin’ my pussy, stokin’ the fire that ignited inside me. Damn! And the nigga had some good dick. Too bad that in another few minutes it’d be a wrap for his ass. I didn’t give a fuck. Wasn’t shit I could do about it, even if I wanted to. His time on this earth was limited. The motherfucka was on borrowed time, and didn’t even know it. Oh, well.
The clock ticked in my head. His life meant nothing to me. I didn’t give a fuck whether or not he had a wife and kids, and I definitely didn’t give a fuck how his family’s world would be after tonight. The only thing I cared about was gettin’ my fuck on, bustin’ a nut, and puttin’ this snitch-ass nigga outta his misery. My pussy got hotter and wetter just thinkin’ about my next move. “You ready to nut for me, big daddy?” I asked, clampin’ my pussy around his throbbin’ dick.
“Damn, ma, you got some killa pussy. Ah . . . uh. Shit. This pussy is mad tight. Yeah, baby. Just like that. Got my dick wetta than a muhfucka,” he said in between his moans, grunts, and groans.
If you only knew, I thought, smilin’. “That’s right, make my pussy cum, nigga,” I whispered into his left ear. “Fuck this pussy. Give me that nut, daddy. Yeah, nigga, just like that . . . fuck this pussy . . . Mmmm, give me that nut.” The lower I spoke, the harder he jabbed his dick in me.
“Oh, yes,” I moaned. I sucked on his ear lobe, then stuck the tip of my tongue into his ear.
“Oooh, daddy, this dick feels so good. You ready to give me that hot nut?”
“Yeah, baby, I’m ’bout to spit. Oh, shit. Damn, girl.”
I cut my eyes over at the clock again. 11:52. I quickly gazed down at the unsuspectin’ victim beneath me. He was ‘bout to bust his dick milk. I smiled. And in one swift move, I reached up under the pillow and pulled out my shiny black silencer gun.
“Oh, shit! Oh, shit! I’m cuuuuming, baaa—“ Theessrrpp! Before he could finish, before he could get his nut off, I shot him dead center in his forehead. Mission complete, I thought, pullin’ myself up off this dead nigga’s still stiff dick.
I stared at his lifeless body, silently admired his perfectly chiseled abs and his big, black dick, then yanked off the condom and dropped it into a Ziploc baggie. I licked my lips, watchin’ his nut spurt and run outta the tip of his dick. I shook off the thought of lickin’ it up from ’round his big, hairy balls, diggin’ into my Gucci satchel and pullin’ out a bottle of rubbin’ alcohol and a pack of wipes. I started wipin’ him down. Leavin’ a trail of clues that could potentially lead back to me was not an option. I was a stickler for details and there was no room for bein’ sloppy, which is why I always did my dirt solo.
When I finished wipin’ all the evidence off the corpse sprawled out in the middle of the bed with his dick slick from his own juices, I pulled the sheets from underneath him, rolled them up in a tight ball, then stuffed them in a bag. I glanced at the nigga lyin’ on the bare mattress one last time before picking the spread up from off the floor then tossin’ it over his body. I had seen enough, and needed to get the hell outta there. I had about twenty minutes before the “clean-up” crew came through to dispose of the body, or do whatever the fuck else it is they did. I just knew I wasn’t trustin’ no niggas I didn’t know or hadn’t seen before to make sure my fingaprints and pussy juice wasn’t still lingerin’ all over the place.
I went into the bathroom, wiped my soakin’ wet pussy with some tissue, then used several baby wipes to give myself a whore bath. When I was done, I quickly dressed, slipped on my white gloves, then slid my feet into my Jimmy Choo mules. I straightened my burgundy wig, then applied a fresh coat of burgundy-wine lipstick to my full, soft, made-for-dick-suckin’ lips. Satisfied that everything was dusted off and in place, I shut off the bathroom light, then strutted toward the door. On my way out, I caught my reflection in the mirror and almost didn’t like what I saw starin’ back at me: the slanted, hazel eyes of a cold-blooded killa. I shook the image from my mind, and pressed out the door and toward the elevators.
Growin’ up, a bitch had dreams. I dreamed dreams of being rich. And baggin’ a
fine-ass hood nigga with a big black dick and fat pockets who would love me, and fuck me, and get me far the fuck away from the roaches that crawled all over the walls and from all the dirty dishes that overflowed in the sink ’cause my moms was too motherfuckin’ stressed ’bout life and no-good muhfuckas to ever give a fuck ‘bout what I was doin’. I dreamed dreams of being loved and wanted and needed ’cause a bitch was special. But then I woke the fuck up and realized that dreams ain’t real, and that love won’t always love you back, and that the only way to keep the dirty-ass nigga with his nasty-ass fingers and grimy ass hands off ya ass and titties, the only way to keep the duck-ass nigga from smackin’ ya moms up, was to stretch his ass.
Yeah, a bitch had dreams. Being a murderer was never one of ‘em. But it quickly became my reality the night I sucked a young nigga on the come up’s dick and gave him some pussy as payment for a gun to kill my mother’s sorry-ass nigga because I was tired of him creepin’ into my room, suckin’ on my titties, and eatin’ my pussy. I guess I should be grateful that the old nigga just jerked his long, black dick while lickin’ my clit instead of tryna run it up in me. But I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d want to feel my young, tight, hairy pussy wrapped around his dick. And I swore I’d never let that happen. So, I snuffed his ass. And fuckin’ that young nigga and lettin’ him bust this pussy open was far better than lettin’ some nasty-assed nigga steal the little string of innocence I had left.
Say what ya want. In my mind, the payoff was well worth it. I got what I wanted, and dude got himself a taste of some virgin twat. But after it was all said and done, I promised myself that I would never, ever, again, suck another nigga’s dick or give up my pussy to get shit again. And I meant that! If I fuck or suck a nigga it’s ’cause I want to, not ’cause I need to.
Anyway, I’ma tell ya some foul shit. A part of me thinks my moms knew what time it was, but she wanted to act like she was stuck on stupid or some shit and ignore it. Sometimes I thought I saw it in her eyes when she looked at me. Guilt. The fact that she was tryna pimp me, her only child. Maybe it was regret I saw. Maybe it was just my fucked-up imagination. Well, whether or not there was ever any truth to it—not that she would ever admit it—is neither here nor there. I handled the nigga my way by lurin’ his ass into a darkened stairwell for some pussy, then shootin’ him in his head. His eyes were wide open and filled with shock and panic when his brains splattered against the cement wall. I looked down at his lifeless ass with a smirk on my face, then left him lyin’ in a pool of blood. I was fifteen. At that moment, somethin’ in me changed. It opened my eyes to the power of pussy, and showed me just how far a nigga—young or old—would go to feel it, taste it, and try to possess it. And a bullet to his head is the only thing that would stop his muhfuckin’ ass from tryna claim it.
So, hell the fuck no! I didn’t choose this life—this muhfuckin’ life chose me. I was pushed into this shit. As a result, it has become my callin’, a way of life that has evolved into a way of bein’ for a bitch like me. Don’t get it twisted. I ain’t makin’ no excuses, and I ain’t lookin’ for no sympathy. I accept life for what it is: unfair, with a set of fucked up rules you either live or die by. And no matter how many dreams a bitch dreams, ain’t shit comin’ true unless ya get on ya grind and make shit happen ’cause life don’t give a fuck ’bout you or no whack-ass fairy tales.
I stepped off the elevator, strutted through the lobby of the Marriott, then quietly slid out the revolvin’ glass doors, unheard and unnoticed. When I reached my rental—a blue Ford Taurus—and was safely behind the steerin’ wheel, I pulled off my wig, took out the blue contact lenses, then flipped open my cell, pressed speed dial, and waited for the voice on the other end.
“Yo, what’s good?”
“I know why the caged bird sings,” I stated, startin’ the car, then pullin’ out of the parkin’ lot and onto the highway. It was the code I used to let him know when a job had been completed.
“That’s what it is. I’ll get at you.”
“No doubt. One.”
Click. I pressed the end button and disconnected the call, along with my emotions.
I drove in silence. I didn’t wanna hear shit. The only thing I wanted was a hot shower, some sleep, and to be back on that plane first thing in the mornin’, headin’ to Jersey. I couldn’t wait to get home to collect the remainin’ half of the hundred gees I had comin’ to me for smokin’ that nigga back at the hotel. Not bad for a day’s work, I thought, headin’ to my hotel suite on the other side of town. Murkin’ these crab-ass niggas is as easy as snatchin’ candy from a baby.
The followin’ afternoon, I was home chillin’ in my two-story condo in the suburbs of Jersey, standin’ at the mahogany island in the middle of my walk-in closet, waitin’ for the whir of the counter machine to finish totalin’ my money. Snoop Dogg’s “For All My Niggaz & Bitches” blared through my Bose surround sound system. Oh, hell naw. Somethin’ ain’t right, I thought. But I knew what I saw. It totaled my paper at forty thousand dollars. I knew shit wasn’t wrong with the machine, but I recounted my money anyway. Nothing changed. I stormed outta the closet, snatchin’ up the cell on my nightstand. I punched in his number and waited. The deep voice answered on the third ring. “What’s good?”
“My motherfuckin’ money, nigga!” I snapped, turnin’ down my stereo. “That’s what the fuck’s good. Now where’s the rest of my shit?”
“Yo, chill, ma,” he said, lowerin’ his voice. “I got you.”
“Nigga, chill my ass. I want my motherfuckin’ shit. And I want it today. And I want another ten for you tryna finger-fuck me.”
“Whoa, whoa,” he said, soundin’ like he was ready to raise up. “You buggin’ for real, ma. I said I got you. And that’s what it is.”
“Buggin’ hell, muhfucka! I tell you what, bring me my shit and the extra or we got problems. And that’s what it is. This is like the third time you tried some bitch shit on me, and I’m not the one. So, you betta buy a vowel and get a fuckin’ clue. Now what’s it gonna be, ’cause another body don’t mean shit to me.”
“Aye, yo. You tryna write a check you ain’t gonna be able to cash, baby girl. So watch how you come at me. I said I got you.”
I wasn’t tryna hear shit he had to say. I paced the floor, burnin’ a hole in my white Persian rug while clenchin’ my fist. On the real, this nigga really had me swole. My mind was made up. If this fat, black muthafucka didn’t have my money by day’s end, I was gonna stretch his ass. I didn’t give a fuck how many goons he had in his camp. I’d just lie in wait until the right time—I didn’t give a fuck if it took weeks or years. I would smoke his ass, real talk. There were two things you didn’t fuck over: my money, and my pussy. Try it if you want, and you got hell to pay.
I screamed on his ass. “No, nigga! You watch how you handle ya business. I ain’t one of them sucka-ass bitches you fuck with. My name ain’t Wonder Bread, and ain’t shit soft on me but my ass. Now, like I said, I want my shit . . . today!”
“Hold da fuck on,” he snapped. I pulled in a deep breath, then counted to ten. I heard muffled sounds in the background as he attempted to cover the mouthpiece of the phone. I welcomed the momentary silence. I knew the nigga really didn’t wanna beef with me. I was the best thing on his squad. Bein’ the only female on his team, as far as I was concerned I was his most valuable asset. And one of the baddest killers he had. Not only was I sexy as hell, I was reliable, dependable, and with the promise of a good fuck and dick suck, I seductively lured my marks into the Kat trap, then served them the heat—clean and swift. Of course the fuckin’ was a perk he acted like he wasn’t aware of because he’s never confronted me about it. But I knew he knew what time it was. Bottom line, no one suspected a chick like me was capable of slumpin’ muhfuckas. But I was. And I had no problem killin’ again, so dude had better play his position real quick, or he’d be next on the list to get earthed.
This fat, black, six-foot-three, three-hundred-and-thirty pound grizzly bear’s name is Cash. I met his ass at that spot the Brooklyn Café back in ‘03. The nigga approached me after peepin’ me mop a bitch’s ass across the dance floor for tryna shine on me in front of some niggas. Wrong move!
He was sitting at the bar when I walked over to order me a drink. Fightin’ that ho had a bitch’s throat dry. “Yo, ma, I dug how you handled ya’self out there,” he had said, eyein’ me real hard, lickin’ his lips like he was tryna suck my panty liner.
“Oh word,” I responded real easy-like. But in the back of my mind I was thinkin’: Why the fuck is this crusty, black muhfucka lickin’ his lips at me? I know this beast don’t think he’s L.L. or some shit.
He smiled, showin’ a top row of big teeth and big red gums. I yanked my neck back, tryna check my frown. “Yeah. You stomped chick’s back in.”
“Next time I’ma slice the bitch’s throat,” I snapped, tossin’ my fresh-to-death wrap—compliments of this Dominican spot up in the Bronx—and lookin’ him dead in his frog eyes. “Ain’t no bitch gonna talk greasy ‘n shit, then think shit’s sweet. I got somethin’ for that ass.”
I really wasn’t beat for all the chit-chat. I just wanted to wet my throat, get my dance back on, and chill with my girls. But, he insisted on tryna lean in my ear. “I hear ya, ma,” he replied, rubbin’ his chin. “I’ve been checkin’ ya all night. You seem like a real thorough chick. Where you rest?”
“Brooklyn,” I said with much ’tude. “Why?”
“How ’bout I buy you a drink, and we find us a spot to politic.”
I twisted my lips. “Nigga, I know you ain’t thinkin’ a drink is gonna get ya black ass some pussy.”
He laughed. “Chill, ma. I ain’t on it like that. Don’t get me wrong, you some real eye candy and I’d love to tap that ass inside out and all. But this is on some strictly legit shit.” I twisted my lips.
He flagged the bartender. “Get this beauty whatever she’s drinkin’.”
I smiled. Obviously, the nigga didn’t know just how deep my throat was. I ordered me two double-shots of Remy, peeped my girls gettin’ their drop ‘n pop on out on the dance floor, then followed dude to a corner table. As soon as we sat down, he got right to the point.
“Dig, how you feel ‘bout makin’ some real cheddar?”
I tossed my drink back. Although I was already sittin’ on cake thanks to a sudden windfall, a bitch was still boostin’. It was cute and it kept me laced, but that shit wasn’t pullin’ in no real paper. I wanted more. A chick like me, bein’ an opportunist, needed to step her game up and stack some real cheese, but pushin’ or holdin’ or transportin’ somebody’s weight wasn’t ever gonna be it.
“What ya talkin’?” I had asked, raisin’ my naturally arched eyebrow.
He leaned in real close, wrapped his thick arm around the back of my seat, then spoke into my ear. He said again he was diggin’ my style, then told me ‘bout a “work-for-hire” operation he ran, and how he was lookin’ for a thorough chick to be on his team.
“Hmmm,” I said, takin’ my second drink to the head. I studied dude’s swagger. He was ugly as fuck, but was dipped and paid. The nigga smelled like real money. And I wanted in. I peeped his Rolex, smilin’. “Order me another round, then let me sleep on it. A bitch don’t like to make any decisions when I’m gettin’ my drink and smoke on.”
He grinned. “Yeah, you definitely the real deal. Here’s my card. Hit me when you ready.” He slid me his business card, then turned to step. He turned back around. “Yo, ma, you gotta name?”
“Katrina,” I said. “Kat for short. And you?” “Kashmir. But the streets know me as Cash.”
When the bartender returned with my drink, I smiled, liftin’ my glass. “I’ll get at ya.”
“Do that,” he replied, walkin’ off. I watched him give a few niggas pounds, then disappear out the door.
A week later, I called his ass and we spoke briefly. Then, the next day, we met for dinner at Junior’s in Brooklyn to discuss and finalize his offer. The paper was right, and it sounded sweet. Now, here I am, four years later, still fuckin’ with his slimy ass. Usually he was on point, but lately the nigga had been slippin’ and I really wasn’t feelin’ it. I didn’t give a fuck who he was, or how he got down for his. As far as I was concerned, the muhfucka could get it, too.
There were fifteen of us on this nigga’s money clip, and he received anywhere from five to twenty contracts a month, sometimes more. And he got paid well for the delivery of services; services that we carried out. The blood from my work was on my hands, not his. He had better recognize who kept him sittin’ his stankin’ ass up on his throne.
The longer he kept me on hold, the more heated I got. Dude was caked the fuck up and was on some real bitch shit tryna pinch corners with my paper. I’m sorry, but I was not diggin’ it at all! I was gonna have to make a major move, and soon, before I ended up shuttin’ his lights out.
“Yo,” he said, yankin’ me from my thoughts, “I’ma have that for ya in ‘bout an hour. You know where to go.”
“Yeah, muhfucka,” I said, suckin’ my teeth.
“Oh, and check this out. The next time you come at me like that, I’ma forget I don’t put my hands on bitches and knock ya fronts out, ya heard?”
“Don’t fuck with my money, then,” I warned.
“You heard what I said,” he said, lowerin’ his voice. It almost sounded like his nasty ass had his hand down in his pants playin’ with his shit. The thought made me sick to my stomach. “Watch how the fuck you come at me. You work for me, not the other way around. Don’t get the game fucked up.”
I knew I was playin’ with dynamite comin’ at his neck like that. This muhfucka was a real shiesty-type nigga. I knew that the moment I jumped on his team. I also knew he could be real shady if pressed, and had no problem settin’ that ass up lovely if he felt disrespected or played. But, at the moment, I didn’t give a fuck!
“And I’m the one out here puttin’ heat to these muhfuckas, so don’t hit me with that bullshit. I ain’t the one. Play ya position, cowboy, and have my shit. I deliver ya bodies on time, and I expect my paper delivered on time, in full. And I ain’t tryna hear shit else. So don’t try ’n dry-fuck me.”
“I done warned you,” he snapped, “and you still yappin’ ya fuckin’ jaws. You’se a crazy bitch.”
“Whatever, nigga,” I said, snappin’ the phone shut on his ass. “I’ll be glad when I’ve stacked enough money to get the fuck outta this shit once and for all,” I said out loud, slippin’ into a pair of sweats and a hooded shirt. I need a fuckin’ blunt, I thought, searchin’ for my stash. Fat muhfucka got my nerves rattled. I lit the blunt, then took a long drag, inhalin’ deep, allowin’ the smoke to flow through my nose and mouth simultaneously. I really hate fuckin’ wit’ these snake niggas, I thought, takin’ another deep, long pull before puttin’ it out. I’ll smoke the rest of this shit later. I grabbed my purse and headed out the house to collect my loot.
Forty minutes later, I was back in the same spot I’d started out from, watching the money counter count and total the rest of my money. Twenty thousand. I smiled, placin’ it in the floor-to-ceiling safe with the rest of my paper. It was like Bank of America up in this bitch. And I was lovin’ it. I stood there and stared at the rows of bills neatly stacked. The smell made my snatch tingle. I just wanted to fuck, and rub my pussy over every single bill. I pinched my clit, then clamped my legs shut before slidin’ my hand between my legs and slowly rubbin’ my pussy. A bitch was in heat. I needed to be fucked, deep, long, and hard. But there wasn’t one nigga on my roster who I wanted to come through and slay me. I wanted some new dick. I sucked my teeth, then walked into a smaller walk-in closet and opened up a chest full of sex toys. I pulled out a ten-inch dildo, then climbed up on my king-sized bed, spread open my legs, and slid it in and out of my hungry hole, deep-fuckin’ myself until my cum-soaked pussy dripped a stream of hot, sticky juice down the crack of my ass. My pussy lips flapped around the width of my manual dick as I used my other hand to press on my swollen clit, pullin’ the dildo out of me e’ery so often to lick and suck my sweet cum juice off my rubber companion. I want some dick! I screamed in my head. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” is the last thing I remember chantin’ and screamin’, before I closed my eyes and fucked myself into a deep, well-needed sleep.
If you enjoyed this excerpt of The Kat Trap by Cairo, you can purchase the book on Amazon.com at this link: http://www.amazon.com/Kat-Trap-Novel-Zane-Presents/dp/1593092288/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1246244159&sr=1-1