CHAPTER XXXIV
13:18
Yselle was pulling up to park by the train station as Branson jogged up the first escalator followed by two flights of stairs. He was barely winded at the top of the stairs which showed that all the eating he had been doing recently wasnt weighing him down. He walked out into a glaring sunlight. Many famous people lived on Roosevelt Island. With his jewelry and the spanking new tinted G-90 he got inside of, other Roosevelt Island residents took him to be a rapper or part of a rapper's entourage. Branson gently removed the newly rolled blunt from his pocket and lighted it. He turned on the radio to the nineties music station, inarguably the best era and music of rap, of music, period, Black artists had ever produced. The intro of one of the most popular songs ever by one of the most popular rappers ever came on:
As we proceed, to give you what you need... Nine five muthafuckas, get high muthafuckas...
The car glided smoothly and slowly, Bass Boost thumping in his bones like African drums. P. Diddy was a master of intros and remixes, no doubt about that, and he had a _bunch_ of hits. Branson lighted the blunt and took a few puffs before passing it to Yselle. Strawberry haze.
Phew!
Then Biggies verse began:
Who shot ya?
Separate the weak from the obso-
lete, hard to creep, them Brooklyn streets.
Its on, nigga
Fuck all that bickering beef
I could hear sweat trickling down your cheeks.
Your heartbeat sound like Sasquatch feet, thunderin, shakin the concrete...
Good music, produced in an era when fistfighting was still a thing, not these pussy ass niggas nowadays shooting niggas and killin' innocents left and right. The real reason niggas carried guns was because other niggas carried guns, which, in this time, was a valid fuckin' reason, all things considered. No one wants to be the sheep. Branson rapped along with Biggie:
Old school, new school, need to learn tho,
I burn, baby burn, like Disco Inferno,
Burn slow like blunts wit yayo,
Peel mo' skins than Idaho potatoes, niggas know,
The lyrical molestin is takin' place,
Fuckin' wit B.I.G., it aint safe,
I make ya skin chafe, rashes by the masses,
Bumps and bruises, blunts and Landcruisers,
Big Poppa smash fools, bash fools,
Niggas mad because I know that cash rules
Everything around me, two Glock nines,
Any muthafucka whisperin' about mines (and I'm)
And I'm Crooklyn's finest, we rewind this, Bad Boy's behind this, uh!
Yselle passed the blunt again and drove slower, in no particular rush to get back to the house. She turned right and drove up the ramp leading off the Roosevelt Island bridge or to the garage before it. Branson looked in her direction lazily, not understanding, but it was cool, he trusted her plan tho she said nothing. She drove to the electronic bar at the entrance of the garage and, reaching into her purse, she pulled out and scanned the i.d. card-sized electronic key on an electronic key stand scanner. The bar rose and she drove into the garage.
Driving easily, a few turns found them on the open roof of the garage, where she parked in a corner from where they could see anyone coming before they themselves were seen. They were parked two car spaces away from an old school Chevy Suburban, the original gas guzzler, 1998 or 2000 model, still large as fuck and still beautiful to behold. Everything about America was big: big roads, big cars, big houses, big asses, big titties, big conspiracies, big coverups, big lies, big fools, big spies, big tools. Big scandals: Ghislaine Maxwell; Jeffrey Epstein, those kinds of things. Yselle turned the the music down and turned toward Branson. He passed her the blunt. She took it and pulled like a champion, just watching his side image as he sat there, head and braids in his right hand, elbow on the doors armrest. Hot 97 was jamming with the oldies but goodies today. He raised the volume a tad as another well-known banger came on:
The shit is wicked on these mean streets, none of my friends speak,
They all tryna win, but then again
Maybe it's for the best tho, cuz when they seeing too much, you know they tryna get you touched
Whoever said illegal was the easy way out couldnt understand the mechanics
And the workings of the underworld, granted
Nine to five is how you survive, I ain't tryna survive, I'm tryna live it to the limit and love it alive
Life ills, poisoned my body and used to say, "Fuck mic skills," I never prayed to God, I prayed to Gotti,
thats right, its wicked, thats life, I live it, aint askin for forgiveness for my sins, hence
I break bread, with the layheads, picking they brains for angles and all d evils that the gamell do
It gets dangerous, money and power is changing us,
and now we lethal, infected wit' d evils
Illuminati pulled my mind, soul and my body
secret society, tryna keep they eye on me
Illuminati pulled my mind, soul and my body
I can't doubt
We used to fight for building blocks, now we fight for blocks with buildings that make a killing
The closest of friends when we first started, but grew apart as the money grew, we soon grew black hearted
Thinking back when we first learned to use rubbers, he never learned so in turn Im kidnapping his baby's mother
My hand around her collar, feeding her cheese, she said the taste of dollars was shitty, so I fed her fifties
About his whereabouts I wasn't convinced
I kept feeding her money til her shit started to make sense
Who could ever foresee, we used to stay up all night at slumber parties, now Im tryna rock this bitch to sleep
All the years we was real close, now I see his fears through her tears, know she wishing we was still close.
Don't cry, it is to be
In time, I'll take away yo' misery and make it mine - d evils.
"Them two verses some of the hottest lines I done ever heard in my life, ma," Branson told Yselle, who just passed him the blunt, which was a roach now. He took two quick mighty puffs, rolled the window down and threw it away. He continued nodding his head in time to the music, eyes closed, and was surprised when Yselle's lips pressed onto his. He instinctively pulled back a bit but after cognizance struck, he pressed back on her lips and they both started kissing each other ardently. She rubbed on his chest and her other hand went down to his drawstrings and pulled down his sweatpants. As his hardening member flopped out, Branson reclined his chair as Yselle put her mouth on his dick and began slurping at it, giving him the wet head fellatio, which was tautology but so what!
The act of fellatio is so pleasurable to a man that sometimes men simply cannot appreciably withhold their ejaculations. Barely five minutes later, Branson was about to explode in her mouth when she touched somewhere under his balls in a way that made him come but not as explosively, in a more controlled manner. He was astounded by her ejaculation manipulation dick sucking skills. She sat back up with a knowing look and smirked.
Yselle opened her mouth to show him the bit of come she had sucked into and held in her mouth before swallowing it and bending down to lather his dick with her saliva. She didn't spend too much time down there again but lifted her short leather skirt and moved over to the passenger side, atop his dick. His dick was wet, her pussy was wet - he entered her like a hand in a glove and, like O.J. Simpson, the hand didn't fit going into the glove. The glove was tight as fuck. His cock was thick and long and she had to go slow, even when wet, in order to get him mostly inside her. She rode him gently and slowly for about seven minutes, getting used to the girth of his cock inside and stretching her tight space. Afterward, she picked up her pace, gyrating and joyfully bouncing on that monster cock. She lifted up her short sweater to free her juicy and mango-like tits.
Branson immediately grabbed ahold of each titty, squeezing and sitting up slightly to be sucking on them as he squeezed, and sucking on each in turn. She pressed his face forward onto her breasts, closing her eyes and simply reveling in the feel of that big black dick inside her inside of her tight space.
*
It had been almost six months since her pussy had been filled and almost never since her pussy was filled to this capacity. She moaned and yipped as he used his hips to thrust upwards suddenly as she came down, going deeper and deeper into her vibrant vagina, tickling and prodding at previously unknown and untouched innermost parts. She placed one hand on his chest to steady herself while her other hand held the back of his head to whichever breast he happened to be masticating. He was bopping her breasts against his face, titties being happily slapped by his face and happily slapping his face. He sucked every square inch of those bouncy ass titties. Branson loved to suck breasts. Surely other men thoroughly enjoyed squeezing and sucking and licking and biting some good-sized, round ass tits as much as he!
Titties were a phenomenal creation of God's and as he sucked, licked and gently bit on her nipples and also sucking on her areolas, Branson prayed a prayer of thanks to God. She hissed with short, rapid intakes of air at the sharp but pleasurable pain of Branson's nipple nips and exuberant sucking and continued riding him, up and down, back and forth, a la Aaliyah. He pushed his feet against the floorboard and raised up his midsection. His back was braced by the seat and he proceeded to pound up into her pussy over and over again, causing her to give short yelps of pain and pleasure, the line often blurring with the speed and passion of his hammering. She squeezed her own tits as his hands were around her waist and steadying the pumps he was driving into her lower stomach mercilessly, seeking to enter her lower intestines and even disembowel her.
She started shaking as his dick caressed her G-spot; their bodies reacted simultaneously. Yselle pulled him towards her as he struggled to pump with the same flashy rhythm and tempo with which he had so far been pounding her out. The mounting of their release was concomitant; the heat patterns of their bodies, had it just then been viewed with thermal imaging, would have ebbed and risen as concurrently; their breathing was, as well, identical. When their ejaculations came, it was with titanic force. They both squirmed and groaned repeatedly as they also tried to press into one another as much as possible. He strained to shove his engorged cock deeper into her. She gasped, heaving, and when their release continued, Branson reclined his seat even more.
He cupped her butt and massaged its softness, slightly spreading the buttcheeks so their ejaculations spilled out more on him. They kissed passionately again and he again squeezed her titties, the come still streaming out of his cock and into her while hers was dripping around his member, and all of those liquids were winding up-
"Oh, SHIT!" Branson exclaimed, looking down to see his midsection getting more and more drenched by the combination of their body fluids.
"Relajaté," she said, telling him to relax. "I came prepared." She reached behind him and grabbed a large towel, unfolding it. As she lifted herself off him, more of their juices dripped down from her vagina onto him, inundating him more. She quickly wiped her dripping self, adjusted her panties back into place and proceeded to wipe him down, cleaning off his stomach, crotch area, and parts of the chair. He felt the juice dripping down by his anus, a strange and uncomfortable feeling so he quickly wiped away the liquid from that area.
Yselle's sweater was still above her tantalizing titties and he touched one, squeezing it and the nipple, making her gasp in a thrill again.
"Stoooop!" Yselle playfully exclaimed, crossing her arms over her tits, but she leaned over him to put the partially soaked towel in the back seat, "coincidentally" jostling her boobies onto his face again. He started sucking and squeezing them again. Her skirt was also still up so he reached over and began fingering her pussy. Her physical body reacted willingly. "Ai, ai, papi. Stop, papi, there's no time. Ai, ooh, yeah papi, suck these tits, baby. Mm... Ai... Oh, oh, papi..."
They were both warming up for Round Two when a short warble alerted them to the presence of a cop car approaching. In seconds, Branson and Yselle were back to their normal sitting position, properly dressed (save for a few wet spots) and Yselle nervously laughed as the cop car made another circuit, obviously sending them a clear message. She depressed the emergency handbrake and put the car in Drive, slowly driving off with the pigs behind her all the way.
Out of the corner of her eye, Yselle saw Branson sniffing at his fingers.
"Stop yo. Why you gotta be so nasty?" He looked at her and licked his fingers off from her recent juices. "You so nasty, yo."
"Yeah, just like you!" The cop car was from the 114th Precinct in Queens, which had jurisdiction over Roosevelt Island and one would often see a couple of cop cars patrolling around the Island. Branson just remembered to turn off his phone as the pigs followed them all the way down the ramp, but when she turned right, they turned left. Both of them breathed a bit easier, even though they had done nothing wrong, but the habitual homicides police officers committed against people of color were worrisome, to say the least, to, primarily, people of color.
"Dont worry, I had the ratchets," Branson said cheekily, continuing to look in the sideview at the diminishing cop car. He pulled the two guns from his lower back and kissed each. "Que hermosura." She rolled her eyes at his Spanish.
"Si, pero we would both be dead right now! They would do me just like they did Shantel Davis, Korryn Gaines, Pamela Turner, Attatiana Jefferson, Breonna Taylor and-"
"Sandra Bland," he finished for her. "They would do me like Rodney King." Yselle looked confused. "Amadou Diallo?" She shrugged. He sighed. "Pussy good as fuck and the head is incredible, but you gotta study our not-so-distant past."
"I was gonna say-"
"George Floyd? I know." Her eyes widened and he smirked, speaking in a Jamaican brogue: "See the likkle yout dem!"
"Mira, you was just in this likkle yout pussy like a fool who done lost his mind."
"Which is true," he confirmed. "I did say that was some bomb ass pussy." She nodded haughtily. "But that's tautology."
"What's tautology?" As he opened his mouth to define the word, she glanced at him and interrupted him. "Not the meaning of the word, perdona me, I am college educated, y'know." He closed his mouth.
"I wasn't going to define the word," he lied. She smiled a little too toothily, letting him know she knew better. "Anyway, like I was saying: tautology. You're saying the same thing twice. A fool is someone who has already lost their mind." She laughed a bit.
"Meh!" she exclaimed. And that was women in one word: "meh"! It was about two o'clock when they reached Chulo's hideout. Kingson was standing outside the gate and threw up his arms in exasperation when he saw them. Branson noticed a nice looking hunter green Lexus Landcruiser out front of the gate, in front of which Kingson was apparently waiting for them. As soon as Yselle parked, Kingson was there to open her driver's side door.
"Good God damn!!" Kingson exclaimed as he opened the door and Yselle stepped out to stand near him. Her and Branson seemed confused. "Nigga, you really wanna die, huh?" He had addressed himself to Branson.
"I ain't dead yet!" Branson responded.
"Yeah, well, keep it up, broham, keep it up." He turned to Yselle. "Next time, roll the windows down so air can get in, around and out of the vehicle." She understood and blushed. "We gotta go," he told Branson, who was just getting out to see to Star and be nosey about Ygritte and this whole plan his brother had concocted. "Dont worry, Star's fine, Ygritte's fine, niggas is working right now. You would only be a distraction if you went in there now and I need both of them to focus, bro." Branson turned to Yselle.
"Just make sure I see you later," she said in a steely tone.
"Copy, Capo," he jokingly replied. She waved to both of them and hurried through the gate. Branson watched her go, her fine ass swinging to and fro like a bouncy pendulum.
"You sure do know how to pick 'em twin," Kingson remarked appreciatively.
"So do you, brother," Branson replied cryptically, but Kingson just shook it off.
Ya bum, The Voice snapped to Branson as Kingson drove off.
