Daddy Long Stroke by Cairo Read Free Book Online Page B

that.”
    â€œOh, you know it ain’t no sweat off of me. I told you I’ma hold you down. I’m just tryna figure out how to do this.” She pauses, pullin’ in her bottom lip, then pulls her cell outta her bag. “I tell you what. I’ma call the airline, and book your flight. Is tomorrow too soon?”
    I think for a moment. “Nah, tomorrow’s good.” She calls the airline, and makes a reservation wit’ Continental. She writes down all the information, then hangs up.
    â€œIt’s settled. You’re leaving on flight eighty-five, at one thirty-five. It’s an open ticket so you can come back anytime.” As she’s lookin’ in her wallet, I peep her pullin’ out bills. My dick starts to brick up. “I can give you five hundred; is that cool?”
    Well, damn. Maybe next time I’ll hit her up for a few gees. I get up and walk toward her, then pull her into me and give her another tongue-probin’ kiss. “Good lookin’ out, baby. I’ma definitely get it back to you.”
    She presses her body up against mine, strokes my Johnson. “Take your time, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
    Of course you not,
I think, grabbin’ her ass.
You wanna keep gettin’ this black dick
. “Well, as long as you keep wettin’ up this dick”—
and linin’ my pockets
—“I might keep ya fine ass ’round for a while.”
    She punches me in the chest playfully, suckin’ her teeth. “Yeah, whatever, nigga.”
    I grab a pair of navy blue gym shorts from outta my dresser drawer, then slip ’em on. I open the bedroom door. “C’mon, baby. Let me walk you out.” When we get downstairs, I lean in and give her another tongue dance, then open the front door. “Don’t be suckin’ no other nigga’s dick while I’m gone, either.”
    She smirks. “You’re not my man, remember?”
    â€œYeah, aiight. You just make sure
you
remember that.”
    She flips me the finger as she walks out, switchin’ her juicy ass. “Whatever!” I watch her get into her whip and back outta the driveway before closin’ the door.

 5 
    â€œOkay, so which one outta your harem is she?” the deep voice in back of me asks, spookin’ the fuck outta me. It almost makes a nigga jump outta his skin.
    â€œOh, shit,” I say, quickly turnin’ ’round to face my pops, an older version of me—tall, bow-legged, worked-out, and dark chocolate. No, homo…but the nigga’s got real flava. And at fifty-two, Pops looks like he’s still in his early forties, hands down. A nigga can’t front. I’m glad he gave up all that drinkin’ and feelin’ sorry for his ass. It was startin’ to make him look real weak ’n shit. And it got way outta hand when he started wakin’ up and hittin’ the bottle first thing in the muthafuckin’ mornin’. Man, listen. All he did was drink, curse, complain and keep an army of bitches runnin’ in and outta here when he wasn’t passed the fuck out. It’s surprisin’ he held down a job wit’ all that drinkn’ ’n shit. But he got his ass up and went to work e’ery damn day, hung over or not. And get this. He worked as a plant foreman for the Budweiser distillery in Newark. Ain’t that some shit? A muthafuckin’ alcoholic workin’ at a damn beer company! And his ass didn’t even drink the shit.
    I guess livin’ in a house wit’ a drunk wasn’t all bad, though. For one, Pops didn’t stress me ’bout no bullshit-ass rules like my moms did. As long as I followed my curfew and took my ass to school, it was all gravy. I could bring chicks to the house and crack this nut up in ’em anytime I wanted. I played varsity ball inhigh school—all four years, which kept the bitches on my dick. And I even got offered