Rapsody - Oprah ft. Leikeli47

Rapsody is not playing. This shit here is KNOCKING-KNOCKING...!!! #WORDADDICT

SHAWN RICHARDS 'THE WRITER!' PRESENTS: LATE NIGHT HOTNESS PT. 2

“Mmm, baby yes,” I groan, as Lavar puts a swivel in his thrust which somehow enables him to find my sweet spot. “You go, boy. Yes, just like that.”

The water starts to become a bit choppy. A pack of wild birds swoosh through the air overhead without a sound, but appear hurried nonetheless. It’s the quiet before the storm. Picking up on the building need for diligence Lavar increases the rapidity and intensity of his stroke. All without disrupting the rhythm we had established.

Handfuls of bed covering fill my palm as I pant and moan helplessly. Struggling desperately to brace myself from the thorough dick lashing I was in the mist of receiving

from this man.

“You see what you do to me?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I hum in response. Apparently my reply isn’t good enough. He gives my rear end a tremendous smack, one that borders on pure savagery. I gasp as the sting from his heavy hand grips me. Fortunately the pain subsides quickly and is replaced by a delightful tingling sensation, courtesy of the hundreds of thousands of now active nerve ends. All responding to the sudden stimuli provided by the impact on my ass.

The shock only adds to the already volatile undercurrent, sending the minuscule rowboat rocking to and fro over the choppy waters. Lavar grips my waist tight on each side to use his strength and leverage to burrow his length deeper into my center. Deeper than anyone has ever gone before. His rigid shaft, so deep inside my sopping wet cunt, sparks sensations throughout my body so deliciously unfamiliar it scares me. Surely I must be having a near death experience I fathom, as this has got to be what heaven must feel like. I bury my face in a stack of pillows near the headboard in order to avoid waking the dead while I scream like a wild woman.

A knock at the red door leading to my mind pulls me out my zone. It’s guilt. Unbeknownst to him, he’s making a most unfortunate mistake in paying an unwelcome visit to my conscience during a really, really bad time. It’s a transgression for which guilt is about to pay in full for. An open-handed smack brings the unwanted intrusion to a speedy end, sending the unwelcome guest scampering away clutching its cheek, teary-eyed.

With that out of the way I am free to relish in the multitude of wicked sensations gratifying various parts of my neglected body. I adjust my whores posture, face down, rump high, fists full of bed covering, uttering obscenities into pillows with virgin ears.

Somewhere off in the distance an eagle shrieks, high overhead, while surveying the land. I didn’t realize that there were eagles in this part of the country.

Our once calm, peaceful and lazy river has now grown into an all out white water rapid. Somewhere along the ride Lavar manages to lose his paddle. When this comes to my attention, I find myself questioning how long he can steer the boat?

The water, which only seconds ago was multiplying exponentially in its level of agitation, returns to its original peaceful calm. Puzzled, I take in my surroundings, in hopes to figuring out what accounted for the change. Initially nothing stands out, but once I studied the horizon it all began to make sense.

As if on que, an anomaly my mind could only describe as a quiet roar announces its presence on my outer ear. Slowly, slowly, slowly the gentle grouse increases in decibels until the sound becomes more deafening than ten 747’s flying at low altitude. Lavar is steering us straight towards a waterfall and I didn’t mind one bit.

He continues to thrust, each stroke propelling us closer, and closer, and closer to the edge. Tiny, glistening beads of sweat gather for an old fashion family reunion on my brow. They forge pathways down the sides of my face, hell bent on seeking refuge within safe confines of the pillow.

Lavar’s deliberate, controlled rhythm suddenly turns wildly staccato. “Oh shit girl, I can’t hold it,” he moans.

“Let it go,” I whimper. “Don’t hold back, just let go.”

After a few more pumps of me, I feel lover’s movement stiffen. Love talk, dirty talk, pillow talk is all traded in exchange of incomprehensible baby gibberish as we both go over the edge together.

“Damn,” I ponder. “Did lover remember to use a life preserver?”

SHAWN RICHARDS 'THE WRITER!' PRESENTS: LATE NIGHT HOTNESS PT. 1

He hoists the hem of my nightgown up, past my hips and over my waist. I seldom wear panties around the house so it was no problem for him to enter me from behind. As I closed my eyes in anticipation of his penetration I envisioned New Orleans in the summertime. Not that I had ever been there or had any real desire to go, that was just the visual I pictured behind closed lids as the sheer length and girth of Lavar’s manhood forced me to involuntarily alter my breathing pattern. I have to remind myself to relax as he began to move slowly in and out of my wetness.
“Damn your shit is tight,” he declares. I sense the surprise in his voice, dripping off of each strained word like fresh activator off of a thirsty Jeri curl.
“I told you it’s been a while. Just go slow and take your time. Trust me, I will loosen up,” I toss over my shoulder.
A deep grunt from lover serves as confirmation that Anita had succeeded in negotiating an agreeable comfort zone out of which each of the participating parties in this mutually simulating act could participate.
After detecting the necessary adjustments in vaginal elasticity were complete, Lavar wastes no time in settling into a comfortable, sustainable rhythm that takes me back to summer days in the Big Easy.
Together we drift lazily down a peaceful, serene waterway. I, with my beautiful off white southern belle gown made out of the finest silk and delicate fabrics that money could buy. He, a strapping young buck, in his white button-up shirt, olive trousers, and a pair of black horse riding boots.
Lavar continues to propel us forward using his paddle, causing the rock hard muscles in his chest and arms to strain against the fabric of his shirt. I marvel at the skill he displays in using his paddle to make strong, even, methodical strokes that keep us gliding at a steady pace.
High overhead, the mid-afternoon sun kisses the surface of the water, causing the peak of each tiny ripple to glisten like new diamonds.
Efforts to purse my lips, in order to better endure the magnificent stroking Anita was receiving, prove futile. Before I realize it, a guttural moan bubbles forth from the deepest depths of my gut, up my esophagus, through my throat and past my lips.
Meanwhile, we drift further along enjoying the day’s sunshine and being in each other’s company. We swap wonderful stories from our child hood while sharing a bottle of raspberry tea and nibbling on fresh biscuits coated with honey produced on a bee farm not too far from here.
“Mmm, baby yes,” I groan, as Lavar puts a swivel in his thrust which somehow enables him to find my sweet spot. “You go, boy. Yes, just like that.”

Shawn Richards 'THE WRITER!'

JUST A FLOSSY THOUGHT on a MONDAY NIGHT... (REMIXED) 2nd revision

I pull up to the curb in my black SL 500 with the top down bumping a DJ Rello mixtape. T-Pain’s vocals for ‘I can’t believe it’ meshed perfectly over the track from Jay-Z’s ‘Excuse me miss’. In much the same fashion as rich, milk chocolate falls smoothly and evenly over a sugar wafer to produce a Nutty Bar. I display optimum swaggnatiousness in the mist of my swaggerific, swaggerlicious, stunt session. Then suddenly I notice the two sets of peepers peeping at me from across the street. They belong to two very attractive young women. Two 5'3'', chocolate Brat dolls. Bright eyes, full lips, over animated, over exaggerated breasts that bounced. Their jeans painted on and booties super tight, like a J-Dilla track. Two very attractive women whom I was hoping were at least in their early twenties, though my gut told me they were probably closer to sixteen or seventeen. I acknowledge their heavy gaze with a courteous nod and duce chuck of my own. They turn to each other, giggle and touch palms. Hi-five. Jackpot. Like a great opportunity or hot commodity, niggas like me don’t come around too often!

#imnotsayingBUTIMJUSTSAYING ~INK GAME ENT. (2011)~

WHAT YOU GOT?

“Naa, don't stop now. You wanted to have a conversation so lets conversate,” Heath retaliates. “See the fact of the matter is your daughter would have been fucking either way. At least in me she was able to find a nigga with long paper and a few years on her who'll be able to offer some measure of guidance.”

“You are not her father,” Martha spat venomously.

“You right, I'm not. And judging from the impression daddy dearest left I wouldn't want to be. Why are you even bothering to defend a nigga who left you and his seed to fin for themselves, four months into your pregnancy? That's not what a man does Mrs Jenkins. Your husband was a coward.” Stunned into silence by the true magnitude of Heath's words Martha's mouth hangs open while the accurate dissection of the situation rolls on. Much like the big wheel on the Proud Mary. “Look, I know this is a less than ideal situation but I don't see any reason why we shouldn't be able to meet each other halfway on this, seeing as how we share a common interest.” Heath reads Martha's quizzical expression and offers his version of enlightenment. “We both want whats best for your daughter.” Martha sucked her teeth sarcastically. Heath counters her skepticism with a hard dose of reality. “What, I'm just being honest with you. I hope you don't think I have to be here trying to make peace with you, do you?” Heath reads the anger that flashes across her face and knows that he's struck a cord. Martha seizes an opening in the conversation to try and alter the momentum of their exchange.

“So what are you going to do about the mortgage?”

Heath chuckles. “What would it take to bring you current? Five, six stacks?”

“About that, yeah.” Heath digs into each of his pockets and produces two knots that make Martha's eyes triple in size. For the second time in a span of less than five minutes Martha is stunned into silence. The twin knots, each consisting of only 20's, 50's and 100's, more money than she had ever seen in her entire life at one time, make her that way. Again, Dude reads her expression and is amused. He caps, “I only got like 37 maybe 3,800 right here.” He deliberately underestimates in an effort to avoid sending the attractive yet sheltered older woman into cardiac arrest. She holds out her hand to receive the 'favor', but before handing over the loot Heath poses a question. “So what do I get if I give you this?”

Martha's face twists into a patented 'what-the-Flip-Wilson' expression. “Huh?”

“You heard me. What do I get if I give you these ends?”

“How 'bout I don't call the police and tell them about how my 15 year old daughter is having sex with a 27 year old drug dealer?” Martha snarls.

“You ain't gon' do that anyway,” caps Heath.

“Oh, and whats stopping me?”

“Cause, if you get me locked up you know you getting put out the house, so stop playing. I'm doing you a favor as it is. You know, one hand washes the other.”

“Muthafucka I'm giving you my daughter, what else do you want?” Martha barked.

“I don't need you to give me your daughter, I already got her,” he states. Taking note of the way Heath ran his tongue over the surface of his lips while gazing openly at her cleavage causes Martha to shift uncomfortably in her seat. Heath continues. “Shorty don't need the mortgage caught up cause I'm gon' lace her with a spot regardless. This one is on you.” A quick mental calculation is performed on Martha's part. Every possible angle is examined with all the insight that a once upon a time top-of-the-line, flygirl from a long distant era could muster. It didn't take long for her to realize who held all of the trump cards. With her daughter already lost to the streets, and she, the unemployed, middle-aged, divorcee whose house was about to go into foreclosure, Martha knew she was at the young hoodlums mercy. Past experiences had taught her that her situation could only play out in one of two possibilities. Yet, as pathetic as she recognized her plight as being, in her small mind she felt a measure of gratitude for at least having a choice in the matter this time. As opposed to many occasions prior where any decision being made concerning her or her future, the luxury of actually participating in any capacity of the decision making process had never afforded to she.

Martha locks eyes with the cold, indifferent young G, and with a mouth filled with pride chomps down hard then swallows. “So what do you want?” She asks. The uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach only adding to her growing mental distress. Her past experiences in life having already prepared her for exactly where this was about to go.

Like a great white on the prowl in blood tinged waters, Heath peeps the weakness saturating the tone of her words. A familiar tingle begins to build in his pelvic region. With boldness he leans close to invade her personal space. He places a hand of on her knee. “What you got,” he quips slyly, as his hand begins to move inappropriately up the inside of her soft, chocolate thigh.