Dirty Work: Part 1

Papa John took a sip from the Pepsi then suddenly wondered why he’d asked for a soda. “Yo, y’all ain’t got nothing stronger, no liquor, in here?”

“I thought you wanted a Pepsi.”

“I need a real drink . . . some weed too. You smoke?”

She grinned. “Occasionally.”

“Well, I occasionally got a twenty sack on me,” he said, pulling out the small Ziploc bag containing some potent kush. “I just need me a Dutch Master.”

Dina tried to be conservative, but her age was breaking through, slowly but surely. Her fiancé didn’t smoke, but he did drink. Dina didn’t mind getting high with Papa John. He seemed like fun.

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Several hours later, Papa John had his father’s fiancée high like a kite and a bit tipsy, and it didn’t take long for him to pin her against the bedroom wall with her legs straddling him as he slammed his goliath-size dick deep into her. She panted and chanted, feeling the dick cemented into her, her pussy dripping like a leaky faucet. Papa John was a beast on her, fucking her raw with her tits pressed against his bare chest.

She clawed at his skin, definitely feeling the difference between father and son. “Fuck me!” she cried out.

It was wrong, fucking his father’s girl, but Papa John had no morals. He needed to get his mind off his son, and his other troubles. And for the moment, Dina was his healing. They were in a frenzy, fucking hard.

She could feel herself about to come. “Oh shit! Damn it, fuck me!” Dina hollered. “You black, big-dick, thug muthafucka!”

Suddenly, the faint sound of a car door slamming caught their attention. Darryl was home early.

Dina slammed her hands against his chest and pushed him out the pussy. She stood to her feet and hurried to the nearest window. She saw his black Mercedes-Benz parked in the driveway, and he was approaching the house.

“Shit! Your father’s home early!” she said in a panic. She hastily put on her panties and clothing.

Papa John threw on his jeans and shirt, splashed some cold water on his face, and rushed downstairs. He slammed himself on the living room couch just in time before his father walked inside.

Startled by his son’s presence, Papa John’s father asked, “John, what the hell you doing here? Where’s Dina?”

“She’s upstairs.”

“And you’re here, in my house, because?” his father asked suspiciously.

“Pops, I’m your son. I can’t come by and say hey?”

“You never come by.”

Darryl moved toward his son. Exposed fully on his hip was his holstered Glock and gold badge. Darryl was an intimidating figure, standing six one, robust with a dark goatee and strong features.

“I need to talk to you, Pop.”

“Yeah, we need to talk all right,” Darryl responded sternly.

Before anything else was said between them, Dina came down the stairs looking fully refreshed in a pink sweat suit and trying to look innocent. She smiled at her fiancé, threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss. “How was your day?” she asked him.

Darryl kept his eyes on his son, ignoring her question momentarily. It felt like a critical moment between them. “Fine,” he answered dryly.

“Baby, you hungry? You want me to make you something?”

“No, I need to talk to my son about something,” he said seriously. “Give us some privacy.”

Dina nodded and left the room. When she was gone, Darryl quickly stepped to his son, grabbed him by his shirt, and threw him against the wall in the living room. The impact of it rattled a few pictures.

“What the fuck, Pops!” Papa John hollered, in shock. He could feel his father’s entire strength on him. The man was forty-nine years old and still had The Hulk inside of him. He had aged, but he was still quick and fierce.

Darryl hollered, “I’m about to fuckin’ retire soon, and I have lots of connections in the force—Harlem, Brooklyn, Queens—so why do I gotta hear about my son’s name coming up in several investigations? One is even a fuckin’ murder!”