Wifey: Part 2

Jasmine shook her head and told him she wasn’t coming in until he got naked right there in front of her. “Let me see that dick,” she cooed.

Gosling almost came on himself. He quickly took off his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt, and took off his pants. He had no idea that Homicide was crouched down on the side of the house in the dark and right next to the front steps.

“That’s what I’m talking about. Stroke that dick for me, baby.”

Gosling did just as Jasmine said. He didn’t care if his neighbors could see him standing naked at his front door jacking his dick.

Jasmine gave Homicide the cue that Gosling didn’t have a gun on him or in his hands when she’d told Gosling to stroke his dick. Homicide, in one swoop, jumped onto the stairs with his gun drawn and forced Gosling to go into his living.

Gosling held his hands up in surrender. He knew he should never have trusted a slut-ass confidential informant.

Jasmine closed the front door, and Homicide handed her the duct tape and told her to duct-tape Gosling’s mouth and ankles, and his hands behind his back, and Jasmine did just as he said.

“So you raped my girl? Once in your car and once on this couch right here?”

Gosling’s eyes got wide, as he shook his head no.

“Yes, you did, bitch!” Homicide kicked Gosling in the jaw as hard as he could. “You know I have to kill for that, right?”

Gosling was in pain from the kick to the face. He violently shook his head to try and get Homicide not to take his life.

“You knew they called her Suicide Pussy, and you still took the pussy. You gotta die. You knew her pussy was suicide,” Homicide said.

Gosling was breathing very hard as his life passed in front of his eyes.

“How much money you put in your own pocket from that raid? Enough to retire off, right?”

The room was quiet.

“Jasmine, this nigga don’t wanna talk now, but when he was taking your pussy, he had a lot to say then, right?”

Jasmine nodded.

Homicide turned back toward Gosling and then asked him again, “You did know that she has suicide pussy, right? So that means you gotta die.” He cocked his gun.

Then suddenly a shot rang out. BANG! And Homicide’s body collapsed to the floor.

Jasmine had a small .22-caliber handgun hidden in the pocket of her robe that she always kept with her since the night Bebo almost killed her. When Homicide came up with the plan to go kill Gosling, she hid her gun in the robe.

“That’s right, muthafucka! This is Suicide Pussy!” Jasmine said, and then she pumped another bullet into Homicide’s head to make sure he was dead.

Fifty-Two

Two weeks after Jasmine had killed Homicide, Gosling officially retired from the FBI. On the day he retired, Agent Battle officially thanked Jasmine for all of her efforts as a confidential informant.

And as she handed Jasmine her last check, she told her that her services as a confidential informant were no longer needed. “That’s assuming, of course, that you don’t want to stay on and help us.” Agent Battle laughed.

“Ehhh, no!” Jasmine laughed and replied.

“Open up the envelope and make sure everything is right.”

Jasmine opened up the envelope saw the amount of the check. It was two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. “This is my money?” she asked in disbelief.

“Your money,” Agent Battle smiled and said.

Agent Battle reminded her that, as a C.I., she was entitled to a percentage of what the FBI confiscated with a cap of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Jasmine, smiling her ass off, couldn’t believe it.