  
POTLUCK

Tonight, he'd finally use the stopwatch and indulge in a fantasy of his . . . or several.

Lamar was holding it in his right hand the entire ride over to Jon and Tasha's place, running his thumb in a clockwise pattern over the stopwatch's glass face, cupping its rust-colored titanium body from within his coat pocket.

In five minutes, they'd be at Jon and Tasha's.

He was staring straight through the windshield from the passenger seat, unblinking, going through all the scenarios he wanted to carry out tonight.

He could feel his cock waking, shifting, stiffening at the perverted and filthy thoughts marching through his mind's eye like a parade of naked floats all engaged in some sort of raunchy sex act.

His dick twitched.

The car had suddenly stopped; the light had turned red.

Lamar let out a gasp, like a teen whose parents had unexpectedly walked into their room and caught them trying to pump one off.

Dina looked over and said, "Are you okay, babe?"

Lamar turned to his masculine-voiced Azerbaijani fiancée and said, "I'm good, bitch. Just keep yo' eyes on the road, you white colonizer."

Her pencil-thin mustache did a foul number on his erection; knocking him back down to a chub, till there was nothing left but a breakfast sausage anticipating a pair of warm buns to slide into.

She nervously giggled and set her sights back to the road.

Dina was a high school guidance counselor that loved quite a few things: smoking pot, eating, taking a fifteen-and-a-half pound shit on Saturday mornings after eating a ton of sushi on Friday nights (like a disgusting ritual: eat a boatload of fish on Friday night, then sit on the toilet for about an hour on Saturday afternoons, pissing-out-her-ass an unholy amount of liquid shit into the john), watching "Jersey Shore" and "Skins" on MTV, fucking (she'd let Lamar fuck her in the ass a couple of times, but she refused to do it sober; she needed a couple of bottles of cheap champagne first, then you could "blow-out my asshole," as she so eloquently put it), complaining about her friends, bitching about work, and spending money she didn't have on things she didn't need.

By the end of the month, after she paid off her bills and filled the car's gas tank, Dina would be lucky to have a twenty to her name to go along with a pair of lint balls rolling back and forth in her fake Chanel handbag.

She had an abortion to her name, too, and had cut her wrists a few times-both situations related to the same guy that she said, "Fucked me over."

(Some beta male named Vick; a feminine-looking Indian dude she met at the local gym, and whose parents owned a travel agency. Vick had money-Dina took notice of that immediately, and her panties dropped to the floor for that Aladdin-looking fuckhead before you could say golddiggin' whore. The joke was on Dina, because after he'd knocked her up, he demanded she get an abortion. And she did, which left her so fucked up that she began popping Ambien and chasing it with wine before bed. Then she began cutting herself on the insides of both wrists, like some teen-aged girl that had been kicked to the curb by her first love. Dina was twenty-eight numerically, but still a little kid between the ears. A fucking child with an adult woman's ass, but that was about it by way of maturity.)

At the time, Lamar sympathized for Dina, but eventually he came to see her ex wasn't the problem she'd made him out to be.

Dina was just another crazy, dizzy bitch that caused most of the chaos she claimed to be a victim of.

Brooklyn was a flaming shithole, and, due to being a human cesspool, it offered nothing but these types of fatherless, mentally unstable and toxic women.

Dina was a placeholder till better times arrived.

Better times had finally arrived: the stopwatch.

The stopwatch came to him-chosen him . . . his precious.

Lamar turned his head towards the world outside that dank, stuffy Toyota Camry that was starting to smell like BBQ chicken and mac and cheese (he'd made both for tonight's potluck since Dina was too retarded to operate a stove, and the food was in the aluminum pans in the backseat behind him; the scents of both dishes piping through the aluminum foil).

There was a black whore on the corner dressed in a skintight red miniskirt, wearing a blond wig, and picking at her pussy hairs like she was plucking lice out of that coarse afro between her legs.

Her black pimp right behind her, off to the left, pissing on the side of a Chinese restaurant with a sign taped to the window, crudely written with a black sharpie that read: "WE NO TAKE THE EBT! CASH ONLY!"

The light flashed green and Dina rounded the corner, just then her cell went off to the tune of "Who Let The Dogs Out?!"

It was Tasha.

Dina had her hands on the wheel, was trying to park, so she said, "Babe, could you answer that for me and tell Tasha I'm parking?"

"Aight, you bitch ass bitch," Lamar said. He grabbed the iPhone off the console and said, "Yo, sup?"

Tasha cheerfully said, "Oh, hey, Lamar!"

"We coming up in, like, five minutes. Hope y'all hungry 'cause I went all out, no cap!"

Tasha laughed and said, "We're definitely starving tonight!"

Not even three seconds after she'd said that, did Lamar start reading into that sentence; her words-she was trying to send him one of those "subliminal" message-mah-thingies.

"Definitely starving": was Tasha trying to tell Lamar that she hadn't had a cock sandwich since the Obama administration?

That she absolutely wanted-NEEDED-a thorough stretching and pounding of all her holes?

He felt the blood once again rushing to his dick and snapped himself out of it.

"We'll be right up, yo," he said, then pressed END on the call.

Dina had finally parked the car, just outside Jon and Tasha's.

"I'll get the food," Dina said, making herself useful for once.

Jon had come downstairs to greet them; he stood by the half-cracked door wearing a white tee, cargo shorts and crocs.

He was tall; over six feet, but something of a lumbering idiot that just so happened to be bipolar and a pothead.

Lamar stepped out of the car, slammed the passenger side door shut and walked towards Jon.

"Sup, bud?" Jon said, smiling and holding out his hand.

"Not much, playa," Lamar said, giving him a pound and clapping him on the back.

He walked past Jon and into the apartment hall.

Jon and Tasha lived on the second floor of a two-story house (the landlord was on the first floor and kept to himself).

Lamar went up the stairs.

"Hey, Dina. How you been?" Jon hugged her, and as she walked by, closed the door behind them.

"I've been alright," Dina said. "Just a little diarrhea recently, y'know? But I ate some bread this afternoon and feel better. And you, Jon?"

She went up the stairs, following Lamar with the aluminum pans of food.

Jon was still processing the "little diarrhea" part, he wondered if he imagined Dina saying that, or if she really did have an explosive case of the splattershits.

He and Tasha had fought that afternoon over something "fecal related"-and isn't it ironic, don't ya think?

Jon was fired from his personal trainer gig at Equinox today (they caught him sitting bare-assed by a toilet, molding his turds into a T-rex in the men's bathroom and making dinosaur roars-he sounded like a half-retarded lion having its cock squeezed by a giant. The situation freaked out several members and staff. Jon was fired on the spot. Apparently, Jon hadn't been taking his meds. Jon and Tasha had agreed they wouldn't bring it up tonight and instead focus on having a much better evening. He even showered and changed his underwear).

Jon sniffed his fingers, shook his head approvingly and said, "I couldn't be any better."

Lamar stepped into the apartment, greeted by their two dogs at the foot of the stairs: Booger and Farts; the latter a neutered poodle, the former a bulldog with a "nasal situation."

"Sup, you little fucking bitches!" Lamar yelled, kneeling down to pet both excited dogs.

"Well, hello to you, too!" Tasha said from the kitchen.

Lamar looked towards the sound of her voice, saw her just as she bent over to pull out an aluminum pan of nachos from the oven, and said, "Hi, Tasha."

(Mmm! That ass looks so fucking good!)

She turned around, a toweled hand holding the tray, smiling with those plump lips and big brown eyes.

Her hair was pinned back, and she was wearing a gray tee with tight blue jeans and ankle socks.

Tasha was about five-foot-ten with thick thighs and something of a fat, juicy-looking ass.

You know she played sports in high school-built those thighs and ass up, and now, at almost forty years old, she still had a body that screamed "do with me what you want, just make sure you pound the fucking hell outta me!"

Lamar walked over, and after she put the tray on the table, hugged her tight (making sure to press her tits extra close to his chest; so he could feel those breasts up against his flesh, and feel her groin grind along the chub emanating from his crotch) and said, "Sup, girl?"

She kissed him on the cheek, saw Dina now stepping into the apartment and went to her.

He wondered if she felt his cock poke at her crotch while he held her close, and if she "got off" on doing stuff like this behind their lovers' backs.

This little game-Tasha knows what she's doing.

"Hey, girl!" Tasha said to Dina.

She hugged her and both exchanged pleasantries, with Tasha taking the pans of food off of Dina's hands, placing them both on the table with all the other food.

Lamar couldn't stop stealing glances at Tasha's round ass in those blue jeans.

Was she wearing any panties tonight? he thought.

Couldn't see any lines-maybe she's wearing a thong, or a g-string?

Jon came up the steps and asked, "Anyone want a beer or soda or nachos?"

"I'll take a beer," Lamar said. Jon grabbed one from the fridge and walked it over to the table.

"Here you go, bud. You been watching football lately?" Jon asked.

Tasha poured Dina a glass of sangria and the two girls sat and talked about random bullshit.

"Nah," Lamar said. He popped the cap off the bottle and added, "I'll wait till the playoffs, that's when it's interesting. You know these niggahs only play hard when the season is ending."

He took a swig and set the bottle back down.

Lamar looked over towards Tasha, sitting at the table with that "secretary spread" she had goin' on: both butt cheeks looked to be swallowing that wooden chair holding 'em up.

Too much ass for so little chair.

He wished it was his face she'd been sitting on.

Tasha said, "Oh, I'll get it and show you then."

Just then Lamar turned, saw Tasha get up and walk towards the back of the apartment, those thick thighs and meaty ass walking past him and towards the bedroom.

She smiled at him as she walked past, the side of her hips nearly brushing his crotch as she strode along.

Lamar's eyeballs were on those ass cheeks, watching them rise and fall like two meaty masses of ham, aching to be licked, bitten into, completely ravaged and devoured.

He could feel his cock throbbing, harder than marble, screaming to be let out of its denim hell so it could slide into Tasha's heavenly ass.

The stopwatch-it was in his pocket, all he had to do was press the trigger.

He took a sip of his beer, reminded himself to be patient and thought of something else.

"I found it!" Tasha yelled from the back of the apartment, a door closed (closet door, perhaps?) and she made her way back towards the living room.

She dropped something, bent down (with an insane arch and spread that was hard to ignore), picked it up and walked past Lamar.

This time Tasha didn't sit at the table, she bent over it, going through some photographs with Dina.

Her ass was sticking out towards the hall.

Jon was sitting on the couch, eating a chicken wing and watching "Rick and Morty," with both dogs sleeping by his feet.

He ripped a thunderous fart, laughed at himself, and went back to watching the cartoon like a kid trapped in an autistic man's body.

Lamar had his thumb on the stopwatch's trigger, his eyes on Tasha's ass; inspecting every inch and curve, wondering what those cheeks look like naked, how it would feel to sink his teeth into those meaty mountains, and what she'd taste like as his tongue slid up and down the entire length of that inviting crack.

His feet began to shift; one foot in front of the other, inching his way closer towards the table, till he was positioned directly behind Tasha.

He could hear his heartbeat racing.

The two women were so involved with rummaging through all those old high school photos, and reliving the memories that came with them, that they hadn't noticed Lamar slithering his way towards them.

"I saw her in Key Food the other day," Tasha said. "She's getting married in June to some guy who's-"

She didn't get to finish her sentence.

Tasha-and everyone and everything in the world, except Lamar, had been frozen in place.

The stopwatch had been activated.

Lamar slid his thumb off the trigger, walked over to see Tasha's "paused" face, and jubilantly screamed, "Yes! It fucking works! Holy fucking shit!"

He walked towards Jon: the guy had been "paused" with his mouth partially open and his right hand down his shorts, likely scratching his nuts like the caveman that he was.

The dogs were motionless at his feet, like two gargoyles.

Lamar farted in Jon's mouth and looked towards Dina.

Dina was "paused" while squinting intently at a photograph of a brunette girl with huge titties and a unibrow.

The sound of a loud spank filled the living room as Lamar's hand came crashing down on Tasha's left ass cheek.

She didn't flinch, or move at all, actually.

Lamar positioned himself directly behind Tasha, his hardened bulge pressing in between the crack of her ass.

"Now," he began, "you said you were starving, right?"

His hands groped hungrily along her hips, then up and under her shirt, where he cupped her breasts and squeezed.

He went under her bra, feeling the warm, caramel color of her flesh and her nipples.

Mmm, her fucking nipples.

His cock was aching to be set loose.

He came around to Tasha's front just to see her breasts; those nipples, too.

Damn! So fucking hot!

And no one could stop him!

The stopwatch kept ticking away and holding everyone in a state of frozen vulnerability.

He grabbed Tasha's right titty, leaned in, and placed the entire mound of juicy meat in his mouth, passing his tongue over her hard nipple.

He sucked on that tit like a savage animal, biting at the nipple, too.

His hand started working the other tit into the action.

Lamar went back and forth on Tasha's titties-grabbing, sucking and biting.

He unfastened his zipper and his cock popped out, fully erect and angled in an upwards curve like a shoehorn.

Lamar took one last suck at her breasts before kneeling behind Tasha, his face parked so close to her ass that he could smell her holes through her jeans.

And they smelled as if they were ready for a well-deserved (and much-needed) stretching and pounding.

He buried his face between her crack, took a deep whiff and blissfully exhaled.

It smelled like sex.

He stuck his tongue out, and pressed it deep against the area he figured Tasha's asshole was aligned.

This was foreplay for Lamar.

It would be too easy to just pull her jeans down and do it.

By leaving her pants on and doing it this way, he was building up the anticipation of doing it; and the incredible orgasm at the crescendo, which is why the foreplay had to be meticulously carried out and savored.

He did it again: driving his tongue in between Tasha's ass, imagining himself tongue fucking her tight, sweet asshole while she moaned in pleasure at the sensation of having her back door savored and stretched.  


  


The Stopwatch: Potluck