Thong on Fire

  THONG ON FIRE

  ALSO BY NOIRE

  G-Spot

  Candy Licker

  Baby Brother

  Thug-A-Licious

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Noire

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Song lyrics written by Reem Raw, Robb Hawk, and Queena Marie. Used with Permission.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Noire.

  Thong on fire: an urban erotic tale / by Noire.

  p. cm.

  1. African Americans—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3614.O45T45 2007 2006036154

  813'.6—dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5128-7

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-5128-X

  is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  This book is dedicated to all the Juicys, Candys, Carmieshas and Saucys in my hood. Lift yourself up and fly with the strength of your own beautiful wings.

  You are capable and lovable

  Competent and delectable

  Gifted and gorgeous

  Fly and formidable

  So keep doin the damn thang!

  Acknowledgments

  Father, thank you.

  Missy, Nisaa, Jay, Man. Tyrone the terrible tyke.

  Y’all got my whole heart

  Reem, Hawk, Spoons, Queena, Speedy, and Gita. We next!

  Angie, Aretha, Melissa, and everyone who grinds hard at NOIREMagazine.com, I have nothing but luv for ya.

  STAY BLACK

  NOIRE

  Hottt Saucy!

  This here ain’t no romance

  It’s an urban erotic tale

  Hottt Saucy’s on a mission

  And she ain’t about to fail

  Body of a goddess

  But a devil in disguise

  Chinky eyes full of dollar signs, slick tongue full of lies

  From chips to bling and finer things, Miss Saucy’s out for self She’ll play you like a herb then put yo ass back on the shelf

  Sexing is her weapon, she’ll go grimy to exploit it She schemed a dope plan and hooked the top man But her demons just wouldn’t stay dormant

  A hustler’s dream, the best of cream, her booty made her sublime

  She worked her game and stole some fame and slicked herself a goldmine

  Top of the world wasn’t good enough and greed got Saucy dippin

  But gangstas see out both their eyes and the big one caught her slippin

  So this here ain’t no romance

  It’s a straight-up shiesty game

  Slide too close to Saucy and get burnt up in her flame

  In the Beginning…

  HAVE YOU EVER scratched and schemed your way into somebody’s heart? Laid some ill na-na on a gangsta and then hustled him straight outta the game? Traded your goodies for even more goodies? Have you ever schemed on your best friend? Plotted on some real gutta shit that you knew was gonna devastate her, but you went ahead and did it anyway? Did you use what you got to grab what you wanted? Committed acts so grimy that even God looked down on you and cried? Oh? That ain’t how you living? Well there’s a stunna up in this party tonight, so you betta get on your game and clock ya’ man. Goodnight, hater! Don’t knock my hustle. Didn’t nobody slump my boogeyman in the middle of the night. I was just a lost little girl forced to make it in a grown woman’s world. A child turned out by the rulers of the game. Shit, when you get thrown into a snakepit you better learn how to wiggle! It’s all about survival, baby. And not only did I learn the code of the streets, I made my own damn rules and got paid in the process. So listen close, but watch your pockets. I’m a Harlem girl. A scandalous bitch. A ruthless mama. Me and this city are just alike. Grimy. And we never, ever sleep. So take some notes and get up on a few things. My name is Saucy Sarita Robinson. When life gave me lemons I did not make lemonade. I slipped those lemons in the next bitch’s purse, because this is how I’m living.

  Seung Cee

  SHE OPENED HER EYES the moment the doorknob turned. Lying in the darkness, the little girl smelled cigarettes and oranges and hated them both. The air was still. Footsteps crossed the wooden floorboards, slow but deliberate. She closed her eyes quickly, knowing what was coming but powerless to stop it.

  Deep, excited breathing. Directly above her. Suddenly the Harlem night seemed hotter than usual. The child began to sweat. A weight settled down beside her on the bed. She held her breath and waited.

  The first few caresses were random and innocent. A finger traced the Asian curve of her closed eyes, then twirled a sleek lock of her curly black hair. The outline of her nut-brown lips was drawn. And then the fingers began to creep. Over her chin, past her barely budding breasts, and down below her tight stomach.

  The sheet she lay sweating under was slid back, and her dirty nightshirt hiked up. The hiss of excited breathing was the only sound in the room. Urgent fingers were inside her panties. Pulling on the waistband until they were down past her knees. Sweaty hands parted her thighs and spread her legs wide. A nose pressed into her flesh and she heard a deep inhalation of breath. And then warmth and wetness enveloped her down there and slurping sounds rose in the air.

  The girl lay rigid in the darkness as the soft tongue probed and licked at her private spot. She didn’t cry out or move. She’d get her ass beat if she did that. Besides, the action going on between her legs that used to feel stank and nasty didn’t bother her so much anymore. If she held still and didn’t fight it, it wasn’t no worse than sitting in Mister Jack’s lap while his thang jumped outta its box.

  Already she was a survivor. She could get through almost anything and forget most of it when she needed to. But there was no way she could forget the gifts. She lived for those. The wrinkled dollar bills that she’d find on her dresser in the morning. The cheap rings and bracelets and dollar-store necklaces that glittered and shined, but eventually made her skin turn green. Or sometimes the small bag of candy. Every now and then there might be fruit. A lopsided apple. A banana going brown. Or maybe a nasty orange. It really didn’t matter what she got. As long as she was getting something out of it, she could survive it.

  A moan flew from the girl’s mouth, surprising her. She arched her back. She was shocked by the spark of heat that was trying to catch fire between her long, shapely legs. The tongue darting between her lower lips picked up its pace, licking the soft young mound that hadn’t even started sprouting hair yet. Grown hands cupped her curved ass cheeks as she was gulped from like a fountain.

  And then the body nestled between her legs began to tremble. The nibbles and licks became longer and harder. Fingers dug into her ass and penetrated her hole. Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! A thrusting pelvis smacked into the mattress, humping hard, fucking like a dog.

  And then it was over.

  The girl lay still, her eyes squeezed closed. The bed creaked as the weight rose, then slow footsteps crossed the floor once more. She held her breath until she heard her door open, and only then did she dare open her eyes again.

  And when she did, she saw her mother standing in the hall. Tall, Asian, and beautiful. Creamy skin, dark silky hair hanging down to her waist. Smoking a cigarette and staring into her room from the doorway.

  The orange-smelling figure walked over to her mother
and they embraced. Lips parted and tongues tangled as they kissed hotly, sharing her young juices between them. The girl stared in silence as the same fingers that had just penetrated her ass slid up her mother’s long, toned thigh, and disappeared under her short kimono, digging in her pussy.

  Her mother smiled then lowered her head, nuzzling the slender neck and kissing the firm brown breasts of her dyke lover.

  “Come me now, King,” Kimichi said in her halting Asian English. She turned away from her daughter and held out her hand. She led the woman toward her bedroom, from which the sounds of wild sex would soon be heard. “Seung Cee very nice, yes? But now it my turn.”

  Chapter 1

  THIS WAS GONNA be my last damn time riding somebody’s nasty Prison Gap bus. Babies were crying, music was blasting, and every ghetto trick in New York City was trying to get upstate for a trailer visit. I elbowed the hefty sistah who was sitting on my right. A licked-down watermelon stick was clutched in her fat fist, and she was snoring like a truck driver when we hadn’t even hit the highway yet. I pushed her ass even harder. She had the whole damn window to lean up against, but she insisted on pouring that chocolate Jell-O all over me.

  I crossed my legs and tried not to let too much of my Fendi jacket touch the stained cloth seats. There wasn’t no telling how many skeezers had sat their stank asses here before me, and I wasn’t anxious to pick nothing up on my last trip.

  New York was hot as hell for September, and right outside, Columbus Circle was live and jumping. Brothas was hoopin’ under lights and slamming killers on the handball courts in Central Park. White boys skateboarded off half-pipe ramps about to bust they asses. A Sabrett cart sat on the corner where tourists lined up to buy dirty franks with onions and sauerkraut.

  The bus I was on had a big number 4 taped to both sides. Fifty dollars and an eight-hour ride would get me upstate to Sullivan County’s Woodburne Correctional Facility where my gangsta boo, Sincere, was finishing up his last two months of a one-year bid.

  Sincere was originally from L.A., but had come to Harlem to run product with some Haitians that he was down with in a major way. But you know how it goes. Niggas got shiesty, shit got shady, and Sincere ended up getting knocked for associating with known felons and violating his parole.

  For the past ten months I’d been climbing my ass on the bus right along with all the rest of the jailhouse wifeys, and enduring that long-behind ride upstate, not only to see my sugar daddy, but to keep his game alive. Shit, couldn’t no prison bars keep a gangsta like Sincere on lock. My boo was getting his hustle on from deep inside the joint. He controlled the money game by keeping his buyers and his suppliers isolated and totally dependent on him for all contact, and my job was to be the information broker who helped him keep the two ends from meeting.

  Life with Sincere was sweet, even if he was locked down. He did his bid, while I held down his three-bedroom apartment that he had let me decorate with the finest shit money could buy. I shopped my ass off, tricking his chips to keep myself looking and feeling grand. And best of all, I didn’t have to worry about shit except helping him keep his empire thriving while he chilled lovely in the belly of the beast.

  So twice a month I made a product run. I picked up a sample package from a designated location, and carried it behind the walls of the medium-security prison where I tongue-slipped it to my boo. And in return he slipped me two addresses. One to the spot where the remaining product could be found, and the other that told me where the money would be waiting to change hands.

  Even though I was traveling on some fake ID I had bought from some white businessmen in Midtown, shit could go wrong at any time. It was risky as hell transporting drugs into a state prison, but today’s trip had a dual purpose. Nothing coulda stopped me from getting next to Sincere’s black ass on this goddamn visit. The game had changed, but that nigga just didn’t know it. A little birdie had dropped some real gutta shit in my ear, and if I played my cards right, I would walk outta that prison with some chips and some payback all at the same time.

  Tossing my curls, I checked out some of the stunts who were straggling onto the bus. According to my Rolex we should have been moving by now, but there were so many baby mamas dragging their whining kids and shopping bags full of food and toys, that we were running behind.

  I elbowed the snoring Fat and Fruity sitting there leaning left and flopping all over me until she opened her eyes and straightened her ass up. That watermelon stick wasn’t doing shit to cover up all that Henny coming outta her pores. She gave me a shitty look and sucked her teeth, then pressed her face against the booger-crusted window and went right back to sleep.

  Unlike a lot of these chicks, I never slept on the bus. I didn’t care how tired I was or how long I had to ride. I never closed my eyes anywhere unless the atmosphere was right, and them gangsta bitches riding the Prison Gap bus didn’t make me feel exactly cozy.

  Twenty minutes later the bus was full and I was watching the streets of Manhattan slip past outside. Big girl was still knocked out on my right, and some bugged-out chick with three stair-step kids was fussing on my left.

  “These goddamn kids!” she complained, slapping the bottom of her toddler’s sneaker to get it back on his foot. “Ain’t nobody tell you,” she said, twisting and turning his foot and trying to force it back inside the expensive little sneaker, “to take off your goddamn shoe!”

  The baby hollered like she was breaking his ankle.

  “Shut the fuck up!” I muttered, turning away from them. I hoped like hell he wasn’t gonna be crying and fussing all the way upstate. At least not sitting next to me. I knew his mama had heard me because she sucked her teeth real loud.

  “’Scuse me?” This ho was actually tapping on my arm.

  I looked down at her grimy-ass hand with the raggedy, bit-back nails, then straight into her face with much heat in my eyes.

  “Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” I snapped, shaking her off.

  She quit messing with the baby’s shoe and gave me the bitch-hell-no-you-didn’t look.

  “Well fuck you too! I was just gonna ask you what time it was, but now I see! Ya Chinese-looking trick!”

  “Well stop smoking crack and buy a fuckin’ watch!”

  “You better leave her crazy ass alone,” a girl who was sitting in front of her turned around and laughed. “Bitch prob’ly know karate.”

  I knew where this chick was going, but like most people she had totally missed the mark. Don’t let the chinky eyes fool you. At five feet nine, with a hundred and twenty pounds of titties, ass, light brown skin and slanted eyes, I’d been hearing that “Chinese” shit all my life. The real scoop was, I was half black and half Asian. My father had been a heroin fiend from Harlem, and my mother was a Korean prostitute who had turned him out while he was stationed in her country with the marines. Daddy had married Kimichi and brought her back home to New York with him, and when he got popped in an armed robbery a few years later, me and my moms were left stranded on 128th Street with nowhere else to go.

  I kept my eyes forward and ignored the chick in my ear. What she needed to do was take care of all them nasty-nosed kids and keep her dirty hands up off of me. A lot of bitches assumed I was soft because of the way I looked. And yes, I was a dime from head to toe. I’d gotten the best of both worlds. Long, curly hair, soft brown skin, chinky eyes and a dazzling smile. And the body. Yeah, the body was from Bally’s and every inch of it was tight. A nigga could eat a whole meal off the hump in my ass. In fact, if you put me in a butt-out contest with hoes like Buffie, or Nutmeg, or Ki Toy, I’d shut all of them down. My lady lumps were just that humped.

  We made our first stop about an hour later, somewhere outside of the city.

  “Okay, people!” the bus coordinator yelled as we pulled into a gas station that had a convenience store attached. “This is a ten-minute stop! You can go in the store and get something to eat, use the bathroom or do whatever. Just be back on this bus in ten minutes, or be left!”

>   Big girl next to me was still snoring up against that nasty window and I left her ass right there. The wheels had barely stopped turning when I grabbed my Dior purse and matching overnight bag. I jumped out my seat and beat most of the mamas and their babies down the aisle, then hopped off the bus.

  A second bus going to Woodburne had just pulled up behind us, so I hurried up inside the store and found the bathroom. A few people had gotten in there before me, but I cut the line and pushed my way in front of two little girls, then found an empty stall and locked the door behind me.

  I checked my bag and made sure my doe and my sample product was straight, then I flushed the toilet with the tip of my shoe and walked back out. At the sink, I washed my hands and pretended to mess with my hair. I arranged my jet-black natural curls around my shoulders while I looked in the mirror and checked out everybody who stepped through the door behind me.

  And they were checking me out too.

  I had on a pair of Baby Phat jeans that showed off my small waist and bubble ass and a satin corset under my jacket. I laughed inside as chicks walked in the bathroom and glanced around, then zoomed in on that full phatty package in my trunk before looking away, like what I was holding could possibly be ignored. My attention shifted when a tired-looking broad walked over to the sink and smiled at me through the mirror.

  “Hey,” she said shyly. She had red freckles on her yellow pie face and a big rotten grin. “You going to Sullivan?”

  I shook my head as I calculated her situation at a glance: She was young, broke, trifling, and going upstate to visit a criminal nigga who was depending on her to keep his gear fresh and his commissary fat.