It’s already going on eleven-thirty. I hop in the shower to do a quick rinse, then brush my teeth and tongue, followed by a Listerine swish and gargle before putting on a pair of Baby Phat jeans and an orange hooded pullover. I try to be as inconspicuous as possible, careful not to wear anything too flashy or over the top. I pull my orange fitted down over my eyes, grab my keys, then head down the stairs and out the door.

“Damn, ma, you fine as hell,” Mr. Seven-And-A-Half says when I open the door of his burgundy Lexus GX470 and climb in.

I smile, licking my bottom lip. “And you’re not so bad looking yourself,” I tell him, downplaying his looks. But the nigga is extra F-I-N-E. He’s the color of milk chocolate and has the nerve to have hazel eyes. “Let me feel that dick,” I say, reaching over and grabbing at his sweats. I rub his crotch, and feel his dick stiffen. He leans his seat all the way back, putting his right arm up over the back of the passenger headrest. “I’m gonna suck this real good for you.”

“Oh yeah,” he says in a low, husky voice. “Show me.”

I tell him to lift up his shirt. He does, revealing a wave of tight, rippled abs with a patch of hair around his navel. I lick his stomach, groping his growing hard-on before sticking my hand down in the waistband of his sweats, then fishing out his dick. He doesn’t have on any underwear, and I’m impressed with what I feel. It’s hot and heavy and thicker than it looked in his picture.

“I hope it tastes as good as it looks,” I say, running my tongue up and down the backside of it, cupping his heavy balls, then slowly swirling my tongue around the head and over the slit.