Chapter 10: Rap Video Rejects
The rainbow sludge evaporated into a new, oppressive humidity. The air was thick with notes of vanilla-scented cigar smoke, expensive leather, and the unmistakable salt-tang of fresh sweat.
Bob’s body was moving before his mind caught up. He was in a seated position, but sinking, the black velvet upholstery of an enormous seat swallowing his thin frame. The world was dark, lit only by pulsing, purple LED strips that ran along the ceiling of a cavernous vehicle. A stretch limo. The windows were blacked out, trapping the heat.
Three shapes loomed over him, silhouetted against the glow.
“Ooh, he’s lookin’ all dazed and confused,” a voice drawled, syrup-thick and artificially husky. “Cute.”
“Like a lost little calculator,” another giggled, the sound like nails on chrome.
“Ain’t nothin’ to calculate, sis,” the third declared, her voice the deepest, a bass note vibrating through the floor. “Just the formula. One plus one plus one… on this.”
A set of long, manicured nails, tipped in neon yellow, traced a path down Bob’s bare chest. He looked down. He was shirtless again, his pants already unbuttoned and pushed down to his thighs. His erection was, as ever, present and painfully full, standing like a pale flagpole in the gloom.
The LED lights flickered, illuminating his new companions in strobing flashes.
They were a symphony of surgical exaggeration. Three women, their skin a uniform shade of matte caramel, faces structured with sharp cheekbones and dominated by inflated, glossy lips that seemed to weigh down their smirks. Their hair was intricate sculptures of weave and lace, one silver, one platinum blonde, one jet black. They wore tiny, iridescent bikini tops that strained against volumized breasts, and thongs that vanished between posteriors so prodigious they cast their own shadows. Gold chains, studded with garish, oversized cubic zirconia, hung heavy around their necks, dipping into cleavage and bouncing against swaying silicone.
“Alright, bitches,” said the one with silver hair, name glinting on her necklace: ‘DIME’. “Beat just dropped. Freestyle battle. Topic is… this sad little white boy’s magic wand.”
The one in black, ‘SPARKLES’, clapped her hands. “You go first, CASH!” she said to the blonde.
CASH didn’t speak. She pivoted, presenting her expansive backside to Bob’s face. She bent over, her hands on her knees, and began to shake. It started as a tremor, then became a seismic event. Her buttocks, impossibly round and rigid at the core yet jiggling at the surface, began to clap together in a rhythmic, thunderous percussion.
CLAP-PAP-PAP-PAP-CLAP!
The limo hit a pothole. The entire vehicle lurched. CASH’s synchronized jiggling became a chaotic, mesmerizing quake, the implants seeming to move with independent, physics-defying life. She peered back between her legs at Bob, her giant lips curling.
“Yeah… my name’s Cash and I’m here to slam… / Watch this white bread turn to grateful ham… / Got more junk in the trunk than a UPS van…”
She dropped lower, the swell of her rear now covering Bob’s entire field of vision, the smell of coconut oil and heat overwhelming. The clapping grew louder, faster, a deafening applause of flesh on flesh.
DIME shoved her aside. “Weak bars, boo. Watch the master.”
She didn’t twerk. She dropped to her knees between Bob’s legs, her giant breasts erupting from her top. She grabbed his shaft with both hands, slicked it with a spit so thick it was like glue, and sandwiched it between her augmented cleavage. They were cool, smooth, and unyielding as polished melons.
Then she started to bounce. Not just her chest, but her whole torso, a violent twerking motion that made her ass cheeks clap a counter-rhythm behind her while her tits milked his cock in a tight, mechanical tunnel.
“DIME piece, yeah, that’s the moniker… / Drain a pale dick like it’s organic tonic-er… / Make him cough up the cream, call it Blondie chronic-ur…!”
She threw her head back, gurgling the last word, her throat convulsing around nothing.
Sparkles couldn’t take it. “Y’all trash!” she screeched. She pushed DIME’s head aside, her mouth already a wide, gloss-filled ‘O’. She didn’t bother with hands. She just aimed and plunged, taking Bob’s entire length into her throat in one gasping, slick swallow.
The sensation was a violent, choking vacuum. Bob’s body arched, a puppet on a string. Sparkles’ eyes watered, mascara streaking, but she held, her throat bulging obscenely around the shape of him.
Then she began to gag. Not a weak choke, but a performance. A deep, wet, rattling “GLUCK-GLUCK-GLAAAARGH” that vibrated through Bob’s core. She pulled off, gasping, a rope of saliva connecting her lip to his tip.
“You hear that reverb?” she panted, triumphant. “That’s the hit single right there!”
It became a battle. DIME went next, deepthroating him with a frantic, sloppy fury, her own gagging sounds a staccato, hiccuping rhythm. Cash followed, trying to out-do them, her nose buried in his pubic hair, her throat emitting a continuous, wet, drowning gurgle as she frantically finger-banged her own thong-clad pussy.
The limo swerved. They tumbled. Breasts and asses fell across Bob’s face, smothering him in silicone and sweat. Chains slapped against his teeth. The freestyles devolved into grunts and competitive slurping.
“Make that white dick sing, Sparkles!”
“I’m—gluck—I’m the DJ of this—gargle—dick!”
“He tastes like panic and rent money!”
Bob was just a conduit. His hips pistoned upward, driven by a script his nerves understood. The pressure built under a cascade of clapping asscheeks, gurgling throats, and the relentless thump-thump-thump of bass from unseen speakers.
The finish was a group project. Sensing his impending eruption, all three shoved their faces into the fray, a tangle of lips, tongues, and grasping hands at his base. He came with a soundless shout, jets of come painting streaks across gleaming gold chains, dripping onto inflated lips and wide, rolling eyes.
They collapsed back, panting, wiping their faces with the backs of their hands, then licking them clean.
“Mmm. Subtle notes of… despair,” DIME said, examining a pearl-white string on her fingernail.
“Told you I’d win,” Sparkles mumbled, her cheek resting on Bob’s thigh.
Cash just twerked her exhausted aftershocks against the limo’s wet bar, making the bottles clink.
Bob slumped, the LED lights beginning to smear into purple blurs. The taste of perfume and stale breath coated his tongue. The thumping bass dissolved into a new, mechanical roar—the grinding of heavy gears and the screech of hydraulic brakes.
The velvet swallowed him whole, and the limo, with all its cloying heat and clattering gold, evaporated into diesel fumes and the cold echo of a vast, empty space.