Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang
KITTY-KITTY,
BANG BANG
Dear Reader:
It is once again my pleasure to present a novel by Cairo, one of the hottest additions to the Strebor Books family. His first book, The Kat Trap, was so intriguing that it became an instant classic. Now Cairo follows up with its sequel and Katrina, Kat for short, is back with a vengeance.
The ruthless diva has tamed down as far as her guns are concerned, however, when drama surfaces, she settles the issue in her own style—the way she knows best.
Cairo’s titles—The Man Handler, Daddy Long Stroke and Deep Throat Diva—all feature his unique brand of erotica: raw and lustful. He is fast becoming synonymous with the genre as he delivers novel after novel of wild adventure.
Hopefully, after you read this book, you will walk away analyzing your own sexual behavior, the decisions that you make in the name of love and lust, and how everything has its consequences. Cairo has once again penned a wonderful novel and we are all highly anticipating his future works. Stay tuned for his next adventure, Man Swappers.
Cairo has a weekly spot as host on Tuesdays at 10 p.m. on my social networking site, PlanetZane.org. Thanks for supporting the authors in the Strebor family and for the continuous love and support that you have shown me over the past decade. I love and appreciate each and every one of you. To find me on the web, you may also go to eroticanoir.com or Facebook / Zane Strebor.
Blessings,
Publisher
Strebor Books International
www.simonandschuster.com/streborbooks
ALSO BY CAIRO
Deep Throat Diva
The Man Handler
Daddy Long Stroke
The Kat Trap
Strebor Books
P.O. Box 6505
Largo, MD 20792
http://www.streborbooks.com
www.SimonandSchuster.com
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.
© 2011 by Cairo
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.
ISBN 978-1-59309-303-7
ISBN 978-1-4391-8406-6 (ebook)
LCCN 2011928052
First Strebor Books trade paperback edition November 2011
Cover design: www.mariondesigns.com
Cover photograph: © Keith Saunders/Marion Designs
1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Manufactured in the United States of America
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO
all The Kat Trap lovers who threatened to
hunt me down if I didn’t bring their girl, Kat, back.
Well, she’s baaaaaaaaaack!
And she’s nastier, freakier and crazier than ever; just how you like it.
Enjoy!
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, to the sexually liberated and open-minded: Thanks for supportin’ my books and for continuing to embrace the sexual revolution with me, responsibly and respectfully. Raise ya freak flags and let ’em fly high!
To my publicist, Yona Deshommes at Simon & Schuster: Thanks for continuously doing what you do best. Keep crackin’ that whip and bein’ ya boy’s gatekeeper (smile)!
To the readers and fans (new and old), who continue to support my work, spread the word, and email me your comments and thoughts: Thank you, thank you, thank you! On some real ish, I ’preciate YOU and the luv!
A special shout-out to all of my Facebook Beauties and Cuties who hit me up behind the scenes, post on my wall, and/or poke me (even though I don’t poke ya back, LOL), wanting more of the Cairo juice: Thanks for ridin’ this wave with me!
To all my peeps who come thru and chill wit’ me in chat every Tuesday night on Planetzane.org: Thanks for keepin’ chat hot and for allowin’ me to finally stay on topic. I enjoy the vibe!
To everyone who continues to visit my website and blog (and who keep returning for more of the Cairo juice): From China, Russia and Singapore to Italy, Greece and Egypt—and all over the U.S., the monthly stats are still lookin’ real crazy. Thanks! And to the members of Cairo’s World, you already know how it goes down. Thanks for keepin’ it real nasty wit’ me.
To Zane and Charmaine: Thanks for everything!
To my beautifully talented, freak-nasty partner in crime, Allison Hobbs: Whew, I love you and ya sticky drawers. Thanks, baby girl, for always having ya boy’s back.
And, last but not least, to the naysayers who still struggle with my style of writing: You inspire me to write nastier, raunchier and filthier; real talk. Yes, with more graphic, steamy sex and less story because I can. And because there’s a growing audience of readers who want it, crave it, beg for it, just how I bring it: hot, nasty, and raw. Trust me. Nothing’s gonna change. So thank you for being my motivation. But, uh, why you still readin’ it?
One luv—
Cairo
CHAPTER ONE
Fly, exotic bitch wit’ the long lashes and slanted eyes…smooth, buttery thighs…fat ass…soft lips…got niggas ’n they bitches tryna get up in these hips…got ’em turnin’ tricks…beggin’ to lick the clit…while I’m ridin’ down on a nigga’s dick…got muhfuckas lined up to get glazed wit’ my cream…niggas tossin’ ’n turnin’…can’t get me outta they dreams…
’Scuse me, bitches! Can I have ya attention, please? In case some of you hatin’-ass Tricks and Hoes forgot who I am, let me reintroduce myself. I’m that cinnamon-colored beauty with that sexy swagger and straight-up bangin’ body that keeps the bitches rollin’ they eyes—and niggas recklessly eyeballin’ me, undressin’ and tryna mentally fuck me. I’m that chick rockin’ all the fly wears and pushin’ the hot-ass whip that all the other bitches wanna be like. I’m the chick bitches still wanna hate, but love to grin up in her face, always wantin’ to be up in her space ’cause I’m e’erything they’ll never be. Rich, fly and muthafuckin’ F-I-N-E! Not braggin’; just keepin’ shit real. Bitch, whaaaat?
Call me shallow, call me superficial; call me whatever the
fuck floats ya boat, but know this: You’ll never call a bitch broke, busted, or beat down. So keep hatin’. Keep poppin’ shit. Keep pickin’ ya face up. ’Cause a bitch like me feeds you dust. So, poof!
Annnnnnnywho, for my bitches and niggahs who I fucks wit’, I was on hiatus for a hot minute. I had’a step outta the game to get my mind right. ’Cause on some real shit, after how shit went down in Atlantic City, it had a bitch’s dome all jacked. Oh, trust. I heard how some’a them corny-ass broads were tryna come at my neck for puttin’ a bullet in Grant’s bucket. Predictable, they say? Uh, what the fuck them birds thought I was gonna do? Let the nigga walk after he done popped up in the room and saw I done bodied his fam? Bitch, puhleeze. You must be smokin’ that shit if you thought I was gonna let that nigga get a free pass. Yeah, he had that bomb-ass dick. And yeah, the nigga’s head game was sick. He knew how’ta tongue-fuck this pussy ’til a bitch shook. But, fuck what ya heard. Good dick, slammin’ tongue, or not. My number one rule is: No witnesses, no evidence. Period! So say what the hell you want. I’ma paid bitch, not a dumb one.
Still, I’ma keep it raw wit’cha. For a hot minute, my soul ached. It ripped a bitch’s heart to have’ta lay that fine, sexy nigga down. And yeah…I dropped a few tears. But there was no other option. Well, none that was gonna work for me. Prison, not! Him puttin’ lead in me, not! Me stressin’, wonderin’ if the nigga’s gonna be on some revenge-type shit, not! So, he had’a go. And for a bitch like me, it was for the best.
Like I told ya’ll from the dip, I fucked for sport. But I murdered for business. Yes, you heard me. I said fucked and murdered as in past tense. Well, for now, that is. It’s been almost two years since a bitch rode down on sum dick, then took the nigga’s head off. Shit, a bitch ain’t had no dick since…neva mind. I ain’t in the mood to get into it right now.
My cell rings. I grab it off the nightstand, peepin’ the digits.
“Bitch,” Chanel snaps in my ear the minute I answer. “What took ya ass so long to answer?”
“Slut,” I snap back, “the last time I checked I wasn’t suckin’ ya clit, so pump ya raggedy brakes ’fore you get ya fronts knocked.”
She laughs. “Trick, puhleeze. Ya ass ’posed to pick up on da first ring. You know what it is, boo. Don’t have ma-ma spank that ass.” She laughs harder. Oh, I see this ho is in rare form this mornin’, I think as I try ’n hold back a yawn.
“Yeah, I know you better fall back wit’ all that boo ’n ma-ma shit. I done warned ya ass ’bout that lesbo shit. It’s too early in the fuckin’ mornin’ for that clit-lickin’ bullshit.”
She continues laughin’. This bitch is my girl ’n all, but I swear sometimes she be on some real extra shit. Not that I give a fuck if she’s poppin’ tits ’n clits in her mouth, ’cause she’s gonna be my girl, regardless. But a bitch like me is only takin’ a dick that’s attached to a real nigga in the back of her throat and deep in her fat pussy. “Hahaha, hell, bitch. I can’t stand nuthin’ yo’ cum-guzzlin’ ass stand for.”
“Yeah, right,” she says, crackin’ up. “That’s what ya mouth says.”
“Whaaat eva. Why the fuck is you callin’ me, tramp?”
“Fuck all that you talkin’,” she says, chucklin’. “Oh, before I forget, guess who I ran into the other night and was askin’ ’bout you?”
“Who?”
“Patrice. And as usual ya aunt was dipped in some ill shit.”
I roll my eyes. Yeah, I’ll give it to her ass, though. The ho definitely knows how’ta throw it on. But, she still ain’t as bad as me. And she damn sure ain’t servin’ me. I bet her ass is still livin’ up in da projects wit’ Nana, triflin’ bitch! “Mmmph, where you see that roach at?” She tells me she ran into her at the Ledisi concert at BB King Blues Club and Grill in Times Square. “Well, I don’t know why the fuck she was tryna check for me.”
“She wanted to know what you were up to, then started talkin’ ’bout how you done got all brand-new on e’eryone, changin’ ya numbers ’n shit.”
“Yup, fuck all’a them hoes. And I hope you didn’t tell that bitch shit, either.”
“Oh, she was tryna fish me, but trust…you already know. I got you. I kept it real cute.”
“Good. They all dead to me.”
“I hear you, girl. But, damn…that’s kinda harsh.”
“Harsh my ass. It is what it is.”
“Kat, you know I usually keep my mouth shut, but this craziness between ya’ll has been goin’ on for too long. That’s still ya family, girl. Don’t you think it’s time ya’ll try ’n peace shit up?”
“Yeah, when that bitch’s in a box and I spit on her grave. Then it’s peace. Until then, that bitch is invisible to me.”
“Well, alrighty then. Movin’ right along. The reeeeal reason I was callin’ ya ass is to find out when you bringin’ ya dusty-ass back to the East Coast. There’s this bangin’-ass party comin’ up the end of next month and you need to have ya ass here for it.”
“Umm, Sweetie, you know I ain’t beat to be ’round a buncha played-out, dick-thirsty Wal-mart bitches.”
“Trick, don’t clown me. You know I wouldn’t be callin’ ya ass for no low-budget showdowns. This is all top-of-da-line dick and dollas, boo.”
“Hmmph. Who’s givin’ it?” I ask, tryna decide if I wanna blaze. I glance at the clock. 8:45 A.M. I get outta bed and walk over to my armoire and open it. I pull out a bag of purple haze. Open it, then take a deep whiff, closin’ my eyes. Yeah, this that good shit right here, but I ain’t feelin’ it. I reseal the bag, then toss it back in the drawer, pullin’ out the chocolate thai. Yeah, this is what’a bitch needs to jumpstart the mornin’.
“Remember that baller nigga Thug Gee from Newark who gave that party at Studio 9 before the shit shut down?”
“Yeah,” I state, pullin’ out my Dutches. I lay my stash and cigars on the nightstand, then go into the bathroom. I sit on the toilet. How could I ever forget that party? That’s the night I met Grant. The night I dropped down low, popped my hips, and pressed my juicy ass up against his cock and grinded into him ’til his shit bricked up. The night I knew I’d end up fuckin’ him. It’s the same night e’ery bitch on the floor wished they coulda been me.
“Well, he’s throwin’ another one in Manhattan at Eden….” Mmmph. She’s talkin’ ’bout that spot over on Eight Ave between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh streets. It used to be the China Club back in the day. Anyway, it has a lil’ rooftop area for peeps to sit ’n chill and get they drink on wit’out all that loud music beatin’ ’em in the head when they tired of bein’ hemmed up inside. And the music’s real cute. But from what I remember, the two times I went there, the drinks weren’t hittin’ on shit and they had more bitches than niggas up in there. And most of ’em wasn’t even dimes. And the few that did look like sumthin’, they weren’t no high-end bitches. And the truth is, I ain’t have no business up in there wit’ ’em.
“If I decide to come through, you need to make sure ya ass gotta back-up plan for us in case that shit is busted.”
“Oh, trust. Word has it’s gonna be fiiiyah. You know that nigga only rolls wit’ them balla niggas.”
I roll my eyes, wipin’ my snatch, then flushin’ the toilet. This thirsty bitch stays tryna find her next trick. “Umm, what’s good wit’ Divine?” I ask sarcastically, checkin’ to see if the nigga’s still dickin’ her. I’m at the sink washin’ my hands, admirin’ my reflection in the mirror. Hmmph, even wit’ ya hair tossed all over ya head, and sleep in ya eyes, you still a hot, buttery bitch!
She sucks her teeth. “He’s just dandy. Thank you very much.”
I step back into my bedroom, sittin’ on the side of the bed while I split open a Dutch and pack it wit’ my mornin’ get right. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve always liked that nigga. Is he still rabbit-fuckin’ you, or has his stroke game improved?”
Now, typically askin’ a bitch ’bout her man’s dick game is a no-no, but since she’s always put it out there in the past
that his dick game was mad whack; that he be fuckin’ her mad fast and whatnot, then nuttin’ off in minutes—then it’s a fair question.
“OhmyGod, I can’t believe I told you that, and you remembered. Girl, he finally got that shit together. Took him two years to learn how’ta slow it down and not be so damn eager to nut. I mean, damn. I know I got that bomb pussy, but still.”
I suck my teeth. “Ho, please. Ain’t nobody tryna hear ’bout how ill ya snatch work is. I asked you ’bout Divine handlin’ his. I’m glad he finally got that situation together, though. I’d hate for him to get fucked over ’cause he ain’t fuckin’ you right, even though the nigga’s been damn good to you.”
“Sweetie, don’t think I don’t know what you doin’. Fuck you.”
I laugh, tightly rollin’ my blunt. I spark it, takin’ a toke. “Ho, I got nuthin’ but love for ya silly ass. But that nigga Divine needs to straight dip on ya ass ’cause you ain’t ever gonna ’preciate what you got.”
“Bitch, how you sound? That shit ain’t true. I know what I got.”
“Oh, really? And what’s that?”
“I gotta nigga in my bed,” she snapped, servin’ me up a dish of ’tude. “What’a ’bout you?”
I ig the ’tude and keep pressin’. “Ho, yeah, you might gotta nigga. But ya ass is still scrapin’ the barrel tryna find ya next catch. I’m paid, bitch. I don’t need a nigga. And a bitch ain’t trickin’ no niggas to make shit pop. That’s what about me.”
“Bitch, what-da-fuck-eva. You still need some dick in ya life.”
I sigh, blowin’ weed smoke up at the ceilin’. I swear. Hoes like her make me sick. They ain’t neva satisfied wit’ what the fuck they have. Always lookin’ to chase down the next nigga wit’ the biggest dick, or thickest knot. I don’t know how the fuck that nigga don’t know what time it is wit’ her ass. Mmmph. A hot, fuckin’ mess!
“Oh, sweetie, don’t go there. How ’bout you not worry ’bout what I need, okay?”
“You need to get ya mind right, Chanel. Do sumthin’ wit’ ya’self.”