Read Online Sweeter Than Honey by Mary B. Morrison - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary B. Morrison
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just like Don, B! You’re a good-for-nothing-but-a-wet-dream son of a bitch! I ask you to do one simple thing…tell the truth…and you can’t even get that right! Dumb fuck.”
B’s dick hung south along with his chin. “How many times am I going to have to pay another man’s debt? Huh? You won’t tell me what he did to you, but I keep getting blamed. Serious, Lace, you need to see a psychiatrist.”
“You callin’ me crazy? Fuck you! You need to take your freeloading ass home! Oh yeah. That’s right. What home!” I yelled in his face, staring down on him.
Whenever I threatened to kick B out, he conceded. But he was right. Don’s jagged nails against my pussy left me emotionally scarred. Not a day went by when I didn’t blame myself or Benito for what Don had done to me. I refused to look at B’s nails, afraid that bad memories would resurface of how I obsessively filed my johns’ fingernails before I allowed them to touch me. If it weren’t for Don’s lying ass, I’d probably have a good job at a respectable firm making a decent living.
Decent. The most judgmental word in the dictionary was meaningless in a so-called free country. People condemning one another as if their opinions were gospel when in fact their opinions didn’t mean shit. Not to me anyway. Where in the hell were those dressed-in-all-white missionaries of the church when I was molested, then kicked out on the streets? Probably at Sunday morning service sitting a few pews ahead of another girl like me mumbling under their breath to one another about how indecent that little girl was.
I heard them shoo-shooing about me. “Uh-huh. I heard she fast. Doing all them nasty things with grown mens…Amen! Hallelujah! All right, Rev, tell the truth and shame the devil!…Sister, where was I? Oh yeah, she almost stole her mama’s husband. Somebody needs to tell her her kind ain’t welcome in the House of the Lord.”
What a difference a day makes? That one night sleeping on the porch and sitting in church changed my entire life. Weren’t those missionaries supposed to help save me? A tear fell onto my cheek.
B wiped it away, then affectionately said, “I’m sorry, baby. I need to be more understanding,” then gently placed his hands beside his hips. “Let me finish what I started.”
Benito’s eyes bypassed my navel as he stared up at me.
Did I just see B narrow his eyes before nestling his cheek into my pussy? Was that a look of disgust for me or the situation at hand? I made a mental note of that shit. I could look in a man’s eyes and simultaneously know his intentions and his deepest desires. B was pissed at me but couldn’t do shit to his satisfaction because he had no place to go.
A cutting of the eyes to the corners with a pensive frozen stare meant he was plotting his next move against me. Droopy eyes that softened indicated he needed my affection but didn’t want to ask. He expected me to read his mind. And in that moment if I showed him affection, instantly he became submissive. That was the time when I could ask for the world, and he’d give me all he had to offer.
That window of opportunity for women lasted a split second. If she blinked, she missed it. And the look B just gave me signaled inner hatred suppressed behind his thoughts of bashing my face in for crushing his manhood. Most men didn’t hide their anger. Too many women were busy trying to rescue abusive men. Oblivious of the warning signs, women blindly walked wide-eyed into danger.
There was so much I’d learned from observing a man’s body language, listening to his speech patterns, and reading between his words that I could teach a class on how to recognize an abusive man before he strikes from the inside out.
Benito leaned closer, holding me firm, then gentle as a lamb as if he were asking for forgiveness of his thoughts. As I stepped back, my foot slid against a familiar piece of plastic that I must’ve forgotten to remove from the throw after
B’s dick hung south along with his chin. “How many times am I going to have to pay another man’s debt? Huh? You won’t tell me what he did to you, but I keep getting blamed. Serious, Lace, you need to see a psychiatrist.”
“You callin’ me crazy? Fuck you! You need to take your freeloading ass home! Oh yeah. That’s right. What home!” I yelled in his face, staring down on him.
Whenever I threatened to kick B out, he conceded. But he was right. Don’s jagged nails against my pussy left me emotionally scarred. Not a day went by when I didn’t blame myself or Benito for what Don had done to me. I refused to look at B’s nails, afraid that bad memories would resurface of how I obsessively filed my johns’ fingernails before I allowed them to touch me. If it weren’t for Don’s lying ass, I’d probably have a good job at a respectable firm making a decent living.
Decent. The most judgmental word in the dictionary was meaningless in a so-called free country. People condemning one another as if their opinions were gospel when in fact their opinions didn’t mean shit. Not to me anyway. Where in the hell were those dressed-in-all-white missionaries of the church when I was molested, then kicked out on the streets? Probably at Sunday morning service sitting a few pews ahead of another girl like me mumbling under their breath to one another about how indecent that little girl was.
I heard them shoo-shooing about me. “Uh-huh. I heard she fast. Doing all them nasty things with grown mens…Amen! Hallelujah! All right, Rev, tell the truth and shame the devil!…Sister, where was I? Oh yeah, she almost stole her mama’s husband. Somebody needs to tell her her kind ain’t welcome in the House of the Lord.”
What a difference a day makes? That one night sleeping on the porch and sitting in church changed my entire life. Weren’t those missionaries supposed to help save me? A tear fell onto my cheek.
B wiped it away, then affectionately said, “I’m sorry, baby. I need to be more understanding,” then gently placed his hands beside his hips. “Let me finish what I started.”
Benito’s eyes bypassed my navel as he stared up at me.
Did I just see B narrow his eyes before nestling his cheek into my pussy? Was that a look of disgust for me or the situation at hand? I made a mental note of that shit. I could look in a man’s eyes and simultaneously know his intentions and his deepest desires. B was pissed at me but couldn’t do shit to his satisfaction because he had no place to go.
A cutting of the eyes to the corners with a pensive frozen stare meant he was plotting his next move against me. Droopy eyes that softened indicated he needed my affection but didn’t want to ask. He expected me to read his mind. And in that moment if I showed him affection, instantly he became submissive. That was the time when I could ask for the world, and he’d give me all he had to offer.
That window of opportunity for women lasted a split second. If she blinked, she missed it. And the look B just gave me signaled inner hatred suppressed behind his thoughts of bashing my face in for crushing his manhood. Most men didn’t hide their anger. Too many women were busy trying to rescue abusive men. Oblivious of the warning signs, women blindly walked wide-eyed into danger.
There was so much I’d learned from observing a man’s body language, listening to his speech patterns, and reading between his words that I could teach a class on how to recognize an abusive man before he strikes from the inside out.
Benito leaned closer, holding me firm, then gentle as a lamb as if he were asking for forgiveness of his thoughts. As I stepped back, my foot slid against a familiar piece of plastic that I must’ve forgotten to remove from the throw after
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