ᴍᴏᴛɪᴇsʜᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴘᴋɪɴɢ (#1 ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟʟs ᴛʀɪʟᴏɢʏ)✓

40: Tiesha And The Shagging

Tiesha’s pussy had been on strike for nine long months.

Nine fucking months.

Ky’Mon felt every single day of it like a slow torture.

The ache in his balls had become a constant part of his life, a dull background throb he’d almost gotten used to—almost.

He’d been reduced to beating his own meat in the shower, in bed, even some mornings before breakfast just to get through the day.

He’d told himself it was for her. She’d gone through hell with the pregnancy and birth, and he wasn’t about to put pressure on her body when she was still recovering.

She gave him head sometimes, sure—but it wasn’t the same. Not by a long shot.

Now their little girl, Esther, was six months old. His princess. His joygiver. His reason to breathe.

And yet… the drought continued.

Tiesha never said no. She’d been ready, patient, even affectionate. As long as he wasn’t cheating, she didn’t mind.

But for months, Ky’Mon hadn’t crossed that line—not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him had been waiting, holding back.

But the wait was over.

Not anymore.

His patience was gone, burned down to nothing but raw hunger. His dick was going to fall off if he didn’t bury himself in her soon.

Saturday came and Ky’Mon went out to check on his traps. Somewhere along the way, he decided he needed to relax, so he linked with his boys and lit up.

“King, you finna walk home with your head,” one of them teased.

Ky’Mon smirked, flipping him the finger as the shisha pot came around.

He took a deep pull, feeling the warm smoke fill his chest before exhaling slow through his nose.

It was smooth, heavy, perfect. He kept going until the pot was bone-dry, the sweet haze coating his mind in a pleasant fog.

By the time he started home, his limbs felt loose, his skin buzzing.

The front door shut behind him, and already he was peeling his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor before he even reached his room.

His pockets were emptied in a lazy trail behind him. When he stepped inside, there she was—Tiesha—standing at the bed, smoothing the sheets, arranging his things neatly on the dresser.

His gaze swept over her. Tight yoga tank clinging to her chest, showing the soft curve of side-boob. Leggings so fitted they looked painted on. No bra. No panty lines.

He pulled his gun from his waistband, unloaded it out of habit, and dropped it into the laundry basket.

Then he crossed the space in a few steps and slid his arms around her from behind, palms finding the warmth of her waist.

She giggled, rubbing his forearm as his lips grazed her neck. “You’re back early.”

He turned her in his arms, pressing a kiss to her lips. “Missed you guys.”

Her eyes narrowed a little. “Did you smoke?”

“Just a little,” he said, glancing past her like it wasn’t worth mentioning.

“I don’t think so. You look stoned.”

“I’m fiiiiine,” he drawled, half-smiling. “Where Honey at?”