Give Me Mo'


I'm a new author and if you're looking for a quickie, this might make you mad. Please vote and comment.


"Damn, I forgot to email those Excel files to myself," Mozeia softly murmured. Easing off the heels that slightly yet impassionedly tortured her, she walked from the foyer to her bedroom. A place tranquility touched. Wide jaded fronds arched at the entrance silently beckoning for their queen to enter. Shades of oranges: coral, watermelon, and papaya shed their radiance causing a warm glow to infuse the room. A luxurious Oriental rug hugged the wooden floors. Slick with the lateen shine of Mop Glow, they reflected the paintings photographs of natural, fashion, and African art prints. Upon all this elegance, centered for maximum presentation was the heavily pillow padded ash four poster.

As she delicately loosed all external and foreign influences, a movement of color, the laser sharpness of her house phone, signaled another problem.

"Damn, if these mothafuckas keep calling my goddamn phone, their cells are going to be firmly and forever fucked!" With that outburst echoing, Mozeia picked the phone from its hook. After dialing, the necessary digits and distending her diaphragm for maximum air intake, a voice was heard.

"Shit, why isn't she picking up the phone," softly spoken utterance caught while the preliminary beeping was in motion. "Mo, this is Nia."

"Like I don't know who it is," with a roll of her eyes and a regal dismissive shake of the head, she moved the phone to her right ear and took off her other golden hoop earring.

"Please, I'm begging. Now don't roll your eyes. I haven't even asked. Look, Raheim," a name rushed from lips.

"Is she still talking 'bout this brotha? I can't believe this shit."

A slight hesitant pause was next, and then through an escaping exhale the request was rendered. "Raheim wants to know if you could possibly put in another good word for him at your firm. Mo, you know that I wouldn't ask if not needed, please give him a chance for me, your girl." Even with this plea, a hint of pride penetrated the voice.

"Damn, here I go again," Mo hurriedly pressed three to erase the message and then tossed her clothes in the hamper.


At five feet eight and delightfully three-quarters of an inch tall, Mo was the Commodores' muse for the literal brick shitting house. With eyes the color of smoking grey, and skin the flavor of caramel, she busted balls and bitches. At average eye level, 38 DDD's jauntily greeted onlookers with plentiful pahdow. And with the lethal weapon of choice engaged, nuclear holocaust grainy hip-huggers emphasized the curves of a perfect Georgia peach. Perhaps some speculated that her 18 inch waist added leverage. But when fully measured Mo was toting a 42, ass that is. Yeah, that was what made grown men cry.

Despite the speculation that went on in the barrooms and boardrooms, Mo was blessed in all ways. When considering her occupation's vertical movements, she always considered going but not hoeing to the top. Outside and internally Mo was complete, for her brains definitely defined the curve in all this acer's classes and professional meetings.

Closing her front door, Mozeia tapped her pot of tulips to the side and glimpsed one of her spare keys. Recovering and smartly turning, Mo marched to her car. Night air complemented her Equinox like a brother to a sister. Protective and proudly prancing. Midnight blue glistened with a sparkle. Eeek, Eeek and the way was cleared. With a glance back at her peace and then at the street, maroon lights softly illuminated the back tires crunching on gravel.

"I've been looking for you," Mo heartily sang to Kirk's new remodeled groove. Streetlamps garnered her attention as she wondered. Turning the music down, she began to talk junk. "Why, in the hell won't Nia listen to me? Can't she see how that nigga is playing her? Does she know that she can do better, a whole lotta damn better? Betta yet let me ask myself, what the hell am I doing? Speeding and browbeating every would be rager to get to my girl's damn condo?" Guessing that the loosening and unfurling of her tongue caused her to hurl herself into the exit I-20 E lane, she said, "Let me calm my unhappy ass down".

"Now look at this mothafucka," a deepened growl barreled through her mouth. "Let me merge" Pressing her foot determinedly down and cutting her eyes to the left and behind, Mo began to slice her way into the nightly mad mass exodus of ATL.

Switching to gospel when she caught sight of Nia's condo, a quick scan revealed Raheim's raggedly ass berry barely there painted Rodeo. Jumping out of the truck with hardly any effort, Mo put one Mary Jane in front of the other. Silently chanting to herself, "This little light of mine," she knocked on the front door. Looking around she noticed that the grass wasn't cut, and the doorbell was stuck. "Damn, little fucka broke my nail."

"Well lookie here. Ms. Siddity Mo has come to play with us." Raheim inched his eyes over the raven smooth edges of Mo's heavily oil sheened hair clasped by a light blue wraparound. Her face was molded by a sweetened tongue for her caramel was concealing high cheek bones that merged into squinty eyes and finally the scent was caught up in a narrow nose and smothered by fleshy lips. Those lips were the kind that needed no endorsement or enhancement but simply put spoke for themselves. "Look at the ass on that mothafucka. She needs to let me hit it. Got her ass up on her back, bossy bitch," Raheim thought to himself.

"Mmmm is that cinnamon," Mo thought. Rocking slightly back on her heels, she gazed up and up to the hostile honey highlights of his eyes. "He makes me feel like a midget. He has to be at minimum 6'6"," was added to her thoughts. Cornrows crested his head, undoubtablly done by Nia's hand made him seem to be a warrior, a gift from the ancient ones perhaps. With magnetic deeply concentrated cocoa skin, he silently berated her for her diluted roots. Slightly tipping her tongue over her bottom lip, she gazed. Shoulders guarded unpinchable pectorals and an almighty abdomen that sank into sweats. Sweat sparkling sent a salty scent into her nostrils, but Mo completed her perusal to notice that he was barefooted and a little ashy.

"Gurl, you didn't have to rush over here, but you need to come in here for a minute," Nia's voice trailed pulling Mo forward.

"Excuse me," the tension still taught.

"Of course, come on in," but Raheim didn't move an inch and Mo had to squeeze by.

"I know he didn't just push up on me. I can't believe the blinders Nia wears," thought Mo. Strutting her stuff proudly, Mo also couldn't believe her senses. Smoke curled and caught into the ceiling. A taped BET Uncut special was on and popping, and clothes cluttered the couches. In the kitchen, Nia was bent over the stove clacking and cutting bell peppers, onions, garlic. Collard greens, squash, and mashed potatoes commanded the top stove while cornbread and a meaty casserole baked. The aromas brought back memories of Aunt Mamie's cooking and loving times.

"Mo, come in here and let me put some meat on them bones," yelled Nia. Barely topping five feet and claiming 5'3", Nia was past chunky but her soulful mothering and never-ending chuckles endeared her to most.

"Now, I've told you these hips have got to go. I even joined Curves. And what are you doing standing on your feet cooking a Sunday dinner on a Tuesday night after working at your shop all day? Don't front, because I know your feet are tired because you're wearing poor Tweety out," Mo complained.

"Raheim likes my cooking, and I promised him he wouldn't miss me because I've been putting more hours in at the shop."

"What? You mean to tell me he has the nerve to complain? He's the cause for your aching feet and the long hours. How long have you been supporting him? And what's this about me putting in a good word? How many times have I tried to hook him up and how many times has he blown it?"

"Why are you always putting him down? You know how he grew up. What he and all black men had and have to go through; the struggle isn't over for a long shot for them or us."

"The difference is the others are trying to overcome. He just wants to hang on your dress tail. And besides we fought to get a piece of the pie. Why can't he?"

"You know what? I ain't hearing that shit. Either help or not." After tasting the greens she added some more Tony's and stirred.

"Ok. Damn. Fine." And with those words, she slapped Nia on the rump and began the retreat.

Behind the kitchen wall, Raheim was listening to every word and shaking his head. His body was tense with rage at the thought of Mo belittling his ass yet again. "Can't a brotha get a break? Damn, bitches be like fucking hurdles you have to soar just to clear them. Wrong move or a slipup causes your ass to be disqualified. Quietly, he went into the bedroom letting Mo exit without escort.

"He has absolutely no kind of manners. The least he could do is clean up and put some lotion on. Trifling ass," thought Mo. On the way home, she replayed his actions and her reactions.

Back at home, she kicked off her Mary Jane's and clothing, lit some aromatherapy candles and eased into a hot tub. Looking at the mirror above her bathroom sink, she wondered why she as a successful black professional had to run her own bath.

Easing beneath the sapphire covers, she lets the heavenly scent of her fabric softener infuse spring blossoms, dreams, and hope into her soul.


"It's Jesus in my soul. Blessing me, caressing me," a Hezekiah Walker preset blasted from her clock radio. "Please Lord, don't make me cuss in the morning," Mo groaned. "This pillow feels so cuddly, and I love this warm spot." After untangling her feet from the covers, she sat up. "My head is aching and itching at the same time," scrunching her face with a yawn she stood and walked. "Come on Ambi and make me a baby," she grabbed her complexion soap and entered the shower. Thanking God that she paid a little extra for that shower head she made her kitty purr with pleasure from the pressure. Cleansing the essentials and moisturizing the whole took less than twenty minutes. Stepping into her closet, she gazed and collected her outfit.

Easing her legs in navy sheers, she pulled the pantyhose over her cerulean thong. Looking over shoulder, she squatted with hands on knees and did a few p-pops to loosen things up. "I still got it." She watched her ass cheeks clap together and then she practiced isolating, or moving one cheek at a time. She loved the control she had. After a few minutes, she put on her asymmetrical pleated skirt; the plaid was midnight blue crossed with perpendicular white and parallel baby blue stripes. Next, a baby blue wrapround blouse was accentuated with a short white jacket and after putting on her navy stilettos she was straight. Spritizing some oil on her palms she rubbed her fingers through her hair. Brushing her wrap out, it fell in curls just right. Locking up, she drove to work.

Pulling into Bonnie & Bev's parking deck, she checked herself in the mirror one more time. Pausing she added more lip gloss with a smack she got out.

"Good morning, Ms. Williams. I trust you rested well?" The security guard came out of his booth to hit the elevator up icon.

Pausing to grace Billy with a smile, she unintentionally switched her hips and entered the elevator. "Thanks."

"No problem, Ms. Williams. Anything and everything I would try to get for you." He gave her a grin and a wink and pimped back to his booth and his recurring fantasy.

She hit level four and looked at the floor its laminated brightness testified to the rigid standards of Bonnie & Bev's. Brochures offered motivational sessions and leadership courses. Everything was neat and in place.

Bing the elevator bell bonged and the doors slid open to reveal B&B's level four, the advertising department. Ceramic floors formed by black marble stretched from edge to edge. Crimson caressed the walls in swirls moody like flames swirling on deceased wood. Contrasting all, the office furniture was in snowy white, with office cubicles in the sterling silver. In frames around the room, previous slogans and famous contributors strategically places provided a sense of a rich parlor. The hustle made newcomers dizzy but there was a method to the madness. Interns raced to complete errands, and workers cramped internet surfing with their daily quota.

Strutting to one of the few enclosed offices, Mo sank into her chair after she closed the door. Becoming a junior partner was no joke and sometimes the stress caused her to either clam up or explode, so in the mornings she dedicated a few minutes of relaxation before getting tea.

At the top of her to do list was getting Raheim a recommendation. She took his resume, typed by Nia, and start looking it over. With his few accomplishments memorized she said a quick prayer and got up.

"Hey Nancy, how are you doing?"

Nancy looked up with a smile. "I'm fine, how are you?"

"Same old, same old. But listen could you do me a favor?"

"Sure, if I can."

"If Mr. Etinenne has any openings could you please put this one on the top of the pile?" She slid it over to Nancy.

"I can do you one better. Mr. Etinenne doesn't have an appointment until eleven. Why don't you go on in and talk with him?" She took off her spectacles and sprayed some lens cleanser to get the dust off. With the press and curl every granny wore, she gave off an even more stately appearance. More like a spinster school teacher, who didn't quite get the hint to retire.

"Thank you so much Ms. Nancy." After giving a knock, she touched the handle and entered.

"You fat slut, you love giving head don't you?" Mr. Etinenne growled.

With a heavy moan, Cierra Winston opened her jaw to take him deeper.

"Put your paws back down on the carpet and use that tongue. Big as your ass is, I know you love sausage for breakfast." He grabbed the back of her head like it was an ass and pulled her forward. Fucking her face like it was pussy. A gushy one at that.

Tears formed. "I can't believe I'm doing this," Cierra thought and she remembered. . .


"Ms. Winston, could you come in here for a moment." At age 51, John Etinenne was still an impressive figure. 6'4" and weighing in at 250lbs, he brought his wife's B&B's from bankruptcy to one of the top competing firms in the country. He asked, no make that demanded that all of his employees gave beyond their best just as he had. With a few scattered grays he almost made you think of your favorite uncle.

"What does he want now? I swear he wants everyone to kiss his hairy ass." Cierra mentally shook her head and followed him. A little uncomfortable with just the two of them in his office, she smoothed her skirt and tugged her blouse down in the back. Being a size eighteen in a world of sub-sixes made life hell for the struggling lady.

"We at Bonnie & Bev's have an image to maintain and present to the public." He turned and sat on the edge of his desk facing Cierra. He purposely let her stand. "When they think of us I want them to imagine summertime. The fun, the sun, and their favorite 'Hun'. They should desire us." He declared. He eyed her from top to bottom. "Damn, what the fuck is she eating? She is too thick, with them bow legs, big booty, and those titties. Where's the milk pail? They're bigger than my head," he thought. "Do you know why I'm saying all of this?"

She shifted her feet and replied, "No Sir."

Throwing a magazine on the floor, he commanded "Pick it up."

When she moved forward and bent at the waist, he stopped her.


She froze, bent over. She raised her head to look at his face.

With hardly a change of expression, he said "on your knees."

She bent one leg and felt her skirt getting tighter. Quivering, she stood and said "You can pick it up yourself. This is not even in my job description."

Eyes hardening, "Why did you stop? Is it perhaps that your clothes are too fucking tight for bending? Does it finally dawn on you what I was saying in the beginning? You are too damn fat. Cierra get your ass down on that carpet now! I don't care if you have pop out but DO IT!" All of this was said with a measure of calm, bordering on the insane except for the last two words.

Dejected, she bent her right leg and reached for the floor with her left hand. "Rippp" She hung her head in shame and felt the air blowing on her cheeks.

"What is that I hear? Did we have an accident my dear?" He casually walked around to view. Her meaty backside was tense and her skirt had a tear. The slash was a good six inches.

"Look at these ham hocks!'

She began to sob into the carpet.

"Open the magazine and see your complete opposite!"

Inching a hand to the magazine, she tried to face what she dreaded. Young thin ladies and the happy men that bounded with them.

He kicked her legs apart and her booty began to spread. "How in the hell can you compare yourself to that? Grab the magazine now!" Yelling he dropped to his knees behind her.

Nervous her legs began to shake. Voice rippling with fear, "Please don't make me do this. I come to work early and always complete my assignments before schedule." Begging she started to turn her head to face him.

"Silence!" He slapped her ass making it ripple to the barely there indentation of her back. She felt her pussy clench. Seemingly feeling so empty.

"Look at all of this. Ummmm" Using both hands, he pulled her posterior to him and started to knead. Her ass puffed through his fingers like PlayDoh. Playing with it, he slapped them together and then spread them flat. Revealing her crack, he looked at her dusky hole.

Cierra moaned. Helplessly feeling the wetness gather, she arched her back to placing her butt more into his grip. "Please," she whispered aching for anything to end the misery.

Smelling her musk, he spat on her hole. "You like this don't you?" Already knowing the answer he wanted to hear her confession.

After a pause, she admitted "Yes."

"My God. Even my titties feel full," she thought to herself. With her nipples squashed between her weight and the floor she felt the burn.

He smiled. With two fingers, he slammed into her hole.

She screamed.

Now somber, he replied "Clean my fingers."

Obediently rotating she parted her lips and sucked her juices off. Leaking juices unto the carpet, she waited on her master.

"Good bitch. Meet me here tomorrow morning. Eat nothing, I will feed you." Grabbing her hair, he made her get up. Turning her around, he bent her over and asked "You love it don't you."

Knowing he needed no answer she whimpered.

"Don't forget." He walked behind his desk.

Knowing dismissal, she grabbed the magazine and covered her rear as she exited.


Now in the morning wanting and wet, she bobbed her head. Loving the domination he put down, she forced his dick deeper. With her titties swinging with each cock of her neck she made love to his dick. And with every bitch, slut, and hoe thrown at her she gave more.

"Look at them udders." Mr. Etinenne filled his hands pulling her nipples down and twisting them angrily. He loved how this bitch responded. Thinking to himself, she's mine now.

With a stare of disbelief, and feeling a little moist herself, Mozeia slowly put one foot behind the other until she felt the door handle. She sprinted past Ms. Nancy rushing back to her own office.

"That damn Etinenne," Ms. Nancy giggled to herself as she put her spectacles back on.


Let me know what you think, I'm just getting into this story. I know it's not hot as of yet. Should I continue?

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