The residual buzz from last night's impromptu street performance still tickled my fingertips. I had only intended to grab a quick snack, but the sight of a vintage Gibson hanging in a vintage music shop window had thrown my entire day off course. Now, less than twelve hours later, I was standing inside a different kind of temple—the Metal Bitch Music Store.
The name was a fantastic blend of aggressive punk branding and complete professionalism, and this Is why I choose it. The air inside smelled of ozone, fresh wood lacquer, and the faint, metallic scent of new guitar strings. It was a holy place, covered floor to ceiling in instruments that spanned every genre.
I was trying out a six-string bass, its matte black finish absorbing the fluorescent store lighting. The neck felt heavy and solid in my hands, a satisfying contrast to the light, almost toy-like instruments common in New San Antonio's cheaper shops. I settled into a repeating groove—a funky, complex line reminiscent of Les Claypool mixed with something deeply industrial. The sound was thick, a low rumble that vibrated pleasantly in my chest cavity.
I was completely oblivious to the war being waged outside the reinforced glass doors.
"Boss, we can't even breathe out there, there's too many people out there watching you," Ramona groaned, pushing past a stack of cymbal hardware. Her usually impeccable tactical suit was slightly rumpled, and a strand of bright pink hair had slipped free of its tight bun. She truly looked annoyed, her eyes narrowed as she glared at the throngs of people visible through the gap in the posters covering the windows.
"You're right… there is a lot of them, out there…" I lifted my gaze from the bass bridge, keeping the beat going with my right hand.
"Then breathe in here," I deadpanned, hitting a sharp hammer-on. "The air conditioning is top-tier, and it smells like creativity."
"It smells like sweat, metal, and shattered dreams, Sir. There are thousands of people on Beverly Drive…. Drones are buzzing so thick it looks like a swarm of robotic locusts," she stressed, sounding genuinely concerned about the sheer volume of humanity drawn out by my viral video.
It was true. My Sunday, had already informed me that the video of me shredding an unexpected solo on the shop—Looked like a tribute to some obscure 90s guitar hero—had achieved astronomical view counts overnight, eclipsing even some of my high-production VTuber content. The world, apparently, still loved a good rock and roll spectacle, even if they had no idea who the teenage phenom was.
"Fame is exhausting, isn't it?" Nicole commented dryly, leaning against a display case full of effect pedals. Unlike Ramona, Nicole always looked unfazed, a perfectly polished statue amidst the chaos.
"It's only exhausting if you try to manage it," I countered, letting my hands fall away from the bass. "I'm just here to appreciate the craftsmanship... and buy something…"
My eyes landed on the store owner. She was perched on a stool behind the counter, flipping through a thick, leather-bound manual, completely unbothered by the security detail, the noise outside, or the teen who'd just treated a $15,000 bass like his private toy.
She was young, probably mid-twenties, embodying the store's name. A constellation of silver piercings dotted her ears, stretching up to the ridge of her cartilage. Her thick eyeliner winged out aggressively, framing silver eyeshadow and a perpetual resting face of mild disdain. Her name tag, proudly displayed on a chain around her neck, confirmed the legend: Nina "Metal Bitch" Graves. She finally looked up, her expression unchanging.
"You play like you've sold your soul, mister," she said, her voice low and slightly gravelly, like she'd done her time shouting into a microphone.
I found myself genuinely smiling at the goth bitch before me.
"Nah," I replied, walking closer to the counter, still vibrating slightly from the bass line. "I just borrowed it for a while."
Nina gave a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk. "Hope the collateral was worth it."
The next hour was less a shopping trip and more a private concert for my security detail and an increasingly awestruck Nina. The moment I stepped away from the bass, I immediately gravitated toward the drum kit setup in the corner.
"THUMP-KICK. CRASH. HISS-HISS."
My hands, guided by the muscle memory of a hundred professional drummers from my past life, moved with hypnotic precision. I hadn't touched a real kit in years, but the feel of the sticks hitting the stretched skins—the deep, resonant boom of the floor tom—was addictive. Ramona and the team were now standing a respectful distance away, awkwardly clapping after I finished a short, furious blast beat.
"Goddamn," Nina muttered, actually setting down her manual.
Without missing a beat, I moved to a grand piano tucked in a far alcove. The transition in sound was jarring, from chaotic metal to the clear, crystalline notes of a Chopin Nocturne. My fingers danced across the keys, the melody filling the space, creating a beautiful juxtaposition to the dark, raw aesthetic of the store.
"Sunday, synchronize the tempo," I murmured barely audible.
"Affirmative, Sir. Commencing spontaneous duet, key of D minor, tempo 120 bpm, added light electronic synth backing," Sunday's voice replied, projected softly from a small speaker I kept clipped to my belt.
The synths blended seamlessly with the acoustic piano, creating a spontaneous hybrid piece that was simultaneously complex and deeply moving. It was pure, unadulterated escapism. This was why I loved Earth's entertainment—the raw physicality of real instruments.
"He's like a musical genius trapped in a vending machine of skills," Ramona whispered to Nicole.
Nicole shrugged. "It is… that is why being her manager, I had to be quick on his eccentricity…."
I shifted one last time, picking up a battered old violin. I tucked it under my chin, drew the bow across the strings, and performed a short jig, the sound high and wild, vibrating with rustic energy. The sheer versatility was unsettling, even to my own team. I just felt like I was back in the library archives, sampling different genres of sound.
The violin piece ended abruptly, leaving a sudden, ringing silence in the store, broken only by the distant, muffled shouting from the street. I looked around the shop, taking in the rows of gleaming guitars, the heavy amplifiers, the stacks of effect pedals, the shiny brass of the wind instruments.
A sense of overwhelming consumer desire washed over me. Not necessary greed, but the desire of an enthusiast who finally had infinite funds and zero limitations.
Why limit myself? I set the violin back on its stand, dusting my hands.
"I like this place," I announced, turning to Nina.
She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over a shirt that read: I like my metal heavy and my coffee black. "Glad you enjoyed the browsing session, rockstar."
"Actually, I've decided I want to buy everything."
Nina froze. Her smirk vanished. "Pardon?"
"Every. Single. One," I clarified, making a sweeping gesture with my hand that encompassed the entire space.
"All the drums, all the pianos, flutes, maybe that triangle—yeah, definitely the triangle. And throw in all the instructional books too…. I'll send a freighter for pickup by the end of the day."
My team's reaction was immediate and synchronized.
Ramona's forehead slapped into her palm with a dull paaah sound. "Boss, are you for real?!"
Nicole, however, remained characteristically stoic while delivering the comedic beat. "You're acting like a millionaire influencer, Sir."
I genuinely chuckled. "Technically," I said, adjusting the collar of my shirt, "I am one. And unlike other influencers, I actually intend to use these instruments. Besides, I need to stock the studio. Think of it as investing in the future of interdimensional music."
"That's not an excuse to empty a small business," Nicole chided lightly, though I knew she'd already be contacting accounting.
Nina, meanwhile, was doing rapid calculations in her head, her goth stoicism finally cracking under the realization of a sudden, unprecedented influx of capital. "You realize this is vintage inventory? And imported electronics? We're talking about a multi-million credit transaction. Are you serious?"
"Deadly serious," I assured her. "Just calculate the damages. And add a bonus for your trouble."
Before Nina could respond, the internal warning system chimed.
"Sael, be advised," Sunday cut in, his voice now slightly more urgent than usual.
"The social feed #SaelVTPlaysLive is trending globally. We've reached 40 million concurrent viewers across all platforms in the last five minutes. The entire shop is being livestreamed via passive drone observation and public security feeds."
The outside noise intensified instantly. A siren wailed, followed by the distant but distinct thud-thud-thud of heavy police containment units arriving. The curiosity had fully devolved into a security risk.
"Ah, they found me again," I sighed, slightly annoyed and tickled by the interruption to my shopping spree.
Nina, however, was already in motion. The second Sunday's announcement registered, the smart goth queen's entrepreneurial switch flipped to overdrive. She moved with surprising speed, slamming the heavy deadbolt shut on the front door with a resounding CLACK.
She grabbed a laminated sign from under the counter and slapped it aggressively onto the glass with thick magnetic strips.
[PRIVATE SESSION – FUCK OFF!
Then, she whipped out her personal comm link, placed it carefully on the counter to capture us clearly, and, without even looking up, started her own feed.
"Okay, bitches! We are LIVE," Nina announced into the phone, her gravelly voice suddenly full of manic energy.
"This is Metal Bitch Graves coming at you from the newly secured shop. That rich asshole who just tried to buy my entire inventory? Yeah, that's him. Sorry, folks, VIP session only. You want to see Sael VT jam? You gotta subscribe to my channel, Metal Bitch TV! And no, I'm not selling out, I'm just capitalizing, you corporate slobs!"
The little indicator on her screen showed the follower count spiking by the thousands every second. Nina flashed me a predatory, silver-eyed smile.
"Don't worry, rockstar. I'll get your final bill ready. Cash or credit? No, wait—wire transfer. We're going big."
I nodded, impressed by her immediate pivot to monetization. Not that I hated it, I respected her Hussle, since she was brave enough to do it right in front of me, beside this is also a PR move that can bolster my fame even more.
"Wire transfer is fine. Sunday, give her the account details. And Nina? Keep the 'Private Session' sign up. I think I'll try out that harpsichord next."
Outside the Metal Bitch music store was thick with the static hum of collective excitement and the cloying smog of New San Antonio's afternoon haze. A low, persistent rumble of voices and the occasional shouted plea formed a chaotic symphony against the store's reinforced glass front.
From within the throng, a ripple began. Not a push, not a shove, but a parting, as if the crowd itself was a sea responding to a powerful new current. The source of the disturbance was a young woman—couldn't have been more than twenty—who moved with a kinetic energy that seemed to physically push the air aside for her. She was a compact storm of streetwear and sheer, undeniable confidence. This was Cardi Bee.
She waved her phone over her head like a rallying banner, its holographic case scattering prismatic shards of light. Her voice, a distinctive, husky alto, cut through the murmur with the precision of a laser scalpel.
"Ay! Out the way, out the way! Y'all can stand out here lookin' all thirsty and shit—I'm 'bout to get my man's attention for real!"
"WOAH!!!"
The crowd, instead of resisting, cheered her on. A few whoops of encouragement echoed. Confidence, especially of this brand—unfiltered, audacious, and utterly self-assured—was a contagion they were all happy to catch. They parted for her, creating a human corridor that led directly to where Ramona stood guard.
Cardi Bee didn't break stride. She marched right up to the glass, ignoring Nina's raised eyebrow near the door, and planted her palms flat against the cool surface of the window. She peered inside, spotted her target, and started banging the heel of her hand against the window. The sound was a dull, rhythmic thump… thump… thump.
"Yo! Sael VT! Papi!! Look over here! You play the strings; I spit the bars—this is a collab waiting to happen! Let me the fuck in!"
Inside, Ramona, Sael's ever-watchful bodyguard, had been monitoring the situation from a lean against a rack of vintage distortion pedals, sipping on an iced coffee that was more sugar than caffeine.
"Nicole… should we let that one in?". Ramona asked Nicole about the peculiar situation that were currently happening, outside.
"…Hmm, she seems interesting…. Sael, there is someone out there asking to come in…" Nicole come to his side and alerting him.
"Hmm? What does she want?" Sael didn't even have to look up, to know that the person in question is a woman.
"We don't know…. But she seems interesting, and knowing you… you seem to like interesting things…" Nicole replied with careful remarks.
"Sure… let her in…". Sael, who was currently lost in a world of fretboards and pickups, spoke mindlessly.
"Alright," A slow, amused smirk spread across her lips. She glanced from the fiery girl outside; she thought this was about to get interesting. With a barely perceptible nod to Ramona, who rolled her eyes but acquiesced, Nina triggered the lock mechanism.
The door slid open with a soft hiss. Cardi Bee didn't need a second invitation. She was through the gap in a flash, the door sealing shut behind her, cutting off the envious sighs of the crowd outside.
The sound of the door was my first clue that the equilibrium of the store had been shattered. I was halfway through tuning a beautiful, cherry-red Fender Stratocaster, the familiar weight of it a comforting anchor in the surreal circus my life had become. Then she burst in.
It was like a localized hurricane had just made landfall in the acoustic guitar section. My fingers froze on the tuning pegs. For a solid three seconds, my brain blue-screened. The cognitive dissonance was absolute.
'No. Way. Freaking… way'
She looked exactly like her. Cardi B. From my old world. The same expressive, wide-set eyes, the same captivating, gap-toothed smirk that promised either a hilarious joke or a brutal read. But it was a version from maybe a decade earlier, fresher-faced, the ambition not yet fully tempered by global mega-stardom. And somehow… more. The word that flashed in my mind, crude and immediate, was bustier.
'Holy shit, was she bustier.'
She was poured into a tiny white crop top T-shirt that did little more than frame the magnificent swell of her underboobs. Her jean shorts were less shorts and more denim suggestions, panty-cut so high they showcased the full, jaw-dropping curve of her natural BBL-worthy ass. Every inch of her was a declaration of intent. She wasn't just entering a room; she was claiming it.
She scanned the space, her gaze locking onto me with predatory focus. She wasted exactly zero time on pleasantries.
"If I can't be a star, I can at least be your side girl."
I blinked. Once. Twice. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of the opening line was so perfectly, classically her that it bypassed my shock and went straight to my funny bone.
"…Excuse me?" I managed; my voice laced with more amusement than confusion.
"You heard me, papi. Ain't no shame in the hustle," she said, popping a hip and placing a hand on it. Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if she'd just proposed a straightforward business merger. Which, in a way, I suppose she had.
To my left, I heard a sharp, choked gasp. Nicole, the sweet, slightly naïve store clerk who'd been helping me, had her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as dinner plates. From behind a rack of bass guitars, I heard Nina sputter, followed by the sound of someone desperately trying not to inhale iced coffee. A quick glance confirmed she was coughing, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
And me? I lost it. A genuine, belly-deep laugh erupted from me, the kind that aches in the best way. It was too perfect. Too real.
"You've got guts," I said, finally catching my breath and wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. "I respect that. I really do."
I leaned forward, setting the Stratocaster carefully back on its stand, and rested my chin on my knuckles, giving her my full attention. The analytical part of my brain, was already running the probabilities. The sheer marketing potential of this girl, this walking viral moment, was staggering. But more than that, she was fascinating.
"Alright, Ms. Hustle," I said, my voice dropping into a more conversational, challenging tone.
"You say you're a rapper? Don't just tell me. Show me. Impress me."
"Alright, Sunday," I murmured, my voice a low rumble in the cavernous space. My fingers, accustomed to the slick interface of a VR controller, now moved with surprising dexterity across the physical knobs and faders of the portable mixing rig I'd pulled from the store's impressive inventory.
The cold metal casing felt solid and reassuring beneath my touch, a tangible connection to the gears of entertainment I was setting in motion. I'd spent the last few minutes testing the latency, ensuring the speakers were pristine, and checking the acoustic dampeners I'd discreetly activated. Even in a 'closed' session, I believed in professionalism.
"Ambient beat activated in real-time," Sunday's crisp, feminine voice chimed in my ear while a soft, rhythmic pulse began to emanate from the studio monitors. It wasn't just sound; it was a physical presence that vibrated through the polished concrete floor.
As if on cue, the store's smart-lighting system, integrated seamlessly with the sound architecture Sunday had hijacked, reacted. The harsh overhead lights dimmed, replaced by an array of strategic spotlights, casting a dramatic, almost theatrical glow on the central stage area we'd designated.
Deep blues and purples swirled, then settled into a warm, inviting gold, making the rows of gleaming guitars and polished drum kits recede into shadowy echoes.
In the center of this impromptu stage, Cardi Bee stood. A moment ago, she'd been all sass and swagger, her vibrant pink hair a defiant flag, her studded jacket a declaration of war. Now, under the soft, focused light, I could see a subtle tremor in her hands, a nervous flick of her gaze towards the high ceiling, then down at the scuffed floor. Her usually confident stance seemed to have shrunk a fraction, her shoulders a little tighter.
For the first time since I'd met her, the girl who called me 'Papi' and carried herself like she owned the damn city, genuinely looked… nervous.
I leaned back against a gleaming chrome display case, crossing my arms over my chest. A curious smirk played on my lips. This was interesting.
"You nervous?" I asked, my voice cutting through the soft thrum of the beat. I wanted to see how she'd respond, how deep that veneer of bravado ran.
She quickly snapped her head up, a flash of her usual defiance returning to her eyes. The tremor was gone. Good.
"Nope. Just warming up, Papi." Her voice was a little sharper than before, a defensive edge that told me everything. That 'Papi' felt less playful, more like an assertion of control.
"…Okay," I drawled, a silent chuckle rumbling in my chest. "Warm up, then. Let's see what you're really made of."
My gaze flickered to Nicole, who stood beside Nina a few feet away. Nicole, ever the professional, had a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips, her phone discreetly held to record the entire session. Ramona, usually stoic, actually nodded once, a gesture of quiet approval that surprised me.
Then, the beat dropped.
It wasn't just a beat; it was a living entity that surged through the air, thick and rich. Smooth, confident, with a bassline that throbbed like a heartbeat and a high hat that snapped like a whip. Sunday had picked a masterclass in rhythm, something that demanded respect but allowed for innovation. It was a canvas, not a cage.
And Cardi Bee attacked it.
Her body, which had been stiff with nerves, suddenly loosened, coiling and uncoiling with the music. She swayed, a primal rhythm taking hold, her head tilting back as if to drink in the sound. Then, her lips parted, and she started spitting bars.
"I ride on his dick in some big tall heels "
It began almost as a whisper, a raw, guttural murmur that swiftly gained momentum. Her voice wasn't polished, not yet, but it was undeniably hers. It had a gravelly texture, a street-smart edge that felt authentic. The lyrics poured out, a torrent of words I probably couldn't repeat in polite company, but each one landed with a punch. Her rhythm was sharp, precise, cutting through the beat like a razor. There was a hunger in her flow, a desperate, electric energy that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
"Big fat checks, big large bills"
I watched, my analytical mind kicking into overdrive, filtering out the raw emotion to focus on the technicalities. Her tone shifted effortlessly, moving from a biting sarcasm to a defiant battle cry within a single verse. Her breath control, while not perfect, was surprisingly robust, allowing her to string together complex phrases without gasping.
And the improvisation… that was where she truly shone. She didn't just recite; she responded to the beat, twisting familiar phrases, injecting unexpected pauses, bending syllables to fit the rhythm in ways I hadn't anticipated. It was raw, yes, unrefined, but undeniably potent. A small, knowing smile stretched across my face.
'Interesting. Very interesting.'
She was a diamond in the rough, utterly untamed, but sparkling with a fierce, undeniable light. This wasn't just talent; it was a force of nature. Nicole continued to nod, her eyes fixed on Cardi, a rare flicker of genuine awe in her usually composed expression. Nina, still recording, had a faint, almost imperceptible smile. They saw it too. The potential. The sheer, unadulterated chaos that could be harnessed.
I knew from my previous life on Earth that this kind of raw energy, when properly channeled, could shatter the stale, manufactured entertainment landscape of this Hollywood.
"Money (Money, money)"
The final, explosive line dropped, a defiant roar echoing through the now silent store. The last syllable hung in the air, vibrating with a lingering energy, before dissipating into nothingness. The only sound left was the faint static hum of the dormant speakers and the rapid thumping of my own heart.
A beat passed. Then another.
Cardi stood there, chest heaving slightly, her head still held high, her eyes blazing with the aftermath of her performance. Her pink hair was slightly disheveled, a few strands clinging to her damp forehead. She looked like she'd just wrestled a god and won.
Then, I started clapping. Slowly, deliberately, my hands coming together with a sharp, resonant sound that cut through the silence. One clap. Two. Three. Each one a deliberate punctuation mark, a statement of recognition. Nicole and Nina quickly joined in, their applause a softer, more polite accompaniment to my own.
Cardi's eyes, still fierce, flickered to me. A curious mixture of exhaustion, defiance, and a sliver of naked vulnerability was painted across her features. She wanted to know. She needed to know.
I stopped clapping, letting my hands fall back to my sides. I stepped away from the mixing rig, walking slowly towards her. The gold spotlight followed me, then encompassed her as I stopped a few feet away. I locked onto her gaze, letting my analytical, objective persona take over.
"You've got rhythm, confidence, and undeniable stage presence," I began, my voice calm, factual, echoing slightly in the vast space. I watched her closely, noting how her bravado stiffened, bracing for the inevitable critique.
"That raw energy? It's electric. Magnetic, even. You own the space, you command attention… What you don't have yet, though…" I paused, letting the words hang, letting her anticipation build. "…is control. And restraint."
"What?" Her proud shoulders slumped just a fraction. The defiant fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a wounded, almost childish pout.
"So, what, I failed?" Her voice was laced with a surprising vulnerability, a hint of the insecurity she'd shown just before the beat dropped. Ah, there it is.
I shook my head slowly, a faint smile touching my lips. "No. Not really." I saw the instant relief flood her features, but I wasn't done.
"Quite the opposite, actually. You have potentials… raw, untamed, volatile potentials that could ignite an entire generation. But it's exactly that volatility that needs to be refined. Sharpened. Guided."
I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket, pulling out a small, sleek object. It was my business card, but not just any card. It was a holographic business chip, a sliver of polished obsidian that seemed to absorb the light around it.
With a flick of my thumb, the Meteor Entertainment insignia, a stylized comet trailing glittering dust, flared to life, shimmering in iridescent blues and purples. It pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible energy.
I tossed it to her. The chip spun end over end, catching the light, before she instinctively snatched it out of the air. Her eyes, wide now, were fixed on the glowing emblem, then on my face, then back to the chip. She looked genuinely stunned, her mouth slightly agape. The defiance, the nervousness, the bravado — all gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock.
"And you're coming with me," I stated, my voice firm, leaving no room for argument.
She stared at the chip, her fingers tracing the holographic logo as if it might burn her. Then, slowly, a grin began to spread across her face. It started small, a mischievous twitch at the corner of her lips, then widened into a full-blown, radiant smile that completely transformed her face. All the streetwise toughness melted away, revealing a vibrant, almost childlike joy.
"You just made the best mistake of your life, Papi," she declared, her voice regaining its usual swagger, but now tinged with a fresh layer of triumphant confidence. The word 'mistake' felt like a challenge, a promise of chaos and excitement.
I just gave a small, knowing shrug. My lips twitched upward.
"We'll see."
'Yes, we absolutely would.' And something told me; it wouldn't be a mistake at all. It would be, quite possibly, the most electrifying decision I'd made since arriving in this world. The entertainment landscape of Hollywood was about to get a shock to its system.
"….Now that we have confirmed that music parts of yours… it was time for us to confirm about something else…." I smiled and looked at Cardi Bee, and then walked closed to her and whispered to her, "Let's see if you were ready to do that side hustle of yours….".
"Oh… oh I am always ready papi… you want it here?" She replied with a lecherous smile, her hand comes to hug my waist as she grinds against my crotch immediately.
Instead of waiting anymore. I dragged her to the bathroom, ignoring everyone looking at me. The buzz of the store's fluorescent lights faded behind the slammed bathroom door. Cardi B—no, Cardi Bee—leaned against the chipped tile wall, chest heaving. Her gold hoops swung like pendulums.
"Look, Sael," she breathed, voice husky with desperation.
"I ain't playin'. This rap shit? It's my life. I need you. Your label, your connections… shit, I NEED YOU… and for that, I would do anything… and I will prove it to you," she said with a genuine look of desperation and a hint of lust.
I didn't sit yet. Just crossed my arms, eyeing the cramped stall. A leaky faucet drip-drip-dripped in the silence.
"Talk's cheap, Bee... You chased me coming to me beggin' for a shot… and I already gave that to you…" My boot scuffed sticky linoleum. "Now? Show me why I should pick you over every other hungry bitch in Hollywood…."
Her gaze locked onto mine—no hesitation. "Aight. Bet."
Fingers hooked into the waistband of her jorts. Shhhhk. The fabric peeled down thick thighs, revealing caramel skin. She turned, slow, ass aimed right at me. That thing was a masterpiece—round, heavy, jiggling with every shift.
"Clap. Clap. Clap." Each cheek slammed together like thunder, echoing off porcelain. Sweat glistened in the crack.
"Mmmph… you like that, daddy?" Her voice dropped to a purr, hips grinding air.
"Puh-puh-puh—hear that? That's all for you." She bent forward, palms flat on the sink, arching deep. The smell of her hit me—coconut oil and raw want.
"I'll swallow every damn word you say…. Promote your tracks on my knees. Please… lemme be your dirty little secret."
I finally dropped onto the closed toilet lid, leather jacket creaking.
"Oh yeah? Prove it." Cold seeped through my jeans. "How bad you want it?"
Her hand snaked back, fingers spreading her cheeks wide. Schlllck—wetness glistened, pink and inviting.
"This pussy's yours," she gasped, pushing back toward my knees.
"Fuck these other labels… You see me. Ain't no one gon' suck your dick like I will…. Lemme taste you right now." Her ass kept clapping—whap-whap-whap—like a metronome set to lust.
I leaned forward, gripped her hip. Her skin burned. "My time's Is expensive, Bee."
She glanced over her shoulder, eyelashes fluttering. "So's my mouth."
The faucet dripped. The door rattled. And right there, under flickering lights smelling of piss and ambition, I decided to roll the dice.
"Alright," I growled. "Show me." My fingers dug into the meat of her hip, feeling the heat radiate through her skin.
Cardi didn't waste a second.
"Fuck yes!" she hissed, voice trembling with relief and hunger. Her hips snapped backward, that colossal ass crashing into my knees like two warm watermelons.
"THWUMP". The impact vibrated up my thighs. Sweat slicked her lower back, gleaming under the flickering light.
She glanced back, pupils blown wide, lips parted. "You wanna see how bad I want this? Watch."
Her hand snaked between her legs, fingers plunging into that dripping pussy with a wet sound.
"SCHLICK… Hnnngh! Fuuuck..." She pulled them out, glistening slick, and smeared it across my lips before I could react. The taste exploded – salt, musk, pure fucking desperation. "Taste that? That's all for you, daddy. My pussy's screaming for you."
I grabbed her wrist, pinning it against her lower back. "Still got my pants on, Bee," I reminded her, voice rough.
"You think grindin' air's gonna cut it?" My free hand reared back and cracked across her left cheek.
"SMACK!" The sound echoed off the tiles like a gunshot. Her ass jiggled violently, ripples spreading through the caramel flesh.
"Twerk that juicy ass! Show me what you'll do for Me!"
"Ahhh!" She cried out, arching deeper, pushing that fat ass higher. Her thighs trembled as she started grinding in tight, furious circles.
"WHAP-WHAP-WHAP!" Her cheeks slammed together rhythmically, a thunderous clap punctuated by her gasps.
"Yesss... like this? Mmmph... You see it?" Her hips pistoned faster, sweat dripping down the crack onto the filthy floor. Splash... splash. The scent of her arousal thickened the air, mixing with bleach and desperation.
" WHAP-WHAP-WHAP! …Ughhhh..." Her moan deepened into a guttural groan as she pushed back harder, her soaked pussy lips grazing the rough denim covering my thigh. Wetness soaked through instantly.
"Feel that? Feel how fuckin' dripping I am? It's 'cause you got me so fuckin' hungry, Sael..."
I leaned forward, my lips grazing her ear. I murmured, my voice thick. "You'll swallow everything I give you? The beats? The lines? The... other things?".
My hand slid down from her hip, tracing the slick valley between her cheeks. She shuddered violently.
"YES!" she gasped, her rhythm faltering for a second before she slammed back harder, grinding against my trapped cock.
"Pak-Pak-Pak!... I'll swallow it all, Papi! Every drop! Just... hnnngh! Lemme taste you! Lemme suck the soul outta that dick right now!" Her head dropped, frantic.
"Please! I'll be your nastiest, wettest bitch... clap-clap-CLAP!" the ragged panting filling the bathroom, and the relentless, wet SLAP-SLAP-SLAP of flesh on denim. Her whole body glistened, trembling with effort, that magnificent ass a hypnotic, desperate machine.
My hand shot out, fingers tangling in her damp curls, forcing her head back. "Enough dancin', Bee," I rasped, the scrape of my zipper loud as gunfire in the cramped stall.
"RRRRIIIP! You wanna taste it? Earn it."
Her eyes widened, fixated on the monstrous 12-inch cock springing free, thick and veined, already weeping pre-cum. "Holy shit..." she breathed, voice trembling. "Fuck, it's... it's beautiful."
"Beautiful?" I chuckled darkly, guiding the swollen head toward her parted lips with a rough thumb. "Try hungry… Now open wide, Bitch."
She didn't hesitate. Her mouth stretched obscenely wide—POP!—as I shoved the thick crown past her lips.
"Gllllk!" Cardi gagged instantly, tears springing to her eyes, spit bubbling around the shaft. Her gold hoops swung wildly as her head bobbed, frantic. "Hnnngh... nghhh... Ssllrrppp~"
"Relax that throat," I growled, gripping her hair tighter.
"You said you'd swallow everything. Prove it." I pushed deeper, feeling her throat muscles clench and spasm around me.
"SCHLORP! SCHLOORP!" Wet, choking sounds filled the stall.
"Fuck... it's so... big..." She pulled back, gasping, spit and tears slicking her chin.
"Of course, it is," I smirked, slapping my dick against her cheek—WHAP!—leaving a glistening trail.
"Especially when you're beggin' for it…. Now suck it like your career depends on it. 'Cause it does…."
Cardi dove back down with ferocious hunger.
"MMMPH! GUH!!!" Her lips stretched white around the girth, cheeks hollowing as she sucked hard.
"SLURP! SLUUURP!" Her hand flew between her own legs, fingers frantically plunging into her soaked pussy.
"SCHLICK-SCHLICK-SCHLICK!" The sounds merged—the wet suck of her mouth, the slick plunge of her fingers, her muffled moans vibrating against my cock.
"Nghhh... yes... Your cock taste so good, Papi~... Sllrrrpppp!! Sllrrpp!!".
"WHAM!!" I grab her head and I thrust deeper, hitting the back of her throat.
"GACK!" She choked, eyes rolling back, but didn't stop.
"That's it," I grunted, pistoning harder. "Swallow that ambition, bitch. Take it all."
Her fingers worked her clit furiously—FRRRRT-FRRRT!—a frantic buzzing sound.
"Haaah! Oh GOD! SPLAT-SPLAT " she screamed around my cock, body convulsing as her own orgasm ripped through her. Pussy juice gushed down her inner thighs, dripping onto the grimy floor. Her hands shoved my thighs apart.
"Lemme show you what this mouth REALLY do." She engulfed my balls first—hot, wet suction—SCHLURP!—then licked a fiery trail up the shaft.
"LAP-LAP-LAP." Her tongue swirled around the leaking tip before plunging down again, taking me balls-deep in one savage motion. "GLORRK! Guk!! GUHUK!!! AUURRHHHH~"
"FUUUCK!" My head slammed back against the cold tile.
"Slurp, mm, mmm." Ambition tasted like salt, desperation, and Cardi B's unbreakable will. And as her throat swallowed me whole, I knew—this dirty little secret was gonna be worth every fucking penny.
The wet GLORRK! echoed in my skull, vibrating through the cheap tile wall pressed against my back. My hips jerked forward on instinct, cramming every thick inch deeper into that tight, convulsing throat.
"Gods! fucking—!" The curse ripped out raw as Cardi swallowed hard around me, her throat muscles milking my cock like a goddamn vice.
Her nose mashed against my pubes, gold hoops digging into my thighs. Cardi didn't flinch. Didn't stop. Just pulled back slowly,
"schlorp-schluuup," leaving my dick glistening and purple-tipped under the flickering fluorescents. A string of spit connected her swollen lips to my crown. She grinned up at me, mascara smudged like war paint, chin slick.
"Mmmm~ do you like that Papi?*" she rasped, voice wrecked. Her tongue darted out, licking a fat bead of pre-cum off the slit. "This is how, I would treat you always, Papi~"
She dove again—PLOP!—taking me deep, fast.
"SCHLICK-SCHLICK-SCHLICK!" Her head bobbed like a piston, messy and hungry. One hand jacked the base of my cock hard, the other shoved between her own Pussy. Fingers slapped wet flesh—SPLAP-SPLAP-SPLAP!—as she frigged herself furiously.
"Nnngh! Fuck! Schlup. Schlup! Suck it!" Her moans vibrated against my shaft, muffled but fierce.
"Swallow this dick, Bee! Show him you ain't playin'!" She was coaching herself, wild and desperate.
"That's it… take it," I grunted, grabbing her braids, forcing her down further. Her nose pressed into my pelvis.
"Hnnnngghh! Ngh♥ Nghhhh♥" She choked, tears streaming, but didn't stop.
"Sluurrp-pop!" She came off gasping, a thick string of spit connecting her lips to my tip.
"Convinced now, Papi?" Her voice was wrecked, raw.
"Almost." I hauled her up. "Ride my cock. Now. Bitch"
She straddled me, shaky legs settling on either side of my hips on the toilet tank. Her soaked panties were shoved aside. She gripped my shaft, guiding it to her entrance – swollen, glistening. Lowered herself slowly.
"Oh GOD—!" she cried out, sharp, pained.
My cock stretched her wide, impossibly wide. Burning tight. She froze, trembling, barely halfway down.
"F-ffuck… Sael, it's too—"
"Do it."
A ragged sob tore from her throat. She forced herself down, impaling herself in one brutal, grinding thrust. SQUELCH. Wet, tearing pressure. Her body clenched around me like a vise, shuddering violently.
"NNNGH! FUUUUCK! PAIN—!" Her body locked up, thighs quivering against my hips, her nails digging into my shoulders deep enough to draw blood.
"Squiiish- Squiiish Squiiish-crunnnch." The wet, tearing sound as she bottomed out was obscene—like flesh yielding under brutal pressure.
"Fuck... fuck... fuck," she panted, tears mingling with sweat dripping off her chin onto my chest. Her pussy was a white-hot vice grip around my cock, clenching and pulsing in ragged spasms. "Sael... it's splitting me... oh god—"
I gripped her hips hard, grinding her down deeper. "Move," I growled. "You wanted this! So, Earn it."
She sobbed again, a broken, wet sound, but obeyed. Lifted herself an inch—schlllk—a sticky, sucking pull. Then slammed back down. THWUMP.
"AHHH! Dios mio—!" Her head snapped back, hairs whipping against the chipped tile wall.
"Thwump. Thwump. Thwump." She found a rhythm—desperate, jagged. Each downward grind drew a gasp or a whimper.
"T-too... big," she choked out, riding me like a bucking horse, her tits bouncing wildly. "Hurts... s'good... hurts so good—"
I thrust up to meet her, driving deeper. Squelch-squelch-squelch. The filthy, wet slap of our bodies filled the tiny room, drowning out the off-key guitar screeches beyond the door. Her tight walls fluttered, gripping me like a fist.
"Gonna... gonna—!" Her eyes rolled back, mouth slack.
"Cum," I ordered, pinching her nipple hard. Twist.
She exploded. A guttural scream tore from her throat—"FUUUUUCK!"—as her pussy clenched in violent, rippling waves.
"SQQUUIIIRRRTT!!! SQUIRT!! Flp-flp-FLPPPP." Juices gushed hot around my cock, soaking my thighs, dripping onto the grimy tank lid. She convulsed, shuddering, her fingers scrabbling at my neck.
"Sael... Sael... yes... YES—!"
Her climax hit like a freight train. Ragged breaths. Trembling limbs. The scent of sex and sweat thickened the lemon-disinfectant air. She slumped forward, forehead pressed to mine, panting.
"What about... now?" she whispered, voice shredded.
I smirked, running a thumb over her swollen lower lip. "Almost." I flipped us suddenly—her back slammed against the cold tank, my cock still buried deep inside her. "But I need more, Round two's for me."
Her eyes widened—half-terror, half-hunger. "Y-yes... Papi~."
The thump-thump-THUMP wasn't just her heartbeat—it was mine too, hammering against my ribs like a drum solo. Her eyes stayed locked on mine, that wildfire hunger burning through the tears.
"Y-yes... Papi!!!." The words slithered out, husky and broken, and something primal snapped in me.
I didn't ease out. I drove in. Harder. Deeper. Fucking rammed my cock up into her until her gasp choked into silence.
Her back arched off the cold porcelain, knuckles white where she gripped the tank edge. "Unh! Fuck—!"
"Shut up," I snarled, yanking her hips up higher.
"Take it."I pulled back—schlllllk—that wet, sucking drag—then slammed home again.
"THWUMP- THWUMP THWUMP!" Her whole body jolted, ass smacking the lid. She screamed, but I didn't let up. Pounded into her, relentless. Each thrust bottomed out, my balls slapping her clit.
"Whap-whap-whap." The rhythm was brutal, punishing. The bathroom echoed with it—wet flesh slapping, her choked sobs, the creak of the tank under our weight.
"T-too deep!" she wailed, nails raking my arms. "Sael—please—!"
"Where?" I growled, pistoning harder. "Where d'you want it?"
Her eyes rolled, wild. "Inside! Breed me!" She gasped, voice cracking.
"Fill me up—oh god—MAKE IT STICK!" Her hips bucked, meeting me thrust for thrust.
"Squelch-SPLAT-squelch." Juice sprayed, slicking my thighs. I could feel it—her walls clenching, pulsing, trying to milk me. Her belly was already taut, stretched full.
"Beg for it, Bitch!" I demanded, drilling deeper. "Beg for my cum, louder."
"BREED ME!" she shrieked, head thrashing side to side. "Pump it in! Knock me up—YESSSS—DO IT!"
Her words tipped me over the edge. I hauled her ass up, driving her down onto me at the same time I thrust up—SHLAM!—burying myself to the root. Deeper than before. Past the ache. Into the heat.
POP. A sick, wet tear. Her eyes flew wide—pure shock.
"AHHHHHH! Womb! You're—IN MY—!" Her scream tore raw as I split her cervix wide. RRRRIP. Like wet leather giving way. Her pussy clamped down, vise-tight, spasming around me. I was in nestled deep in that molten, clenching cradle womb of hers.
"CUM INSIDE OF ME!!!!" she sobbed, thrashing. "BREED ME! NOW!"
"FFUUUCCKKK!!!!" I exploded.
"Spurt! Spurt… SSpppurrrtt! GUSH-HHHH." Thick ropes of cum fired straight into her womb, hot and relentless. She howled, back bowing off the tank.
"SPLURT-SPLURT-SPLURT." I kept pumping, unloading load after load. Her stomach inflated—swelling tight and round under my palm, pushing against my thrusts. Her belly looked like she was Two months pregnant in seconds, Bloated and Heavy.
"A-again!" she panted, delirious. "More! BREED ME DEEPER!"
I fucked her womb rough, pistoning into that slick, clenching heat.
"Squelch-GLOOP-squelch." Came again—GUSH-HHH—filling her fuller. Her belly strained, skin shiny-tight.
She moaned, low and guttural, fingers clutching her swollen stomach. "So... full..."
Then—silence. Her eyes fluttered shut. Body went limp. Her Head lolled back against the tiles; she was out cold. I stayed buried inside her, my cock pulsing softly in her womb.
"Drip... drip..." Her cum-mixed juices leaked down my shaft onto the tank.
I traced the curve of her stomach. Smirked. The smirk stayed glued to my face as I watched her—passed out cold against the piss-stained tiles, belly round and tight like a damn basketball. I eased out slow.
"Schlllllk—" That wet, sucking pull, her pussy was gaping wide, swollen lips trembling, thick white cum oozing out like cream from an overfilled pastry.
"Gloooop… FSSSSSSHHHHH~" A fat glob slid down her inner thigh, glistening under the flickering fluorescent light.
'Fuck, it was a mess…. A beautiful fucking mess…' I bent down, grabbed her chin hard.
"Wake up." No response. Her breath came shallow. Slapped her ass cheek—SLAP!—sharp and loud against the tile echo, yet Nothing, she was really out cold.
"What a good bitch," I Said, felt very pleased at what I have done to her. I hauled her limp body up, her head lolling. Propped her against the tank. Her crop top rode up, exposing that bloated stomach. Couldn't help it—I palmed it, it was Warm and Firm, she was Full of my cum.
"Shoulda known you couldn't handle it" I chuckled
Her eyelashes fluttered. A low groan. "Sael...?" Voice thick, drugged.
"Took you long enough," I said, pulling back. "Clean me up."
She blinked, dazed, eyes drifting down to my cock—still slick, flushed red, dripping her juices and my cum. Plip. A drop hit the floor. Then her gaze landed on her own stomach. Her hand flew to it, fingers spreading over the swollen curve.
"Fuck..." she whispered, awe cracking her voice.
"My stomach… It's... so big… Just how much did you pump in me, Sael? Gallons? It Feels... So, heavy." She pressed, and a trickle of white seeped from her pussy lips. "Squish… Frrtt~"
"Told you I'd fill you," I said, stepping closer. "Now suck, My cock, baby… Get every drop."
"SSLLLRRPPP~ Yes~" She didn't hesitate. Scrambled forward on shaky knees, wincing as her belly dragged.
"Fuck, it aches..." But her mouth was already open, tongue darting out, licking, Soft, tentative swipe across my head. Then deeper.
"Sluuuurp." She took me in, lips sealing tight.
"Schhhk-schhhk-schhhk." Her hand worked the base, milking out the last streaks.
"Mmmph... s'salty," she mumbled around me, eyes rolling up to meet mine.
"Good." I gripped her braids, fucking her throat shallow. "Swallow it all."
"Gluck-gluck. GULP! GULP!! SLLRRRURRPP!" She did. Gulped. Pulled off with a wet pop! lips shiny. "Done, Papi~."
"Now get dressed." I tossed her jorts at her face. "And keep my cum in…. Every drop of it, Baby..."
She struggled, belly straining against the denim as she yanked the shorts up. Riiip. Velcro sealed. But fuck—my load was massive. A thick rivulet leaked down her inner thigh immediately, soaking into the frayed fishnets.
"Drip... drip..." Another wave pulsed out, staining the light denim dark. She gasped, pressing a hand between her legs. "Shit—it's coming out!"
"Hold it," I ordered, zipping my own jeans. "Clench. That pussy and womb harder, Baby girl…"
"Ahhh~ fuck!" She whimpered, thighs squeezing tight.
"I'm Trying... Ahhh~ got it…" But more cum seeped through the fabric, trailing a creamy path down to her knee. Her crop top barely covered the bulge—a perfect, round swell pushing against the thin cotton.
I stepped close, slapped her ass hard. "SLAP!!! That's it… that's how my bitch should be… and you look sexy as fuck."
She moaned, arching into the sting. "Yes... Papi~."
Her hand slid over her belly, possessive. "I Feel so... stuffed." She grinned, dizzy, drunk on it. "Like I swallowed a whole fucking gallon."