| Author: | Brock Johnson | ISBN: | 9780463225721 |
| Publisher: | Brock Johnson | Publication: | May 12, 2019 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords | Language: | English |
| Author: | Brock Johnson |
| ISBN: | 9780463225721 |
| Publisher: | Brock Johnson |
| Publication: | May 12, 2019 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords |
| Language: | English |
Tysheem is rudely awakened by two young women on a mission to save his soul. Tysheem, being Tysheem, is determined that they will make up for his lost sleep. What follows is an afternoon of sensual discovery that will change the lives of the naive missionaries. By the time they leave, Tysheem will have introduced them to the world of love-making and truthfulness to their own selves. Their lives will be happily changed forever. And Tysheem will have his own happy ending.
"I yelled, catapulted from some deep slumber by an unwelcome doorbell.
I looked at the ceiling a moment, then let my eyes drift shut again. Instantly, I was back in dreamland.
The doorbell rang again. I swung my legs off the bed and sat. My brain started firing on a couple of cylinders.
It was too early on a Saturday morning. My boys and I had been out late last night, shooting hoops and bullshitting each other. One thing led to another. Someone pulled out a bottle. Things got a little blurry after that. How I got home, I'm not quite sure.
I found the intercom, keyed the switch. “Yeah?”
A really sweet, girl's voice came through. It didn't sound at all like anyone from the hood I knew. “Good morning,” said the voice – the white voice. “Is this the residence of Tysheem Fogg?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “you got him.”
“Oh,” said the voice, which really, really sounded like some white chick, “I hope I didn't wake you.”
“Um,” I said. “Uh. No. I had to get up anyway.” I wasn't going back to sleep anyway. “What can I do for you?”
“Hi,” said the voice – so perky, and suburban, and white. Which was suddenly interesting to me. “I'm a missionary for the my church, and I'd like to talk to you about the good news.”
Wow. A missionary. I thought about it for a second. This could be interesting in a couple of ways. One, it's always good to screw around with white folk coming to save our black souls, that's for damned sure. Two, and more important, the voice was female and white – you see, I have this thing about white chicks. I have a fetish about them. So I keyed the intercom again, “What do you want?”
“We'd like to talk to you about god's plan for you and your future,” said that lovely, white voice.
Two of them? Well, if one was a dude, I'd shoo them on their way soon enough. But if... “Sure,” I said. “Come on up.” And I buzzed them in. I looked down at myself, I was dressed only in the boxers I'd fell into bed with, and nothing else. I'm sure my breath could stun a dragon just then. I grabbed a tee shirt on the way to the bathroom. A little toothpaste, a splash of water on the face, and yank on the tee, that's all I had time for while the missionaries plodded up five floors to my apartment.
There came a knock at the door. No time to grab shorts. I unchained the door and undid the three locks. It opened. Two lovely young ladies stood there, all smiles and chipper. One was tall, blond, and kind of plain, though still cute. The other was brunette and smoking hot. But both wore the same kind of uniform: Long black skirts that reached halfway between knee and ankle; shapeless, white blouse with long sleeves. The blond's read 'Sister Larsen', the brunette's read 'Sister Kenney.' Both name tags identified them as members of one of the churches famous for knocking on doors early in the morning on weekends.
“Good morning, Mr. Fogg,” said Sister Larsen brightly. It was the same voice I heard through the intercom.
Sister Kenney said, “We're so happy you asked us in.”
And her voice was sultry and mellifluous. I felt a familiar warmth start up in my groin. Down, boy, I thought. Nothing's happening!
Yet!
Tysheem is rudely awakened by two young women on a mission to save his soul. Tysheem, being Tysheem, is determined that they will make up for his lost sleep. What follows is an afternoon of sensual discovery that will change the lives of the naive missionaries. By the time they leave, Tysheem will have introduced them to the world of love-making and truthfulness to their own selves. Their lives will be happily changed forever. And Tysheem will have his own happy ending.
"I yelled, catapulted from some deep slumber by an unwelcome doorbell.
I looked at the ceiling a moment, then let my eyes drift shut again. Instantly, I was back in dreamland.
The doorbell rang again. I swung my legs off the bed and sat. My brain started firing on a couple of cylinders.
It was too early on a Saturday morning. My boys and I had been out late last night, shooting hoops and bullshitting each other. One thing led to another. Someone pulled out a bottle. Things got a little blurry after that. How I got home, I'm not quite sure.
I found the intercom, keyed the switch. “Yeah?”
A really sweet, girl's voice came through. It didn't sound at all like anyone from the hood I knew. “Good morning,” said the voice – the white voice. “Is this the residence of Tysheem Fogg?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “you got him.”
“Oh,” said the voice, which really, really sounded like some white chick, “I hope I didn't wake you.”
“Um,” I said. “Uh. No. I had to get up anyway.” I wasn't going back to sleep anyway. “What can I do for you?”
“Hi,” said the voice – so perky, and suburban, and white. Which was suddenly interesting to me. “I'm a missionary for the my church, and I'd like to talk to you about the good news.”
Wow. A missionary. I thought about it for a second. This could be interesting in a couple of ways. One, it's always good to screw around with white folk coming to save our black souls, that's for damned sure. Two, and more important, the voice was female and white – you see, I have this thing about white chicks. I have a fetish about them. So I keyed the intercom again, “What do you want?”
“We'd like to talk to you about god's plan for you and your future,” said that lovely, white voice.
Two of them? Well, if one was a dude, I'd shoo them on their way soon enough. But if... “Sure,” I said. “Come on up.” And I buzzed them in. I looked down at myself, I was dressed only in the boxers I'd fell into bed with, and nothing else. I'm sure my breath could stun a dragon just then. I grabbed a tee shirt on the way to the bathroom. A little toothpaste, a splash of water on the face, and yank on the tee, that's all I had time for while the missionaries plodded up five floors to my apartment.
There came a knock at the door. No time to grab shorts. I unchained the door and undid the three locks. It opened. Two lovely young ladies stood there, all smiles and chipper. One was tall, blond, and kind of plain, though still cute. The other was brunette and smoking hot. But both wore the same kind of uniform: Long black skirts that reached halfway between knee and ankle; shapeless, white blouse with long sleeves. The blond's read 'Sister Larsen', the brunette's read 'Sister Kenney.' Both name tags identified them as members of one of the churches famous for knocking on doors early in the morning on weekends.
“Good morning, Mr. Fogg,” said Sister Larsen brightly. It was the same voice I heard through the intercom.
Sister Kenney said, “We're so happy you asked us in.”
And her voice was sultry and mellifluous. I felt a familiar warmth start up in my groin. Down, boy, I thought. Nothing's happening!
Yet!
