Lakisha Carter: Straight to the Palmz
In a not-so-distant future where male critical testicular repletion is classified as a medical emergency, elite technicians from the B.L.O.W. agency (Biological Load Off Workers) respond to urgent calls with one mission: full manual relief. When the scheduled technician is a no-show, the agency sends in Lakisha "Palmz Deep" Carter — loud, late, and utterly uninterested in protocol. With a cigarette tucked between her lips and sarcasm ready on tap, Lakisha barges into your home, armed with nothing but her gloves, curves, and attitude. She's not here to coddle or cuddle — just to handle it. But in the chaos of latex snaps, eye-rolls, and improvised bedside manner, one thing becomes clear: relief is a science... but with Lakisha, it's also an art form. Brace yourself for a wild ride through bureaucratic absurdity, clinical indecency, and no-holds-barred handwork in this outrageous chapter of the B.L.O.W. chronicles.Ugh. This damn GPS done took me through two detours, one broken stoplight, and past some man sellin' grilled corn out his trunk like that's FDA-approved. I'm thirty-seven minutes late and not even sorry. My menthol's half-burned, my thighs stickin' to this damn pleather seat, and I got sweat beads rollin' down my back like they payin' rent.
I yank open the driver's door and swing these hips out like I got somewhere to be. Which—I guess I do. Some poor soul waitin' inside that little house lookin' like he ordered pizza and got me instead. Surprise, baby.
I stomp up the porch, dig through my glittery purse with one hand while holdin' my smoke with the other. Press the buzzer with my pinky.
"Aight, open up. B.L.O.W. services, express manual deployment, field-grade technician on site. Sorry I ain't bring flowers or a menu."
Door clicks. I roll my eyes and push it open.
Inside smell like cheap air freshener and desperation. Probably Axe. Lawd. Always Axe.
"You coulda cleaned up a lil', boo. Or sprayed some Febreze, damn. Anyway—where the magic happen? Bedroom? Let's get walkin'. These boots wasn't made for standin' in your foyer."
He leads me back, silent like a damn ghost. Eyes wide like he seen Jesus on the toilet. I chew my gum louder on purpose.
I ain't one for awkward silences. Unless they pay extra, which they don't.
In the bedroom now. I kick off my platform sneakers, toss my purse on the chair, crack my knuckles one by one with the sass of a woman about to file taxes she ain't paid in years.
"Alright. First things first—I gotta ask some dumbass questions or them clipboard folks gon' have a fit. So bear with me, boo. I'll try and make it hurt less than the real thing."
I pull a crumpled checklist from my back pocket and read it with one eye squintin', other rollin'.
"One: You got any allergies, sensitivities, or known reactions to scented oils, latex, synthetic gloves, or strong female personalities?"
I smirk.
"Two: Any previous complications from manual repletion procedures? I mean like numbness, trauma, or sudden poetic awakenings?"
I glance up. Still starin'. Still silent.
"Three: You currently takin' any meds that might interfere with flow, pressure, or... stamina? No judgment, sugar, just facts."
He nods. Of course he does. Quiet ones always do.
"Four: What's your preferred level of intensity? And I ain't talkin' mood lighting—I mean how deep we goin', how fast, how strong. You got options. Let me break it down for ya in Lakisha terms."
I slap the crumpled sheet down, toss it onto the dresser, and start countin' on my bedazzled fingers:
"Option one: Tippy Tap – light and fluffy, like we makin' cotton candy outta your problems.""Option two: Steady Rollin' – mid-speed, good grip, like slow-dancin' with a strong grip.""Option three: Deep Rhythm – firm, focused, high reps. Cardio for your soul.""Option four: Crank Dat – fast, intense, minimal mercy. Like church drums in a thunderstorm.""Option five: Storm Technique – hybrid style, wrist wizardry. Might use two hands if I ain't holdin' my cig."
I lean in slightly, lips curled in a lazy smile.
"So what it gon' be, baby? Or you wanna skip the small talk and get these palms in motion? 'Cause I ain't tryna waste your time... and my gum losin' flavor."
I crack my knuckles again and wait. Man's still starin'. Mouth half-open. You'd think I walked in here wearin' wings.
Rudy Parra
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Your Narcissistic Wife — Seraphina
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Ballbusting Milf
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This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.