My Love Is Not On the Game (a short story)

I felt the urge of trying my hand at some creative writing. The following is a short story, inspired by "My Love Is Not a Game," a short story by Naiomi Pitre. Before you read mine, you should read hers, at her Myspace: www.myspace.com/bbinbatonrouge . Then come back here.
Back? Okay.
"My Love Is Not On the Game," by Joseph in the Bracknell
People keep saying that my girls is on the game, but she's not, so stop saying that, okay? Stop saying it, or I'll thump you.
My name is Dijon, like the mustard. I don't get how so many brothers get off treating their women with so much disrespect. I don't understand how beautiful Black queens allow themselves to be dissed like that. Okay, the ugly ones I can understand, but not the beautiful ones. How can you say you love someone, then belittle and berate her? Sure, smack her around a little bit, just to show you care, but don't belittle and berate her. I wouldn't do that to my girl. Does she appreciate the love that I show her? Does she understand that I don't want her on the game? She tells me to back off and leave her alone, but I can't. I just can't. I want to make her my trouble and strife.
Three year ago, I met her in Waterloo Station, on the south bank of the Thames, in London. My mate, Tee, and I were chillin' at a pub, in Surrey Quays, having a couple of pints. Tee's parents had a big dispute about what to name him. His mother wanted to name him Tracey. His dad said, "that's a girl's name." He wanted to name him Trevor. His mum thought Trevor sounded like the name of a paedophile school teacher. At the end of the day, they compromised and since both names shared the same first letter, they called him "Tee." Tee had to be back at the London School of Economics, for a class at one fifteen, so I decided to head back to my flat. He shared a Jubilee Line train with me, as far as Waterloo, then we parted ways. He stayed on the Underground, while I headed upstairs to Southwest Trains. It is a quicker way to get to Richmond, where my flat is. That's when I first laid eyes on her.
There was this bird, standing all alone by platform 19, waiting on the next train to Reading. I gave her a butcher's, noticing her long, dark hair, twisted into a French plait, crowning her gorgeous head. There aren't many shorties who can rock that style, without ending up looking lie one of the dudes from McFly, but my girl was working it for real. Her face was soft, delicate, and sweet, like a light brown fairy princess that had fallen from the sky and landed face down, in a pile of shit. She was wearing tight black trousers and a yellow crop top, which showed off her pierced belly button, and her cleavage. She had nice shoulders, too, but I'm a man, so I was starring at her tits, innit? I had to suppress the urge to run over to her and suffocate her, so I could have my way with her. I had to find out more about her---to find out what made her tick. It turns out that it's stress. When she's stressed, she gets that facial tick, know what I mean?
I approached her and said, "alright shitface, what's your name?" She told me it was Neenaneenaneena, which is an Urdu word for, "up yours, twatface." I hoped that I would soon be up her twat. Not long after witnessing her ample breasts rise and fall, teasingly, as she breathed, I feel in love. I also got a stiffy. Her nips were erect, promising milk for my thirsting soul.
Neena eventually told me of her dream to become a devoted wife to a man, one day. She also liked to dress up in a wedding gown and white stockings, with suspenders. She seemed old fashioned and wanted a man to take care of her, although she wanted to keep working, too. She fanatsized about being the mother of some man's lucky children, showering their puke off her and besting them at knowledge games. It was as if someone was whispering into her ear all of the things I wanted in a wife and she was just parroting them back to me. We spent many hours together. I longed to explore every inch of her luscious frame with my lips. She insisted we take things slowly and only snogged me, and let me cop a feel of her tits. My mates were neglected. I stopped hanging out with them and going to the pub. All of that seemed pretty pointless, when I had Neena to occupy my time.
See, I don't get these fools out here, who could be banging their women, at home, but choose to do pub crawls with their mates. Cherish your woman and treat her like the twat she is. Who wants to hang out with hairy leg feckers, when you have someone soft, gentle, and who shaves her legs, waiting for you at home? What utter nonsense! I made sure Neena understood that I wasn't going to occupy my time with such nonsense. I didn't expect her to occupy her time with it, either. Why did she need to spend time with those cows she used to kick it with? All they did was gossip about who's man had gotten it off with whom, behind his woman's back. I didn't need Neena being influenced by that mess. I didn't want her thinking about me cheating on her, otherwise, she might get the idea to catch me out. She started living with me, in my flat, which was cool.
Sometimes, Neena's family would get on my last nerve. Her father was this real strict Muslim geezer, named Imran. Her mother was a submissive. I have a few Pakistani homies from secondary school and they always told me it was a myth that Pakistani men made their women walk two steps behind them. Her folks must have been seriously old school. Whatever Imran said, went! Neena had not made him very happy when she moved into my home. He was constantly trying to intimidate her into coming back home.
I had to cut that shit out straight away. I told her that if she was going to be with me, she would have to tell her dad to chill. She didn't like me talking about her old man like that, but I knew she'd make the right decision. It wasn't like she had to work. I brought home plenty of dosh from my mechanic's job, at Halfords. She never wanted for anything. She had noting to complain about. I let her go to the corner shops and everything. I even let her use my Switch card. I took care of her now, not her old man. If she went home now, they'd make her work in their 99 Pence shop, selling cheap rubbish. That was the last thing she was interested in doing.
I took her to all the fancy restaurants down the West End. I took her to Covent Garden. I never let her rim me in the bedroom. The lips that would, one day, kiss my son goodnight, where too precious to do anything that dirty. I offered to lick her flange as much as possible. I tell you, if she had been on the game, I wouldn't have done that. She refused, saying that she wanted to save that for later, and gave me blowies, instead.
I caught my girl out, one time. At first, I thought it must be a mistake. One day, while I was riding in her car, which I had bought her just two months earlier, I noticed a tie on the floor of the backseat. I had never known Neena to wear a tie and it wasn't one of mine. I decided I would leave the tie there and pretend I hadn't seen it. I followed her a few times, after that day, trying to catch her out. I never did catch her in the middle of any mess, but I did notice that the tie disappeared from her car, after that. I started looking for the man in our social circles who wore that tie and I planned on killing him when I found him.
Three weeks later, I went to pick up Neena from the hair salon where she was getting her French plait tightened. She had always told me that the woman who did her hair was a lesbian. I have nothing against lesbians. In fact, they are kind of a turn on, but this one was one of those butch ones. I prefer lipstick lesbians. When I cam to pick Neena up, I saw her kissing the dyke on the cheek and I saw the same turquoise blue and white tie around the dyke's neck! That got me thinking, what would be the perfect place to pull babes, if you were a lesbo? Working at a women's hair salon. What was the dyke doing in Neena's car in the first place, dropping her tie?
I went off on her, in the car. She started crying after I slapped her face. She went on and on, screaming that he would never let no woman lay hands on her. She denied that Butchy Brenda and her had anything going on which I didn't know about. I told her that I knew about the tie. Neena claimed to have borrowed it, one day, and was just returning it. Did she really expect me to believe that? I was even more angry that she would get me so angry that I would slap her like that. I grabbed a handful of her hair and cracked her head against the passenger side window. Almost cracked the window, as well.
I drove off and on the way home, I asked her over and over, why she would make me do this to her. Couldn't she just tell me the truth? If she fancied women, why not pull a nice lipstick lesbian, so we could share? Neena just sat pressing herself into the passenger door, like she thought I would kill her. She said nothing, just cried and cried.
When we got home she tried to lock herself in the bathroom., but I blocked her way. So instead, she threw herself onto the bed and curled into a ball. I told Neena I was willing to forgive her lying and cheating on me, but I wanted her to admit to the truth. "you want the truth," she screamed, tearfully. "Okay, the truth is I borrowed that tie to wear, when I went to visit my family. I am a pre-op transexual, Dijon, but my family won't accept it, being strict Muslims and all. When I go visit them, they insist I dress as a man."
I was flabbergasted! No wonder she had refused to have intercourse all this time. Yet, I found myself getting hard. One of her breasts had popped out of the tube top she was wearing that day. I wrapped my lips around the brown nipple and sucked hard. She cried out in pain, but I hadn't meant to hurt her. All I could think about was how long she had denied me intercourse. That drove my passion further along and I rubbed my growing erection against the silk of her knickers. She was wearing a short skirt, which was now hiked up. Neena shook her head, vigorously. I unzipped my trousers and unleashed the dragon.
"What is wrong with you?" Neenaneenaneena screamed at me, her eyes wide with terror.
"Nothing, Neen. I just love you, can't you see?" I pleaded with her.
"Let go of me, Dijon. Let GO!"
I grabbed her harder and felt my cock slide past the elastic of her underwear. I was at the entrance of her anus and I shoved myself inside her with a vengeance. Neena screamed again and I could see tears rolling down the sides of her face. I hadn't used any lubrication and I could feel some serious friction as I eased myself up her rectum. The sensation was so different from any normal woman I had ever been with. It was like sliding on sandpaper. Somehow, it still felt amazing.
Neena went limp underneath me. Her eyes were blank. I couldn't stop myself pumping in and out of her, like a mental. I knew this lovemaking would bring us closer together. I started getting that familiar sensation. Orgasm was on the way. She couldn't get pregnant, so I just let fly with my man muck all up inside her hot bottom.
Neena left me the next day. When I told Tee, he said she might have worked as a Tranny prostitute. "How else could she afford all those hormones," he added. I refuse to believe that my T-girl was on the game. She may have been gone, but I found myself hooked on T-girls.