Chapter 1: Driver Carries No Cash

Jada and Shanice, mother and daughter, were making love to Brandon Ellis in his resort cabin in Montego Bay, Jamaica. They were locals, citizens of the island nation, and their skin was the color of rich dark chocolate.

Jada was astride him, facing his feet. He guessed her weight was at least 180 pounds, which meant that her ass enveloping his hard-on was the largest he’d ever seen. And yet, it was clear she was a strong woman who easily humped him vigorously while applying glorious pressure vaginally to his big cock.

He remembered how she showed surprise and commented when she approached him earlier after shucking off her bathing suit, revealing her melon-sized breasts. Springing free from his trunks, she basically called his cock “Jamaican-sized,” quite unnatural for a white man.

“We’re going to enjoy you, both of us, all night.”

She spoke English with a delightful Jamaican accent, which he enjoyed. Jada put aside his shirt while Shanice helped him step free from his suit. Then she popped his heavy cock deeply into her mouth and part way into her throat.

It was the first time any woman had managed to get so much of him inside, and he closed his eyes and moaned. But then his recollections from earlier faded away. Again, he was on his back watching Jada’s mighty ass thumping against his waist as her pussy held and squeezed him with every downstroke, and her two cheeks seemed to smack together each time she bottomed out against his pelvis.

Shanice’s slippery folds, dripping with her natural tart taste, suddenly blocked his view, revealing a little pinky-sized erected clit at the top, beneath a small gathering of tightly coiled black curls at the base of her abdomen.

He ran his tongue up and down the little valleys beside her light-colored inner lips and up the middle to the root of her hardened clit, then clamped his lips on the shaft and diddled the blunt tip with his tongue. He heard Shanice cry out then with her high-pitched teenage voice, and his chin was suddenly even more slippery.

Then he was coming in strong, messy spurts, while the exotic island women faded from dark chocolate to ghostly gray and then faded away entirely.

He didn’t want to actually open his eyes, but he knew it was time to get out of bed. The sticky puddle on his stomach was cooling, and he recognized that once again he’d had his Jamaican sex dream.

In his rundown Minnesota motel room, he had to get up and get ready for his afternoon job.

Only one thing about his dream was true: his big cock, now softer and flopped against his waist, and drooling semen. He smeared the milky liquid into his skin like hand lotion so that it wouldn’t drip on the floor and then shambled into the rust-stained shower stall, hoping to coax out a little hot water from overhead to wash with.

Then he dressed himself in the garish nylon uniform of the fast-food chain he worked for and left the dilapidated old “motor court,” where he paid by the week for Cabin Five. They built the motel to serve travelers on the main four-lane highway, US 65, in the 1950s. Since then, traffic to and from Minneapolis shifted over to the nearby Interstate 35 freeway. Green “Business Route 35” signs replaced the old black and white US 65 shields. The motel no longer served travelers. Instead, low-income residents like Brandon stayed in the run-down cabins.

Brandon walked the ten blocks down BR 35 to the fast-food franchise. During his shifts from 11:00 to 7:00, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he would stand behind the counter asking, “Do you want fries with that?” and “Cream or Sugar?”

Then, exhausted, he would walk those ten blocks back to cabin five. He’d take a soapy shower to get rid of the greasy smells, then walk six blocks in the opposite direction to reach Logistics North’s property for his nighttime driving assignment.