Flea market fever.

Flea Market Fever

The Los Angeles sun scorched the cracked pavement of South Central, where neon signs buzzed above liquor stores and taco stands, their glow clashing with graffiti-slashed walls. Mary Sterling gripped the wheel of her silver BMW, her knuckles pale as she navigated the chaotic streets, a world away from the pristine lawns of their Studio City mansion. At twenty-four, Mary was a high school English teacher at an elite private academy in Brentwood, her days spent coaxing bored teens through *The Great Gatsby* while deflecting her principal’s critiques of her unconventional lesson plans. Her life was a polished veneer of wealth: a modern hillside home with a sparkling pool, a closet of tailored silk blouses, and a husband, Tom, whose empire as CEO of Sterling Luxury Motors—selling Bentleys and Lamborghinis to LA’s elite—funded their opulent lifestyle. But beneath the surface, Mary’s world was unraveling. Six months ago, she’d found flirty texts from Lisa, a sales manager at Tom’s flagship dealership, on his phone—late-night invitations, suggestive selfies, and winking emojis that shattered her trust. Tom swore it was “just flirting,” but the betrayal hollowed their marriage, their once-passionate nights reduced to cold silences in their king-sized bed. Mary felt like a ghost, her body aching for desire, her heart starved for connection. This trip to a notorious South Central Goodwill, whispered about by a coworker for its “wild, edgy finds,” was her rebellion—a desperate grasp for something to make her feel alive in a city that thrived on reinvention.

Beside her, Janet Harper fiddled with the radio, her presence a steady anchor. At twenty-three, Janet was a barista at a hip Silver Lake café, her days steaming oat milk lattes for influencers, her nights scribbling poetry in her cramped Koreatown apartment. Her life was modest, her savings barely covering rent, but she burned with a hunger for excitement, for something to break the monotony of her routine. She’d met Mary in a UCLA literature seminar, their friendship forged over debates about Austen and Baldwin. Today, she joined Mary’s thrift store adventure, eager to dive into LA’s gritty underbelly, her pulse quickening at the promise of something bold.

They parked outside the Goodwill, its faded sign dwarfed by a mural of a snarling panther. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of worn leather and cheap perfume, racks overflowing with sequined dresses, faded tees, and scuffed heels. Petey Pablo’s “Freek-a-Leek” blasted from tinny speakers—*“How you like it, daddy? Shimmy shimmy ya…”*—its raw, pulsing beat vibrating through the cluttered aisles, a siren call in the chaos. Dre and Malik, lounging at the counter, locked eyes on the women as they entered, their gazes predatory. Dre, tall and muscular in a black tank top, tight jeans, and a gold chain that gleamed under the fluorescent lights, nudged Malik, who wore a red and black Chicago Bulls NBA jersey with matching pants. “Check ‘em out,” Dre murmured, his voice low, eyes tracing Mary’s baby-blue cardigan. Malik’s grin was sharp, his gaze on Janet’s lavender sweater. “They ‘bout to get woke,” he said, leaning back.

Mary’s fingers brushed a white tank top with a black spade logo and “BBC” in bold letters. She laughed, holding it up. “British Broadcasting Corporation? In this place?” she said, picturing stiff newsreaders in this gritty shop. Janet chuckled, grabbing an identical tank top. “Maybe it’s for a casino night—spades, like poker at the Venetian,” she teased, her voice light, imagining Vegas card tables. The song’s hook hit—*“Let’s get to it, let’s get to it”*—and a strange warmth flooded Mary, her pussy tingling as the lyrics sank in: *“Show me what that thang do.”* The word “daddy” echoed, conjuring an image of a thick, pulsing cock—a big black cock. *What’s happening to me?* she thought, the casino idea fading as the song’s explicit rhythm hinted at the truth. She grabbed oversized cut-off denim shorts, fishnet stockings, platform heels, and large hoop earrings, her hands moving as if guided, the music urging her toward something raw.

Janet felt a similar surge, her tits aching as she clutched her “BBC” tank top, the song’s *“Make that thang shake”* pounding in her veins. *Not a casino… big black cock,* she realized, her cheeks burning, the lyrics painting vivid images of a cock she craved. She snatched matching shorts, fishnets, heels, and hoop earrings, the store’s electric pulse and the song’s beat pulling her under. “These are insane,” she said, her voice trembling, glancing at Mary.

Mary’s eyes were glassy, caught in the song’s spell. “The song… it’s telling us what BBC really means,” she murmured, the lyrics *“Shimmy shimmy ya”* looping in her mind. *It’s not British Broadcasting… it’s big black cock,* she thought, her body humming with a hunger she couldn’t name. Dre and Malik watched from the counter, their grins widening, sensing the women’s shift.

In the dressing rooms, Mary and Janet shed their glasses, leaving them on the bench with their cardigans, a quiet surrender of their old selves. Mary’s brown curls loosened, cascading in tighter, more voluminous waves, a subtle shift that felt electric. She slipped into the white “BBC” tank top with the black spade logo, the oversized shorts sagging, fishnets clinging to her thighs, heels unsteady but thrilling. In the mirror, her reflection was both familiar and foreign, her pussy wet, the song’s *“Let’s get to it”* pulsing in her chest. *I’m Mary, but… I want big black cock,* she thought, Tom’s betrayal a distant ache. Janet emerged, her blonde bun loose, her blue eyes sharp without glasses, her “BBC” tank top bold, shorts sagging, hoop earrings swaying. *Big black cock… it’s all I want,* she thought, the song’s rhythm erasing her barista life. They stepped out, catching Dre and Malik’s eyes, the men nodding. “Y’all lookin’ like fire,” Dre called, his voice a velvet hook. Mary’s heart raced, the spade logo a command now, not a casino jest.

Outside, Dre and Malik leaned against a chrome lowrider, the LA sun glinting off its curves. Dre offered Mary a blunt, its scent sharp and sweet, laced with something unknown that he knew would deepen the song’s hold. “Take a hit, baby,” he said, his eyes locked on her “BBC” tank top. Mary inhaled, the smoke curling in her lungs, her mind clouding, the song’s *“Let’s get to it”* louder, her pussy throbbing. Malik passed Janet a blunt, his grin sly. “This’ll open you up,” he said. She inhaled, the laced smoke hitting hard, her tits tingling, the lyrics *“Shimmy shimmy ya”* fueling images of Malik’s cock. “Y’all ready for somethin’ real?” Dre asked. *I need his cock,* Mary thought, nodding. “Okay,” she said, her voice soft but eager. Janet, her mind consumed by the song and smoke, nodded at Malik. *I want that dick,* she thought. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice bold.

In the SUV, neon billboards flashed across their faces, hip-hop bass thumping. The blunt’s haze amplified the song’s pull, Mary’s body buzzing as Dre’s hand brushed her thigh, his gold chain glinting. “You feelin’ this?” he asked. “Yeah,” she murmured, her pussy aching under loose shorts, Tom’s mansion fading. Janet leaned toward Malik, his red and black jersey vibrant. “You want this, don’t you?” he teased. “Fuck yes,” she said, the smoke and song drowning her past.

At a red-lit lounge in Downtown LA, incense swirled, hip-hop pulsed. Cocktails burned their throats, the blunt’s effects lingering. Mary sipped a martini, her “BBC” tank top tight, her thoughts tangled. *I’m a teacher… I shouldn’t want this,* she thought, a flicker of Mary resurfacing. Dre leaned close, his breath hot. “You dyin’ for that big black cock, ain’t you?” he whispered. *Yes, I need it,* she thought, nodding, her body yielding. Janet downed a shot, her tank top’s spade logo gleaming, a moment of doubt—*I’m Janet, I write poetry*—but Malik’s hand grazed her thigh, his NBA jersey bold. “You ready for my dick?” he asked. “Yes,” she whispered, her hunger surging.

In a private room, red velvet walls pulsed with dim light. Dre and Malik stripped, their cocks huge, commanding. Mary hesitated, her old self clawing back. *I’m Mary Sterling, I teach literature,* she thought, but Dre’s blunt and the song’s *“Shimmy shimmy ya”* overwhelmed her. She knelt, sucking his cock, moaning, her body shifting—tits swelling, ass thickening to fill the shorts, her curls lengthening to platinum blonde cascading down her back. The sensation was a wildfire: her skin tightened, her curves amplified, her mind fogging with desire. *I’m slipping… I’m Mary,* she thought, fighting, but Dre fucked her, her pussy stretched, screaming, his cock driving out her resistance. He whispered, “You’re becoming something more, Sugar. You’re my girl.” The words seared into her, her mind snapping, Mary’s teaching life and Tom’s betrayal incinerated. She was Sugar now, a total big black cock slut, her body craving Dre’s cock with feral intensity, her heart his.

Janet wavered, her barista life flashing—*I’m Janet, I have dreams*—but Malik’s blunt and the song’s *“Let’s get to it”* silenced her. She sucked his cock, gagging, her body transforming—tits swelling, ass thickening, her hair shifting to black with red highlights in a high, ghetto ponytail. Her skin prickled, her curves exploded, her mind drowned in lust. *I’m Janet… no,* she thought, resisting, but Malik fucked her, her pussy clenching, screaming, his cock erasing her past. He whispered, “You’re Spice, my girl, forever.” The words locked her in, Janet gone, Spice born, a complete BBC slut, her hunger insatiable. She shed the “BBC” tank top, slipping into a red and black Chicago Bulls crop top tank top, her allegiance to Malik clear, mirroring his jersey.

Dre and Malik fucked them relentlessly, Sugar and Spice clawing at their cocks, screaming, their transformations complete. Sugar rode Dre, her pussy gripping, *I’m Sugar, his big black cock slut,* her body a ghetto queen’s, her love for Dre absolute. Spice fucked Malik, her ponytail swinging, her Bulls crop top tight, *I’m Spice, his BBC whore,* her devotion to Malik total. They went at the cocks with savage hunger, their minds and bodies owned by desire, the blunt’s laced smoke and the song’s rhythm their heartbeat.

Hours later, Dre and Malik took them back to the South Central Goodwill. Sugar and Spice strutted inside, cigarettes lit, Sugar’s “BBC” tank top with the black spade logo tight, Spice’s Bulls crop top bold, hoop earrings glinting. They rifled through racks, grabbing spangled skirts and stilettos, laughing brashly, their hunger for big black cocks insatiable. “We’re fuckin’ queens,” Sugar said, exhaling smoke, her eyes locked on Dre, her heart his forever. “BBC only, baby,” Spice added, blowing smoke, her gaze on Malik, her soul bound to him. They emerged, arms full of bags, and ran to Dre and Malik by the lowrider. “We’re yours,” Sugar purred, kissing Dre, her body pressed to his. “Forever,” Spice whispered, clinging to Malik, her NBA-jerseyed king.

Police tape roped off their BMW nearby, officers swarming. Tom stood with them, his tailored suit crisp, his face haggard. “My wife, Mary, she’s missing,” he said, voice breaking, guilt over Lisa crushing him. As CEO, he’d built a fortune, but his affair—late nights with Lisa’s flirty smiles—had cost him Mary. Sugar strutted past, cigarette glowing, her “BBC” tank top bold, her mind empty of Tom, consumed by Dre’s cock. Spice laughed with Malik, her Bulls crop top vibrant, her barista days a shadow. Tom’s eyes skipped over them, seeing strangers, their ghetto swagger alien to his polished world. Sugar and Spice, total big black cock sluts, climbed into the lowrider with Dre and Malik, their men, their loves, their forever. The city’s neon pulse swallowed them, their hearts and pussies owned by their hunger, the Goodwill’s song—*“Let’s get to it”*—their eternal anthem. ♠