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1,000 Watts of Black Dynamite

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“Dammit, K.I.T.T.! What ‘da hell was ‘dat about?! K.I.T.T.?!” Black Dynamite yelled at his foxy companion sitting right next to him, slamming his fists on the wheel so hard that he blasted the horn. One minute he’d been ready to collide with that star-spangled cracka into chicken car rubble, the next minute they’d been swung off the rails and crashed into a wired fence.

It was a damn shame that Eartha K.I.T.T. was a sexpot battery android required to stay in the passenger seat at all times; otherwise, Black Dynamite would’ve bitch-slapped her. And made her push the car to that conveniently nearby abandoned garage. And bitch-slapped her again. (Not really. His momma had told him to never hit anyone without balls, after all. He wished to, though.)

He called her name once more. Upon no response, he tilted her face to check her. It was dark and there was barely any light, but on closer examination, he could see that she was fried out, her eyes rolled in the back of her head and her mouth hanging with a line of drool. She looked like one of them whores who had used up all her good fucks after her pimp had nutted too much.

“Hmm, Eartha K-I-Double-T, you used to purr like a pussycat, but now, ya just a cold, dead pussy. And ‘dere’s only one way to jumpstart a cold, dead pussy. And ‘dat’s with a slow jam—and a thousand watts of Black Dynamite, can ya dig it?”

Once he removed his shirt and jacket, the atmosphere became saturated with an erotic shade of red. He unzipped her purple jumpsuit, shedding it down to bare her in all her chocolate glory. He then reclined her seat and poured body oil all over her, massaging her breasts and waist for that sleek shine. “Mmm,” she purred. Her face had already warmed up, eyes closed and lips curved into a lustful smile. When he moved his oily fingers to her folds, she added, “Oh, I never dreamed it could be like this,” and growled. Shame on that sucka Adam West for not Batmobiling her kitty ass.

He pulled his fingers out and pushed the Ho’ltage 5000 into her. The vibrating charger fired up her circuits at full velocity that she began smoking—literally, her fumes were enough to set off the alarm—while her meows crackled into engined roars and her eyes sparkled with fuchsia stars. But nothing could beat the real thing. Black Dynamite got on top of her, threw the vibrator out, unzipped his pants, and thrust his electric rod into her, revving her up all throughout the porno groove. In his alpha tone:

“Whose car is ‘dat? WHOSE. CAR. IS. ‘DIS?!”

“It’s your car, daddy. It’s your car. It’s yours, it’s yours, it’s yours, it’s yours, IT’S YOUR CAR, DADDY! UUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOWW!!!~♥


In the afterglow, a sexophone conversation sizzled between them.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let you down. That’s why you left the CIA. It wasn’t the honkies. It was me, wasn’t it, Black Dynamite?”

“Of course it was ‘da honkies, Eartha K.I.T.T.. Without ‘chu I couldn’t have made it through ‘da CIA. I need ya, baby.”

“Ohh! Oh, Black Dynamite, I love you!”

“I know you do. Now let’s get back out ‘dere and win ‘dis Race War for ‘da black man—and ‘da bitches who love ‘im.”

“But not without testing out your gear stick first. Hmm?” She had already reached down and stroked it teasingly.

“A'ight, but make it quick.”

It was at Black Dynamite’s consent that Eartha K.I.T.T.. began to do her thing—until the cord from her neck suddenly plugged out. It was a really short cord, enough for Bullhorn, if he were here, to rhyme, “Man, if Eartha K. can’t bend over for a suck, ‘den why ‘da hell was she built to fuck?