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I paid the cab driver and stepped out into the hotel lobby. I was keen to check in to allow myself as much time as possible to relax and decompress from my long flight, so I made a beeline for the reception desk. Ahead of me was a silhouette that seemed familiar. Was it a friend? Someone I knew from home? I dismissed the idea pretty quickly. The woman I was looking at was proportioned in a way I wished the girls back home were. Glossy, pink hair tumbled down onto her caramel colored shoulders, and even from behind I could see the way her almost cartoonishly big rack swelled out against the reception desk. I felt kinda sorry for the young concierge who was having a heck of a time not falling into them. I had a different trouble: from the back, her narrow waist flared out at the hips to an ass that was fat and round, but – at least inside her leather pants – firm and tight enough to bounce a quarter off. I gulped and covered my instantly aching dick with my overnight bag.
“Okaaay. Well, if I CAN’T get the penthouse, which floor do I gotta go to?” the woman honked in a broad Queens accent. That’s when I recognised her: it was Nicki Minaj. I’d heard that voice a ton, watching American Idol, and been hypnotised by that bubble butt in countless rap videos. “You’re on the 26th floor. Just below the penthouse,” the concierge assured her. With that, she flounced off to the elevators, minders in tow.
