In the Sunshine

My childhood is peppered with memories, both good and bad, that are not unlike many people of color but also so vastly atypical and unique as to be extraordinary by any measure. I was born to a single mother in the sixties when being a single mother was still shameful. I was raised by my grandparents who were civil rights activists and intellectuals who never once subscribed to stereotypes or adhered to the narrowly defined pigeonhole to which Blacks were assigned. They were exceptional in that they adored each other and expressed that love for each other in word and in deed every day. There were never instances of people coming over to play cards or listen to music rather people stopped by when they needed help because they were facing discrimination and racism and needed a place to turn for solace. My middle class grandparents were never concerned with cars, clothes, or expensive belongings but with knowledge and justice. I was challenged to expand my mind, to treat people fairly, and to live with INTEGRITY. When I moved in with my mother, she made great efforts to expose me to the world and a myriad of experiences that would not limit me to those things to which only little Black girls were relegated. I didn't play double dutch or the dozens, I learned sign language and wrote reports on Black history. So while I was born in a tiny town in Maryland with two stop lights, reared on the border of white suburbia and rural isolation, and became a woman on the streets of New York City, I am an amalgamation of various people, places and events that color the canvas that is my life.



My sexuality, for the first 15 years of my sexual adulthood, was shaped by limiting, patriarchal, misogynist dysfunction. My sexuality was shaped largely by reading my mother's vast and extensive collection of pornography. I suspect my mother was more interested in collecting the erotica of the day in order to appear progressive and make men fall in love with her rather than her own sexual liberation. My identity was shaped by trying to distance myself from my dysfunctional mother who dated every married man she could get her hands on in order for her to never have to deal with betrayal and hurt again like she experienced from my biological father. My sexuality was shaped by an overwhelming sensation that I was inherently unlovable because my father never wanted to lay his eyes on me. My sexuality was formed by being a physically and emotionally abused child who thought she had to apologize to the world and who thought she had no right to express displeasure or demand that my boundaries be respected. When I was raped, I never thought to press charges because I had been conditioned to expect a life of pain and disappointment. When I was rejected by men who discarded me like trash, I would beat myself up and try to prove to them that I was worthy, that I was a great lover and partner and anything that they could ask for. While my grandparents showed me this fantastic, unconditional, all-encompassing love, they taught me that my sexuality was dirty and unmentionable. Everything I learned from those early life experiences I had to unlearn as I've grown in consciousness.



I attended an all white elementary school, junior high, and high school. I was ridiculed by the few Black students as not being Black enough because I got all A's and B's. I was an exceptional student who wasn't nurtured and encouraged by white teachers because there were uncomfortable with my Blackness. My Blackness didn't fit in their definition. I was not ghetto but I also wasn't willing to deny my unique history and the history of my ancestors. I attended an undergraduate program in textile technology because, while I wanted desperately to be in the fashion industry, I didn't want to be average or superficial. I wanted to have knowledge that the average person on the street wouldn't dream of knowing. I dedicated myself to mastering subjects like organic chemistry and weft knitting only to graduate and only get recognition and acknowledgement in the work force for my creativity. Nearly a decade later, I decided to pursue a Master's degree in African and African American Studies with a concentration in psychology. I had been growing and evolving personally and I needed a change. I needed to push myself, again, to learn things that the average person walking down the street wouldn't know. I chose to attend an HBCU, to surround myself with what I thought would be progressive, forward thinking Blacks who were equally as committed to dismantling the mindsets learned in slavery that keep up oppressed. I was faced with a reality that my fellow students didn't give a damn about the things I was concerned with and I felt even more isolated than when I was the sole Black student in a classroom of 30. Earning a 4.0, I accomplished that mission and did my very best to understand how African Americans came to think and behave in such detrimental, dysfunctional ways and how to go about healing those pathologies and exactly what a healthy model of behavior for descendents of slaves should look like.



My mission in life is to create social change, to educate and enlighten, to lift the consciousness of Africans born in America, and to break the chains of mental slavery. I use sex as a means to accomplish my mission, specifically, I write Black and interracial erotica in an attempt to discuss the issues that plague us, to dismantle the beliefs that keep us limited, and to paint a new picture of us as healthy individuals. Erotica is not the only tool I use but it certainly is an effective one. My personal sexuality has been influenced by my mission in that, in trying to live my life in a way that is congruent with my mission, I've alienated myself from a great number of men who only want to fuck me because of my big booty or because I have pretty feet or because they just want a piece of ass. I've redefined my sexuality because it can no longer fit into the narrow box that made me think that sex was, at best, recreation, and at the very least, something reminiscent of a porno.



Simply stated, I define erotic as a culmination of sights, sounds, scents, tastes, and sensations that arouse the body. AfroerotiK is intimacy; it is an intimacy that is so deep and abiding that you can be your authentic self with your partner without fear or hesitation. AfroerotiK is spiritual; it's a connection to a larger scheme whereby an individual can understand that their sexuality can't be defined by oppressive, rigid, and puritanical beliefs created by white men to keep people oppressed but that is a divine expression of pleasure and connection. AfroerotiK is displaying pride, dignity, and strength of character by releasing the debilitating and harmful mindsets inherited in slavery/colonialism and embracing a holistic perspective where sex is not about power or money or some tool to dull your senses but about communication, about honoring oneself, about the decadent and hedonistic abandon that can be experienced in the throes of passion.



When I sit down to create a story, I draw upon an ideal vision I see in my head of a future world where gender roles aren't so rigid. I dream a world where people embrace newer, more evolved ways to address sexuality and completely divorce themselves of the behaviors that lead them to lie, cheat, and manipulate in order to have sex. Every time I create a story, I close my eyes and envision a world where couples are more open, expressive, and honest with one another. I'm inspired to expose white people's inherent, core racist beliefs, no matter how much they deny their existence, each and every time I write a tale of interracial lust. My goal is to show Black people, complex and healthy, as role models who just happen to have passionate, intense, uninhibited sex.



My gender preference in a lover has been exclusively male for the past decade. Moreover, my most intense, emotional attraction is to men of color. The qualities I most appreciate and respect in a man are those that are rare in most African American men today, thus making my search for a partner extremely difficult. The trait most essential for me in a partner is introspection. I desire a partner who has been able to examine the events and influences in his life that shaped him, shaped his consciousness, identified those things that were detrimental to his development, and who is constantly working on redefining himself anew. I desire a partner who understands his emotional triggers and is cognizant enough to understand how those things are injurious to forming a healthy relationship and is working on healing those wounds. My ideal partner is a man of integrity, who understands the concept of honesty and embraces it, who practices a spiritual system other than Christianity, Judaism, or Islam. The perfect man for me is also a man who identifies himself as openly bisexual, having rid himself of absurd notions of manhood and who relates to me as a human being and a woman without expecting me to adhere to patriarchal, oppressive roles. To finish off my grocery list of things I desire in a partner, I would add extremely intelligent, creative, and capable of being monogamous.



My sex life has been severely stunted in the past 10 years, so much so that I find it difficult to remember what sex is like, let alone great sex. I vaguely remember having sex, with certain people, at certain times, but my memories are distorted. I don't have a "most memorable orgasm" experience. The experiences that are most memorable for me are the ones where I felt most loved. I don't remember the physical things we did so much as I remember the emotion of the experience. Even then, I'm still fuzzy on the pictures in my head because I'm so divorced from my sexuality now that everything sort of seems a blur. I do remember faking a hell of a lot of orgasm with men to appease their egos, or at least my motivation was to make them feel manly. I remember being used for sex a lot. I think the thing I've learned about my sexuality in the past is that my greatest sex is yet to come, with a partner who loves me, where I can experience completely uninhibited, unbridled, passionate, romantic, sensual, AfroerotiK sex.



There are too many vital, important, pressing issues of sexuality today to just limit it to one. HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, is rampant and deadly and is being spread amidst a cacophony of lies and denial. Rape, molestation, and sexual abuse are happening behind every door and leaving a trail of damaged, broken people in its wake. The objectification of women is sooooo pervasive, so accepted that it's hard to even address the issue because people have accepted the hypersexualization of women as being normal and expected. Sex in exchange for money distorts, warps, and damages the delicate equilibrium of intimacy that sex should be about and makes it about power and control. Everything about sexuality is fucked up. There isn't one thing that is more important than another; all the issues are interconnected and seriously in need of fixing.



Right now in my life I'm trying to become comfortable with the fact that I just may never find love. I'm trying to become comfortable with the fact that the rest of my life just might be lived with a series of short term relationships that are meant to teach me about life and nothing more significant than that. It's been brought to my attention recently that I send mixed messages to the individuals to whom I'm attracted, coming on strong when I feel an attraction and then doing a complete 180 in the opposite direction at the first sign of what I experience as rejection. I'm going to make it my goal to speak from a place of clarity without trying to play the martyr or victim but also tone down my intensity when I meet someone. I've decided to focus on getting my book published, on building and growing AfroerotiK to what I dream it can be and not focus on my sexuality for the time being. I don't think shutting off my sexuality is healthy; I think there needs to be balance in everything. But I'm also aware that I have to play the cards I've been dealt. So while love and intimacy and sex are the things I desire the most, they have also remained elusive for a reason. The only way I know how to cope with that is to stay clear about what I want, not compromise just to fill a void, and live with integrity to my goals.

I’m Losing my Mind

I’m Losing my Mind

There is something very unnatural about going without human contact for as long as I do. I haven’t had sex in almost 10 months and it’s making me go crazy. I’m not even horny as much as I am lonely. I want to be held, I want to be touched, I want to be made love to. I want to kiss. I would give anything to fall asleep in a man’s arms, to wake up and feel his hard erection pressing into my butt. I want to know that a man wants me, all of me, not just my body, not just my pussy but ME, Scottie. I wish I could say that this is the longest I’ve ever gone without sex but sadly, for the last 14 or 15 years of my life, I’ve made a habit of going years without sex. No one should ever have to do that; especially not repeatedly.

I feel handicapped, disabled, I feel like a friggin’ alien because I have no outlet for my sexuality, I have no opportunity for intimacy in my life. I’m convinced human beings shouldn’t go so long without having sex. There are those that tell me my standards are too high, that I should lower my standards in order to just have sex. I don’t want just sex, I want a man who wants me. Besides the fact that I have no desire to be pathetically average and have sex with just anyone, I demand a partner who meets my standards in order for me to be aroused. If I wanted someone’s husband, or someone who just wants to use me for sex who has no concern for me as a person, I could go outside, throw a stick, and hit 10 men who would fuck me. I want more than that.

There are those who insist that I’m attracting the wrong sorts of men because of some inherent flaw I have. Unfortunately, that ignores the fact that Black men are emotionally immature and, in many instances, unable to form healthy relationships with women because they devalue women as objects, they’ve not dealt with their own issues, that they are patriarchal, misogynist, sexist, and still holding on to diseased mindsets inherited from slavery. The constant need to blame women for not being healed enough to “attract” the right type of man does nothing but allow emotionally immature men to remain stagnant. Because Black men are unable to recognize my inherent beauty as a partner, as a human being, as more than something to fuck or control, I remain alone. Is that the only reason I’m alone, certainly not. I’m intimidating, I realize that. The pool of men I consider attractive is very small; this is not news to me. I am suggesting, however, that the pool of men who would be potential partners would be much larger if there weren’t such an inherent need of people to blame women for attracting the wrong sorts of men and not raising the bar for men to become better partners.

Insanity is not cute. I find myself crying at the most odd times, for the most bizarre reasons because I feel so empty inside. My body has forgotten what it is to feel penetration, to have a dick massage my pussy walls and make me feel pleasure. My nipples don’t remember what it is to be gently sucked and licked until I’m so wet I’m dripping. I can’t even masturbate anymore. I can’t even get wet; I’m divorced from my sexuality in a way that is unhealthy.

I’m 42 years old and I’m sexually handicapped. I don’t know how to be in a sexual situation with a man without playing all sorts of tapes in my head about what it is to be sexually liberated versus being a slut. I don’t know how to be confident and secure with expressing my sexuality without fear of being used or feeling like I’m going to burst into tears. That’s not right for a woman my age. I should be able to find a partner. I’m not saying I want a husband but it shouldn’t be so damned hard for me to find a companion. As sex positive as I try to be, I’m retarded in my own sexual expression because I am going out of my mind from loneliness.

African-Centered Sexuality

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Fellas, You Gotta Tighten up your Game

I've been on the net over 10 years now. For several of those years, I unofficially reigned as the queen of NEW Black erotica. In all of my internet travels, of the thousands upon thousands of people I've met on this vast and virtual wide web we call the world, not once have I ever initiated contact with, had chemistry with, or been sexually aroused by a man who has a picture of his penis on his profile.

I don't have a penis, I don't really understand the workings of people who do, but I would think that after some time on the Internet, men would understand that most women are not aroused by dick pics. I am not attracted to dicks, I'm not superficial so men with bigger dicks don't earn extra points with me, and in fact, if a man has a picture of his dick on his profile, I usually find it repulsive and I'm inclined to not engage in any sort of in depth conversation with him. Men who want to depict and portray themselves to the world as their dick are not the sorts of men I'm inclined to want to get to know. I would think that I'm far from being the only woman who feels this way YET day after day, I'm amazed at the number of men who feel that their dick pic is going to hypnotize and entice me to engage in conversation.

Gentlemen, your penis, while it may be infinitely arousing, magical, and mystical to you, while it may hold your attention exclusively for hours upon hours, is no different, more arousing, or charismatic than the 100 million other penises that are shoved in my face on a daily basis. If a man chooses to display a picture of his dick as what he wants the world to see and identify him wotj, I immediately think he's immature and shallow, and in many cases, depending on his screen name, offensive and repulsive. No, I don't want to see your cam, no I'm not aroused by watching you masturbate, and seeing you ejaculate holds no great thrill for me. I'm not driven to laugh at, taunt, or humiliate men with little white ones as I'm equally as disinterested in marveling over big black ones that are posed in contrast to your remote control, soda can, or ones that can tell time with your watch on it.

What will it take for men to understand that women who are aroused by pictures of penises are actually in the minority? I've been more aroused by men with NO pictures on their profiles who don't ever show me a picture than I have been by men with Heavy D and the Boyz on display. And if your screen name has,"69", "XXX", "inches4u", or some phonetic spelling of the N word incorporated into it, I'm not only going to be repulsed, but I'm going to ignore your IM's, emails, and comments.

In 2008, fellas, if you are so full of shame that you can't display your face on your profile for fear that someone will recognize you and know that you are . . . God forbid . . . a sexual being, then that's problematic and an indication that you aren't sexually mature. If you are thinking that women around the globe are going to see your penis and get instantly wet and BEG you to have casual and uninhibited sex, that somehow, your penis is going to be more captivating and different than the other 67 cajillion pictures of penises that are being forced, figuratively, down our throats, you are sadly mistaken.

I'm attracted to men, not their dicks. I'm attracted to the depth in a man's eyes. I'm attracted to his smile. I'm TURNED ON by his substance and warmth, his intellect and his ability to identify himself as more than the few inches of meat that hang between his legs. Moreover, men who show off their penises and think that is supposed to be arousing, interesting, or captivating for me as a woman are not arousing to me to say the very least.

Fellas, please keep these general rules of thumb at hand when traversing the internet.

If I want to see your penis, I will ask.

“Hey ma, u luk gud,” does NOT motivate me to call you on the telephone.

Copy and paste messages, where you think you are being unique and sending out blanket compliments like, “I just ran across your profile and it is very interesting. I wanted to say I had to write you. I love your smile and you look like a woman I want to get to know better. I can’t wait to hear from you,” are lame, tired, and not at all original.

And most importantly, your penis is not so gorgeous, captivating, or unique that it’s going to move women of substance to want to get to know you better.

Healing Piss

I had a white gentleman tell me a story once that I found fascinating. He told me, admittedly, that he used to be racist but had a transformative experience. He went on to say that he had procured the services of a professional dominatrix. She blindfolded him and went about her business of degrading him, humiliating him, whathaveyou. Unbeknownst to this man, the white pro domme had in fact switched with a Black domme who was responsible for giving him what he felt was the most intense experience of his life. This black domme apparently had urinated on him. Well, once the blindfold was removed, voila', his racism was gone. Healed by the magical piss of the Black woman. I suggested to him that racism isn't just washed away with a little Shug Avery pee (he didn't get it) and that in order for him to truly rid himself of racist behaviors that he would really need to challenge his beliefs. At that point, he called me a racist nigger bitch.

Time and time again, I have white men tell me that they aren't racist because they are attracted to black women, because they want to submit to Black women. But, in the same breath, they are afraid to meet me in public in a place where people that know them might see them. Or they tell me that black women are superior because they are so naturally dominant, never giving credence to the totality of us as women. Uhmm, isn't that racist?

I've had white men tell me that they want to be with a black woman to see if our pussies taste different. Number one, I'm not a scratch and sniff experiment; I'm a human being. There is absolutely nothing different about my physical make up other than the presence of melanin. My blood is the same, my tears are the same, my piss is the same, and my pussy is the same. If there’s a difference in my taste it’s because I’m an individual and EVERYONE is going to have a different taste. If a person thinks a Black woman's pussy tastes different just because of the color of their skin, uhmm, isn't that racist? .

I had a white man tell me the other day that his wife had a black lover and he would be forced to pay the black man to service him orally and how he felt that was the ultimate humiliation. He professed that he wasn't racist and how he thought that Blacks were superior. When asked how he thought Blacks were superior, he listed physical characteristics. Check it, if he thought blacks were truly superior, he would not feel it was humiliating to give a Black man money. I asked him some of the Black people that he thought were intellectually superior and he said Condoleezza Rice and me. First and foremost, there should NEVER be an occasion where Condi Rice and I are compared on the same scale. She is the anti-Christ and I denounce her as a black woman. Second, it's obvious he had no clue about my intellect; he was enamored with my physicality.

I can't tell you how many times I've had white men tell me, "Oh, I wish I was a black man." When asked why, the number one reason, "They have such big cocks." Okay dumbass, you think being a black man is all about fucking white women with your 11-inch dick? You don't see the correlation between black men and the prison population, Driving While Black, the inordinately high Black on Black crime. No, you don't want to be a Black man; you want to have white privilege, a big dick AND have white women throwing themselves at you. White men that say that stupid shit inevitable say, "I don't have a racist bone in my body. Not since I started watching interracial porn (or fill in the blank with a similar sexual experience, as if orgasm while looking at a black person have sex cures diseased perceptions)." What the fuck? Say it with me . . . Uhmm, isn't that racist?

My favorite? White man approaches me and tells me how submissive he is to black women. I tell him I’m not interested in a submissive at this time, white, black, or other. They tell me that they can (fill in the blank with a degrading and humiliating act) and refuses to accept that I’m not interested in him. Next thing out of his mouth . . . NIGGER BITCH.

Let's make a list, shall we?

Saying they aren't racist and then saying that white women should be "bred black" because black men are not good fathers.

Saying they aren't racist, then saying that Jews overcame the Holocaust, as if Jews are inherently superior, and Blacks choose to be lazy.

Saying they aren't racist and then saying how much they respect Oprah, Colin Powell and Michael Jordan and when I ask them what's the last black book they've read they look at me like I'm crazy for suggesting that they would ever read a black book.

Saying they aren't racist and then denigrating Spike Lee, Jesse Jackson, and Al Sharpton in the next breath and having the unmitigated nerve to say that there are no Black leaders. I guess white leadership is so stellar that they have room to critique.

Saying that they aren't racist and then in the next breath calling me a racist because I suggest that there are abundant examples of racism that they don't see because they won't allow themselves to go outside their comfort zone and imagine a life different than their's.

Since when did racists get to identify when they aren't racist anymore? Who is defining racism? Is racism just an overt hatred of black people and wearing a white sheet or is it white men looking at me in amazement when I tell them I'm pursuing my PhD and them telling me that I'm a credit to my race? Like for my next trick, I'm going to pull a rabbit out of my hat. Where is the white sub that has read one book about slavery, Black history, Black culture, or one that tried to delve into the reasons for oppression and bigotry? No, he was in a heightened state of arousal and figured out that Black women could be as sexually arousing as white women. Big shit! That doesn't mean he's going to fight for Black children to get a fair education, that he's going to battle discrimination in housing and employment whenever he sees it. He's not even going to tell his buddies at the office that he's attracted to Black women. That's racist.

It’s more than obvious that Black people aren’t capable of determining what’s racist or not because we are the ones that think the N word is a term of affection, that think it’s cute to refer to ourselves as bitches, freaks, thugs, and pimps. Those who don’t use that terminology turn a blind eye and a deaf ear when it’s used. There are far too many black men that think it’s a compliment to be called a bull and to try to impregnate white women for fun. That's sick. FAR, FAR, FAR too many black women think that our beauty is in our behinds, fingernails, or length or our hair and give no credence to developing what’s inside us.

"Whiteness" is a disease of privilege that has been created by a society founded in racism. I didn't say white people are inherently racist because of genetics. I said that because white people have seen black people and people of color as inferior for so many centuries, because it has been so conditioned in their minds, because it has gone unquestioned in their psyches that they are superior, that SOME white people (I would dare to say the vast and overwhelming majority) perpetuate a lack of compassion for anyone's else's experience other than their own, they diminish the complaints of people of color because it doesn't match their experience and it’s certainly not washed away with a little Black piss.

AfroerotiK

Femdom Society

Taking the Journey

Black "Maled"

This was, yet again, a very difficult story for me to write. My writing process is unique in that I see pictures in my head and I use words to describe what I see and the plot of the story evolves and unwinds, literally, at my fingertips. In my head, I didn't see Kamal having sex with either Ron or Tricia. I thought he was going to control a gangbang, direct it, quite possibly a gangbang of men who were NOT Black, just to torture Ron. I wanted him to be above having sex with them, to not only be physically superior but morally superior as well. I wanted him to maybe even stay faithful to a girlfriend or dominate the couple with his girlfriend.

Obviously, the story turned out much differently than I expected and as the images came to me, I realized that Kamal was human and that making him asexual or "too good" to have sex with Ron or Tricia would be to make him a myth, so as the pictures came to me, he was able to fuck Tricia well, deliver his message, and still be able to masterfully control the situation.

For me, Ron's description was key because white people assume that when I say that I write interracial erotic stories that show Black people in a positive light, that automatically assumes that I HAVE TO show white people in a positive light as well. It's not my job to show white people in a positive light, but to expose their core racist beliefs and hold them up to the light so that they might be able to see Black people more holistically. Ron Waterman exists in every city, hamlet, town, village, and province across these United States. He might not be AS rich, but his mindset is identical. Ron and Tricia are more real than Kamal. While there are brothas like Kamal who do exist, who are conscious, intelligent, and not swayed by the lure of white pussy, they are few and far between. Ron and Tricia, on the other hand, are so typical, they almost seem cliché. Go outside, close your eyes, throw a stick, and you'll accidentally hit 10 white men who are obsessed with masturbation and who objectify Black men.

Blackmailed

Ronald Waterman had the perfect life. He was an annuities manager at an investment firm on Wall Street making more money than most people could ever dream of making. He’d made a few sound investments and done some trading that wasn’t really above board but he didn’t get caught and he made a bundle in the process so debt wasn’t a huge issue. He and his wife were empty nesters; their two boys were in college and staying relatively out of trouble, at least not the sort of trouble that would get them expelled. Considering they were spoiled rich kids who grew up on Long Island and didn’t know the meaning of the word restraint, Ron was pleased that he wasn’t paying for them to fail every class. One son was on a full scholarship for Lacrosse so his coach arranged to keep his grades up and the other son had been lucky enough in freshman year to find a girlfriend who didn’t mind writing all of his papers. That left he and his wife Tricia all alone in their 5200 sq. ft. custom built home.

They weren’t a particularly loving couple, it’s not like they fought excessively or argued, they got along pretty well in fact, but they weren’t particularly demonstrative towards one another either. Their friends and family would swear up and down that the couple loved each other, and in fact, they did, it was just a pseudo/sterile love that was based more on function than affection. Tricia was still “hot” according to Ron’s coworkers and friends. She stayed in the gym, had standing, weekly appointments in the salon to make sure her dark roots never showed, and her Barney’s credit card never went more than a few days without some activity. At the annual Christmas Party and cookout, she would wear something juuuuuust revealing enough to show off her salines but she was far from the only desperate housewife in attendance who had fake knockers. Ron and Tricia were taking advantage of their freedom and they had some friends with whom they would swap and swing and have hedonistic parties where they would all get high on X and screw until the wee morning hours. Ahhh, life in the burbs was good.

If there was ever a man who was the master of his own domain, it was Ron. He had money, power, freedom, and a wife most men would kill to have. So of course, he was miserable. He hated every second of his life and was consumed with thoughts of extremes. Ronald craved more. He wanted more money, more power, and more sex. Well, he didn’t want MORE sex; he wanted dirtier sex, perverse sex that bordered on the obscene. He was a sex addict, addicted to stimulation from any source: gay, straight, transgendered, alien, animal, vegetable, or mineral. At work, he would look at hardcore porn on his laptop all day long. He got a thrill from having his office door open and pretending to work while he was looking at porn. Of course, there were times when he would close the door and take off his clothes and stroke his cock to completion because he was just so desperate to cum. One of his favorite lunchtime activities was to go to the bathroom on other floors of his office building and “leave his mark” on the stall walls. There were a few bathrooms that had glory holes and if he timed it just right, he could suck off a few cocks and have a “three cum martini” lunch with no one the wiser. Butt plugs and frilly lace and satin lingerie completed his wardrobe under his conservative suits almost every day without exception. On the train ride home he would pull out his cock and stroke it furiously beneath a book, hoping to get caught but terrified that he would. If anyone had paid attention, they would have wondered why he’d been reading The DaVinci Code for five years straight.

In his car, Ronald would drive by apartment buildings, hospitals, shopping centers and even schools so he could take out his cock and pull it with the hopes that someone would see him and get aroused. When he got bold, he would expose himself to some poor woman and when she screamed in horror, he would race off and swear to never do it again, until the next time the urge hit him. If there was ever a case of someone being a pervert, Ron was a textbook example.

Ron’s wife was totally fucking clueless to her husband’s dark side. Years ago, when Ronald told Tricia that he needed time to wind down after a stressful day at work and that he was NOT to be disturbed for at least an hour, she didn’t question him nor did she care what he did during that time. She never went in his “man room” downstairs and while she figured he had some porn down there to watch on his 52-inch flat screen, it didn’t really bother her one way or the other. As long as she could buy whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, Tricia really didn’t care if he had a Cambodian sex slave chained up down there.

Ron was meticulous in taking off his lingerie and putting it in the secret closet he had built. He had more stilettos than his wife and his wardrobe was probably just as big as hers but certainly more trampy. Mini skirts, wigs, rubber and fetish gear, every sort of fetish attire lined the walls of his covert dressing area. The fact that he had enough sex toys in there to open a small sex store would be impressive to most but it was never enough for him. He wanted to own every sex aid known to man and almost monthly he’d spend several thousand dollars buying toys off the Internet. There was a full-length mirror in the closet so when he got completely naked and pulled out his butt plug, he could see his gaping, red, swollen hole. He liked looking at himself lick and suck that filthy butt plug straight from his asshole, first smelling it and getting turned on by the scent of his ass and then making a show of licking the brown streaks and tasting the bitter remnants that made him crazed with lust. The filthy, raunchy nature of his actions would make him desperate to ride a huge dildo while he reveled in his disgusting pleasures. When he finally emerged from his play area, showered and dressed conservatively in his khakis and polo shirt, he would kiss his wife on the mouth and get aroused all over again with the knowledge that she had no clue what he had just done.

Dinners were always mundane. The food was excellent but the conversation was always a bore. It seemed the only things they could discuss were the boys, their plans for vacationing in Hyannis Port, and if the landscapers killed off the azaleas. They were superficial people with superficial lives and content to stay that way.

On a typical day, The Waterman’s would retire to the family room, share a cognac, and watch a little TV. With a few hours of the formalities of married life out the way, they would each go they own separate ways, Tricia to scrapbook or gossip with the neighbors or something, Ronald to indulge in his fetishes. Safely secluded in his private domain again, it was then that he could really let his hair down so to speak and spend several hours indulging in whatever his twisted mind could conceive. When it was time for bed, three or four times a week, they would “have sex”. Most nights, sex would consist of Ron going down on Tricia and eating her pussy. Penetration was a rare occasion for the pair because his cock wasn’t big enough to satisfy her even when he could pop a full boner. He much preferred to stroke his cock and imagine different scenarios being played out in his head.

One would think that because he and his wife were relatively distant, that he would never fantasize about her. In actuality, Tricia was the primary focus of his sexual imagination. Ron dreamt of seeing his outwardly conservative Junior League, Daughter of the American Revolution, PTA wife in the most degrading, undignified, shameful scenarios. In fact, on the rare occasion he could get completely hard, it was always to fantasies of her being savagely fucked by a group of black men with enormous cocks that treated her like less than trash.

It never failed that when they were coming home from visiting her parents in NJ, Ron would “get lost” in Harlem, driving up and down streets, secretly hoping to get carjacked. In all of his travels, the worst thing that ever happened was somebody offered to give him directions to the L.I.E. Tricia would heighten his arousal by bitching and complaining the entire time, fueling his desires with her paranoid, racist rants. “JEEZ Ron, can’t you ever fucking get anything right? I swear, it’s bad enough that you insist on driving the Jag every time we go to my parents but you ALWAYS get lost up here ‘in the hood’. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me to get raped by a bunch of those filthy, black guys.”

It probably wouldn’t have made any difference to Ron to know that his wife was secretly craving the exact thing she was complaining about. He didn’t hear her anyway, he was too lost in his own fantasies of seeing her abused, degraded, humiliated and used in ways that would make most people’s stomachs turn. In his mind, it wasn’t about her desires anyway; his arousal came from the fact that Black men with big dicks would take what was his and use it practically to the point beyond recognition. He got off on the idea of filthy, dirty black men making his pristine property something untouchable. Yeah, he wanted to see his wife writhing around in pleasure, to see her coming in an endless string of orgasms that left her weeping and shaking but it was the idea of Black men defiling her that got him off. His cock wouldn’t even get a tingle at the thought of his wife being gangbanged by Asian guys or Latino men. He’d seen his wife pleasured by a group of white men before and, while it certainly was hot to see Tricia being passed around like rag doll, he needed to see the contrast, he was desperate for Black dudes to fuck her because to him, Black men were like animals, barely human savages bred for fucking white women.

Ronald saw the opportunity to make all of his dreams come true when he got careless at work. As usual, he was pulling his cock and looking at one of his favorite websites where white wives were getting gangbanged by Black guys. He was on the verge of cumming when he heard someone clear their throat. He slammed his laptop closed and looked up, cock in hand, and saw the new guy from the mailroom. “What the fuck is your problem? Don’t you know to leave my mail on my assistant’s desk? Get out you dumb . . .” He desperately wanted to call him a nigger, inspired by the way the Black men were throwing it around in the video he was watching, but he got scared at the last second and refrained. “What are you looking at? Get OUT!” He shoved his cock back in his pants and felt his face change to crimson red but his sense of superiority and arrogance outweighed what should have been his shame.

Calmly, the young man placed the mail on his desk, stared Ron in the eye, and said, “I’ll be sure to leave your mail on your secretary’s desk in the future. For the rest of the day, Ron waited for the backlash. He was sure within an hour, everyone would know what happened and he was busy constructing lies and figuring out a way to get that guy fired. By the late afternoon, no one even seemed to look his direction and by the next morning, everything seemed normal. He saw the guy walk past his door and deliver the mail without even looking in his direction. He casually walked out to his administrative assistant’s desk and said, “Is that a new mail guy? I’ve never seen him before.”

Lourdes, his sassy Puerto Rican assistant said, “Yeah, that’s Kamal, he just started this week.” Ron saw her lick her lips and stare at his ass that couldn’t be hidden in his baggy khakis. Her admiration only lasted a second and she went right back to the overwhelming amount of work she had on her desk, having to shoulder most of the work that Ron was supposed to do that he put off on her. While he was able to see the lust in her eyes, what he didn’t detect was any indication that she knew what had had happened yesterday. He walked back in his office, afraid to engage in his usual routine of looking at porn, and sat in a daze for several hours.

By lunchtime, his curiosity got the best of him. He went out looking for Kamal to find out what his deal was. Any normal person would have blabbed to everyone and then some. As luck would have it, he saw Kamal enter the men’s room at the far end of the 18th floor. Looking around to see if anyone else was around, he entered a few seconds later.

Standing alone at the urinals, Ron could see the broad shoulders and muscular back of the mail boy. At 6’ even and maybe 230 pounds of hard flesh, Kamal turned his head slightly when he heard the door open and then went right back to his business. Ron walked to the urinal next to him and pulled out his cock. He glanced down to see Kamal’s dick. The strong yellow stream of piss hit the back of the urinal and Ron could see what had to be nearly 8 inches of soft dick extending from Kamal’s fly. Pee shy, he willed himself to urinate and said, “Listen, about what happened—you know, yesterday. What do we have to do to make sure that none of that gets out?”

Putting his dick back in his pants, Kamal said, “Yeah, don’t sweat it,” turned to wash his hands and left without saying another word.

That didn’t register with Ronald. In his white world, everything boiled down to money or sex or some combination of both. There was no way he was going to let some punk 25 year old get away with having anything over his head so he followed him to the lunch room. Sitting down at the table next to him, he quietly said, “Look, I’ll give you $25,000 bucks, no questions asked, but you have to sign a paper saying that you won’t say anything.” There, that should fix him, that was more money than that kid would make in a year and it was barely a drop in the bucket to Ron, nothing a few strategically misplaced zeroes on a balance sheet wouldn’t take care of. He glanced down at Kamal’s lunch and made a mental note that he found it odd that someone with such obvious muscle definition was eating nothing but a salad and fruit.

This time, more assertively, Kamal said, “I told you, don’t sweat it.”

Ron felt like a reprimanded child. His anger raged and he wouldn’t be held hostage by some fucking high school dropout who couldn’t get a better job than dropping off mail. Unfortunately, his perversion got the better of him and he started calculating in his head how he could use the situation to his advantage. He inched his chair closer, his leg touching Kamal’s under the table. Leaning in, he whispered, “Okay, I was just doing what all us guys do, you know. And—look, it’s no big deal but I just don’t want everyone knowing my business and I have an offer for you. I think I have something that you might want that’s better than money. I’ll make a deal with you. You come out to my house this weekend, bring some friends why don’t you, as many as you want, and I’ll make sure you have the time of your life. You can split the money with your homies any way you want. In exchange, we can make sure my little secret is kept and it’s all good, right bro?” He smiled and put out his fist like he wanted a pound.

Kamal pushed his chair over several inches and said, “Look, I don’t want whatever it is you are offering and I told you twice already that it’s no big deal. If you want to jerk your little dick off at work, I don’t really give a damn. You white boys are all crazy any damn way.”

The fucking nerve of this kid was outrageous. Ron was pissed. How dare he refuse to negotiate like a man. Forget the fact that he hadn’t even heard that Kamal was willing to put the entire thing behind them; all he heard was “little white dick”, “white boy”, and “crazy”. Who the hell did he think he was? Ron couldn’t comprehend that a black guy was pulling the strings so he blurted out, almost loud enough for others to hear, “You can have my wife, you can do anything you want to her, she’s yours, in exchange for your silence.”

There, that would solve everything. What black guy wouldn’t JUMP at the opportunity to fuck a hot white wife? Ron learned that it wasn’t the proverbial carrot he thought he was going to tempt Kamal with when the young man wiped his mouth with his napkin, threw it on his remaining food in disgust and pushed his chair back. He walked away without saying a word.

For the next three months, they played the same game. Kamal would ignore Ron and Ron would, in turn, obsessively try to figure out what motivated this strange person. He learned that Kamal had been born in Trinidad and graduated with a 4.0 from community college because he couldn’t afford to finish his four-year studies in engineering. He belonged to something called The Ausar Auset Society but Ron didn’t have the intellect or patience to figure out what that was so he just wrote it off as some sort of Black cult. He overheard some of the temps talking about him and learned that he had broken up with his girlfriend a few months ago but still wasn’t dating. Nothing computed for Ron. How could this guy end up in the mailroom? From what he could tell, he was intelligent, articulate, and all the women thought he was good-looking, even the white women. If someone had told Ron that the reason Kamal couldn’t find a better job was because he was competing against boys like his sons who cheated and lied their way through college and who had jobs lined up on graduation because of nepotism and racial preference, Ron would have SCREAMED from the highest mountaintop that was an outrageous and sinful lie to discredit the white man. Too bad it was true.

It was in his nature to be manipulative, so Ron decided he was going to get what he wanted and he was going to do whatever he had to do in order to make it happen. He’d been tortured for months, fantasizing about Kamal fucking his wife. He called in sick one day at work and told his assistant that he needed several important documents on his desk delivered to his home. He specifically told her that Kamal was to deliver the documents, no one else, by noon and not a minute later. He put a note on the front door that Kamal was to come around back to the pool where he would be waiting for him.

Prompt, Kamal arrived at 12:00 exactly and read the note. He walked around the side of the house towards the back, cautiously, expecting some sort of set up. Sure enough, Ron was in the back by the pool, naked, with his wife, and she was on a lounge chair with nothing on but a pair of high heels with her legs high in the air and her husband’s tongue in her pussy. She screamed a blood-curdling yell and tried to grab her cover-up but Ron forcefully pinned her legs back to her chest so she couldn’t move. She was visibly shaken and Kamal froze, expecting the police to jump out any minute and arrest him for rape. He placed his bag on the ground and slowly opened the flap and extended the package to his employer. “Look, I don’t’ want any trouble, I’m just following your orders to bring these documents out to you and hand deliver them.” He placed the documents on the table and began to back away.

Ron smiled, “Here, don’t you want some of this hot pussy?” Tricia couldn’t believe her ears. Her husband was offering her up like a piece of meat without her consent or consideration.

Brazen and bold, Ron stroked his cock in front of Kamal. “Come here, boy. You know you want this. You know you want some of this white pussy. I’m offering it to you. No strings. Do anything you want to it and I mean anything. Fuck her mouth, her pussy, fuck her asshole. Make her choke and gag on your big black cock till she pukes all over it and make her keep sucking you off. Fist her slack cunt, piss on her, hell, piss up her, make her lick your filthy bunghole. Do anything you want to her. Dude, I really want you to fill her up with your black sperm. Yeah, fill up her white cunt with your darkie baby juice and get her knocked up.” He really wanted to use the N word but he wanted to wait until Kamal used it first to get the go ahead. He knew some Black guys were sensitive about that sort of thing and he didn’t want to get his head bashed in by jumping the gun.

Kamal held back his disgust and spoke calmly. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you want me to do those things to your wife?”

Ron masturbated proudly as he just knew he was about to realize his dreams. Yeah, he was four or five guys shy of the gangbang he wanted to witness but this was as close as he’d ever gotten to his ultimate fantasy. “Man, come on, you know. Black guys are so hung and they—you know. God, why don’t you get it? Having a black guy fuck my wife is really nasty, thinking about her being bred black ‘n all.”

Ron had moved out of the way and Tricia was still laying there, holding her legs up by grasping the backs of her knees, her breathing calmed down now that she realized that Kamal wasn’t a total stranger but someone her husband knew. Her pussy was swollen and throbbing and wet with desire. She wanted all the things her husband had described and she was ready for the action to begin, no introductions necessary.

“You sick, twisted fuck,” Kamal replied. “First of all, I’m not some monkey stud to service your wife and second, impregnation is not a sexual fetish, it’s a right and a privilege you obviously don’t deserve.” For a brief second, the couple thought he was going to leave but he started to unbutton his shirt. Kamal spelled out everything. “You want me to fuck your wife because I saw you masturbating in your office that day? Is that right?” Ron nodded profusely. “You’re telling me that if I fuck your wife, if I degrade her, that I don’t have to worry about you harassing me at work anymore, that we can put this behind us once and for all and go on with our lives.” He continued, “And, I’m to understand that you want me to do anything filthy and nasty I can think of to your wife with your permission.”

Ronald could barely answer. He was crazed with lust. “Slap her, choke her, squeeze her tits until they are bruised, tie her up, anything man, do anything.” Tricia was fingering her pussy and moaning her non-verbal consent.

Kamal pulled off his shirt and let it fall to the ground. He kept on his white wife-beater and it contrasted rather ironically yet dramatically against his bronze colored skin. He steadied himself on the chair as he pulled off his pants and left his boots in place. He pulled off his boxers and it was Ronald’s turn to lick his lips in jealousy, envy, and lust.

Kamal’s muscular thighs were a masterpiece in ebony sculpture. His arms, his chest, his shoulders were formed to perfection. With a six-pack of abs that would make any personal trainer proud, Ron couldn’t imagine a more perfect specimen to use his wife. It was the meat hanging between his legs’s that made Kamal the ideal stud for Ron’s demented fantasy. At just over 8 inches, it was clearly double the length of his own tiny cock and the thickness didn’t have a scale to compare. It looked as thick as a can of beer and he wasn’t even hard. In fact, it looked like it weighed several pounds in and of itself and Tricia was fingering her pussy in anticipation.

“Here, get it wet.” Tricia moved to suck his dick but Kamal stopped her. “No, not you-- him.” He pointed to Ron and without hesitation, Ron was on his knees, kneeling before the young man, worshipping his big, black cock, trying to get it hard with his mouth.

Tricia had never seen her husband suck a cock before and there was something very thrilling about seeing him fag out over a beautiful, black one. “Oh yeah, honey, get that big monster wet so he can slide it in my tight, white pussy. Is that what you want to see? You want to see him pounding his big hard black cock in my cunt, stretching it, ripping it open? Yeah, get it nice and wet so he can ram it in my sweet, white holes.”

Grabbing Ron’s head, Kamal throat fucked him without care or concern for his breath or comfort. Thrusting his hips and shoving every single inch down his throat, it was Ron himself who was gagging and choking on that gorgeous prick, not his wife. He didn’t care. To Ron, it was worth it so he could see his wife being fucked like a $2.00 crack whore. He sucked that cock better than he’d ever sucked any other cock in his life. By the time Kamal had pushed him away, his dick was fully erect, hard, throbbing, and dripping with spit. Grabbing a handful of bleached blonde hair, Kamal roughly pulled Tricia to her knees in front of him and said, “Let’s see who’s better at sucking my dick. Come on bitch, get to work.”

Ron was better. He’d had more experience sucking a variety of cocks. He had better technique without a doubt. That only made Kamal treat Tricia rougher, being unforgiving when she didn’t do it the way he wanted. He shoved his cock down her throat and she tried desperately to pull away, unable to breathe or move. She was gagging on the meat shoved in her throat and she her eyes were tearing. It was the stuff dreams are made of for Ron; his wife was being suffocated by a dick that was stretching her mouth to beyond capacity. He stroked his cock furiously with two fingers while his wife struggled to get her hand around the black cock that filled her slutty mouth. Her diamond wedding band shone in the sunshine and that image made Ron’s cock leak.

Pushing her away, Kamal commanded her to get on the lounger again and spread her legs. Anxious to move things along, she said, “Oh yeah, eat my pussy you sexy stud.”

Kamal laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Without any other explanation or commentary, he gripped the backs of her thighs tightly and rammed his dick in her pussy in one thrust, to the balls. Tricia screamed out in real pain. She’d never had a dick that big in her before, not even in college when she’d had a threesome with her roommate and some black guy from the football team.

“Easy stud,” she panted, half wanting him to take it easy on her and half enjoying the pain.

“Easy? What for? That’s what you want isn’t it? You think I’m some savage stud that can’t control my lust for you, right? You think I live to fuck white women, that I’m a barely literate thug who only gets hard for white trash suburban whores like you.” His comments stung Tricia but they turned her on at the same time. He was right so, yeah, she could go along with the game.

“Yeah, you big, black Mandingo, screw this white pussy good. Make it hurt. Show my husband how pathetic his little cock is. Make me never want his little thing again. Turn me into a slut for Black cock.”

“Do you even know what a Mandingo is you stupid cunt?” Kamal pounded harder and deeper.

Tricia was confused. What the hell kind of question was that to be asking her. She decided to go along with the game anyway. “You are. You’re my black daddy Mandingo and I’m your filthy white slut.” Her response seemed to anger Kamal and he became more brutal in his fucking. She tried to push him away but she wasn’t strong enough. She looked to her husband to see if he could control things a bit more but he was in a zone, fingering his asshole and stroking his tiny cock, insane with arousal. Things were just beginning to heat up in his mind, just the way he wanted. He wanted Kamal to use his wife and it didn’t matter to him if she enjoyed it or not.

Kamal grabbed a handful of Mrs. Waterman’s hair again and flipped her over on her knees. She was grateful for the reprieve on her pussy and was expecting things to go a little more smoothly doggy style. Before she knew what was happening, she felt the sting of Kamal’s hand on her pale, flat ass. “OWWWW,” she cried out, the heat and sting of the slap radiating through her body. Her body liked the rough treatment but her mind knew something was wrong. “What are you trying to do you black bastard, taking our your revenge for slavery on me? I didn’t own any slaves.”

That was the wrong thing to say. “I’m not exacting revenge for hundreds of years of slavery on you, you dumb bitch, I’m exacting revenge for being treated like an ignorant buck incapable of anything other than lusting for white women, weed, and cheap wine from a paper bag.” He grabbed her hair like the reins on a filly and pulled hard. He shoved his cock in her again, with more force, stabbing her womb with his weapon of flesh. Ronald inched closer. He wanted a front row seat to the show, to smell the scent of their fucking, to taste their nasty mixture of juices. He knelt behind Kamal and watched his muscular ass flex as he pumped his wife. The scent from his nuts was intoxicating and he marveled at the way Kamal’s smooth brown skin shone in the sun, damp with perspiration.

Tricia was in the place between pain and pleasure. She had never been fucked so savagely before in her life and she was going to pay the price for it tomorrow, but today, it was heaven. She liked being treated so roughly, even if she didn’t understand all the things he was saying. It was all part of the game, race play had to involve . . . some stuff about race or it would defeat the purpose, right? That was part of the fantasy, the hot suburban wife getting nailed by the ghetto thug. It wasn’t hot unless they were playing up the differences, exploiting the stereotypes. About the only thing she could contribute to the fantasy was her constant chants of, “Fuck me with your big black cock. Fuck this white pussy. Pump your black seed in my fertile white cunt. Harder, harder, treat my like a filthy slut for black cock.”

Kamal’s dialogue was a bit more explicit. “You fucking stupid white whore. You are too dumb to know that your man is sucking every dick he can get his hands on. The two of you think you are so superior, so much better than me, that fucking me is ‘slumming it.’ I’m better than you in every way you dirty slut. I’m going to use you, your pussy, your ass, and your dumb ass husband and you’ll regret the day you ever dreamt of having some Black buck fuck you to fulfill your ghetto fantasies.”

Those words registered with Ron as, “I love white pussy.” Wanting to rush things, Ron pleaded, “Fuck her in the ass. Shove your big black cock in her dirty asshole.” That was, after all, the nastiest form of sex. To have a Black man fucking his wife in the shitter was the ultimate degradation. He didn’t view Black men as men, or even human beings for that matter, so having his wife getting fucked in the ass by a black guy was symbolic of the most degrading thing she could endure.

Kamal pulled out and Ron dove for his dick again, tasting the elixir that was made up of the juices of his wife and his subordinate. Tricia wanted to feel that hard cock in her ass as well. She’d moved beyond the pain and felt nothing but sublime pleasure, filth, and raunch at the hands of her black stud.

Kamal backslapped Ron and sent him reeling backwards on the hard tile pavement. It wasn’t part of Ron’s fantasy but he could go along with it, again, because anything was worth seeing his wife being used like a piece of trash. He couldn’t touch his cock for fear it was going to explode. He was jealous of his wife, envious that she was going to have her anus stretched to beyond belief. He knew he could take Kamal’s dick, having ridden many huge black dildos in his time, but he doubted Tricia had had anything bigger than his little cock in her ass.

Kamal would have loved nothing more than to ram his dick balls deep in Tricia’s ass but he couldn’t. It just didn’t fit. He pushed and she cried out in pain. The more he pushed, the louder her cries became. She rubbed her clit furiously and shoved four fingers in her pussy, creating less room for Kamal to work his dick in her asshole. “Here, get it wet again.” He grabbed Ron by the hair and pulled him on his dick again. Ron used his tongue like magic and took everything Kamal had to give him and then some. He tasted the fresh ass juice from his wife’s rectum and savored the flavor. It tasted better than it had ever tasted before, mixed with the salty sweet precum of a gigantic black cock. He spit on his wife’s ass and pulled her cheeks open, encouraging Kamal once again. “Fuck her dirty asshole. Ram your thick, huge Black cock in her white butt.”

Without mercy or consideration, Kamal did just that. He shoved his cock in, pushed, shoved and rammed until every inch was embedded deep in Tricia’s ass. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he started fucking her, concentrating on making sure he drove every millimeter of his dick deep in her and withdrew it all the way to the head before he rammed it in deeper and harder than before. The only thing that made him stop was to take it all the way out so her husband could lick and suck his dick clean. He fucked her so hard he sort of felt sorry for her except she kept saying, “Oh god, please don’t stop, it feels so good.”

Kamal fucked her asshole for twenty minutes straight. Her ass was red from being spanked and her hole gaped open like the Midtown Tunnel. It was so loose and sloppy, he could barely feel any friction. “You, shithead, get over here and take her place.” He pushed Tricia out of the way and motioned for Ron to assume the position. He scrambled to get on his knees without a second’s hesitation at his wife seeing him accept a black dick but Kamal stopped him. “I want you to see my face.” Yeah, that would work for Ron, he could get off on that. He liked the idea of showing off his own little cock while he got a huge black one rammed in his manpussy. Mmmm, that thought was delicious. It was no longer about his wife, this was about the fulfillment of his sissy slut fantasies where he would become the whore for black cock, he would be degraded and used.

Kamal placed his hand over Ron’s mouth. If he was going to cum, he couldn’t listen to that insane “big black buck” drivel. He felt no mercy for Mr. Waterman so he fucked him like he was trying to kill him with his dick. His rage boiled up and he thrust deep and hard until he felt the first shot of cum go deep within his boss’s ass. He fell back, exhausted, and watched as Tricia dove for her husband’s dirty creampie without any instructions.

Both still aroused, the pair then collectively dove for Kamal’s cock, cleaning his cock of their collective juices. Kamal let them lick him from front to back before he aimed his soft cock in their faces and emptied his bladder. He dove in the pool and seemed to be cleaning himself of the stench and filth of the white couple. Dried and dressed, he left without so much as a goodbye.

Ron had never been more pleased with himself. He dove for Tricia’s pussy and asshole and ate her out for the rest of the evening, never putting on clothes, never more than a few minutes from trying to see if he could taste the evidence of her hot black fuck. The next day, he casually strolled into the office and saw a manila envelope on his desk. He opened it and found a DVD. His heart dropped. He opened it and placed the disc in his laptop. The camera had been hidden in the mailbag. He shut the laptop and called Lourdes on the intercom. “I want to see about getting a new intern. See if that guy from the mailroom might be interested.”

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK

Question

The book that I've been trying to get published for the past three years is still nothing more than a bunch of word documents on my computer. IMHO, it's some of the very best writing I've ever done. I've been pretty stubborn about the fact that I MUST include the chapters that show gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered sex in the same book as the straight stories because I want ALL people of color to feel validation, to see themselves in a postive sexual light. Would you buy a book of erotic stories and photography if it included 10 chapters of images you found arousing and one or two chapters that you weren't aroused by? I'd love to know your opinion.

Seeking Vibrational Balance

I’m looking for connection with men who are my equals: mentally, spiritually, intellectually, physically, emotionally, socially, and sexually.

Mentally – You despise the N word, carry yourself with integrity, character, and grace, actively seek to continually free yourself from the mental chains of slavery. You accept that you still have healing to do, hate commercial radio, TV, and movies, be voluntarily simplistic, environmentally conscious, have an abhorrence of corporate America, non-materialistic, extremely liberal political position, non-conformist, down-to-earth, family-centric, creative, artistic

Spiritually – You practice something other than Christianity, Islam, or Judaism, You practice metaphysical, Kemetic, or African based spirituality, meditate daily, seek harmony and balance with the universe, and are prayerful.

Intellectually – You are able to grasp complex intellectual concepts, logical, methodical, linear yet abstract, cerebral, able to see things from multiple perspectives, have a high IQ, are a seeker of knowledge, able to teach concepts to the masses in an easily digestible manner.
Physically – You are tall, active, fit, attractive, live off a plant-based diet, and respect holistic, natural cures over Western medicine

Emotionally – You have faced your inner demons, dealt with the issues that have hurt you, are introspective, emotionally mature, slow to anger, at peace, centered, calm, serene, rational, compassionate, considerate of other’s feelings, selfless, able to articulate your feelings, respectful of other’s feelings, and you are completely capable of giving and receiving unconditional love in a healthy manner.

Socially – You are a leader, enjoy jazz, live music, art, cultural events, appreciate good food and socializing with a variety of friends. Respect Black art, don’t watch much TV, concerned about lifting the consciousness of the Black community.

Sexually – You are openly bisexual and proud of it, capable of monogamy in a relationship, sex-positive and tolerant of everyone’s sexual preferences, sensual, romantic, tactile, and AfroerotiK.
If that sounds like you, I’d love to just converse.

Who's got Jungle Fever?

This was perhaps, the most difficult story I’ve ever written. No, this was, by far, without a doubt, the hardest story I’ve ever written. It challenged me in ways that no other story has even come close to doing.

I got the idea to write a story about a black man and a white woman because my repertoire is dangerously light on that theme. I have a ton of stories about white men with Black women, mostly driven by the fact that white men request interracial stories, NOT because that’s a preference of mine. In each of those stories, whether it be romantic or about domination, I make sure I show Black women in a healthy, positive, empowered light. They are never ghetto whores, or blinded by the mystical allure of interracial lust, they are in charge, intelligent, articulate women of color who are autonomous and, in some cases, dangerously efficient at manipulating the desires of white men. In most cases, people aren’t even aware enough to notice the social commentary; they just fast forward to the sex or they only absorb the story on a very superficial level.

Because I don’t have many stories about black men and white women, I decided to tackle it head on. My first inclination was to make it a romantic story and I almost wish I had. That would have been easier for me I’m sure. I could have written a story where the characters would just happen to be different colors and I could have made their choice to date interracially not one driven by stereotypes and racist beliefs but of two people with common interests who felt an attraction for one another. What do they say, always go with your first instinct?

When I sat down to write this particular story, I was overwhelmed with the need to address the large portion of Black men who date interracially and address some of the reasons they do so. They are the least culturally conscious so they are the last group of people to understand their motivations or be able to articulate them. They are also the demographic least likely to read a story of mine. So starting off, I was writing a story about a segment of the population who wasn’t even going to read it. That’s difficult for me because of the customized nature of my work. My goal in writing usually is to arouse the reader of my story and I knew from the beginning that if Black men who did date and fuck white women were to read the story, the things I wrote about in the story would offend them.

Then, I had to take into consideration that the demographic who WAS going to be reading the story the most was white men. They seek out erotic stories about Black men and white women more than any other audience. The vast majority of white men are oblivious to any reality other than their own so I had to choose every single word carefully. I had to put myself in the mindset of a white man who was going to be reading the story and try my best to educate them but also remember that most of what I was saying was going to go WAY over their heads. They weren’t going to be reading the story and taking away from it the more important messages of how dysfunctional most interracial sex really is. All they were going to be doing would be masturbating to the story, more than likely just skipping ahead to the sex parts. Still, I wanted to write a story that would give the few that were cognizant enough to pick up on the underlying themes something to think about.

Black people in general, unfortunately, in many instances, don’t look deeper than the superficial when reading my stories. So again, I’m faced with trying to educate people who were only going to take away from the story the concept that a Black man was saying he hated Black women, and that he was only attracted to white women, and not get the how’s and why’s of how that mindset was really formed in a lot of Black men. More importantly, I knew the vast majority of Black readers were going to see that behavior as merely self-hatred, not a manifestation of slave mentality that has gone un-addressed and unchecked for generations. For all of our flaws and shortcomings, being a victim to mindsets we learned in slavery that have been passed down for generations is not our fault. That doesn’t mean they are acceptable or excusable, it just means they need to be examined and healed.

This very well could be a true story. The characters were not atypical or unique in the fact that they did anything extraordinary; they were average. If you go into a racially mixed club in any town in America, you could see the characters of this story in real life. The things they said were things that have been repeated time and time again by real people, in similar situations. The numbers of Black men who date and/or fuck white women exclusively continues to grow by leaps and bounds, fueled by white America’s lust for the black male body (including the perpetuation of the Mandingo myth), a social climate where any discussion of race other than, “Color doesn’t matter,” is silenced, and racism that eats at the self-esteem of Black men whereby they feel as Darren felt.

Jenny wasn’t bright. One can only assume her attractiveness was the kind that can be found in any Hooter’s restaurant or a Girls Gone Wild video. Her commentary on race was cliché. Her need to be degraded and treated like a slut is symptomatic of a society that has raised a generation of girls to believe that their attractiveness is their only value in life.

Darren’s perceptions on race were formed by racism. For a child, being in an environment where your peers aren’t sensitive to race, where there is no racial tolerance, where Black children are in the minority, and being raised by parents who are trying to instill in them to deny their blackness, it becomes easy to see how self hatred could fester and grow in the mind of a young child. We live in a society that doesn’t show Black women as attractive and then we expect Black men to see them as such when ALL they’ve been shown are images of white women and told how beautiful they are. Black boys see countless images of white women. The first sexual images they see are more than likely going to be in Playboy or Penthouse and be of white women, so logically, their arousal is going to be tied to white women. Yes, Darren was self-hating, but I tried my best to show how he came to be. Well, I did the best I could in a story that was supposed to be erotic.

The entire first half of the story was dedicated to the examination of race in this society. Then, I transition by saying, “An intelligent person might want to contemplate what made this privileged, twenty-something white girl, who had never had a responsibility in her life, crave being used like a fucking rag doll by black men while spewing the most vile racist epithets . . . but who has time for such cerebral musings?” That creates the shift. Then the story becomes hardcore. The sex is visceral and raw, abusive even. It speaks to the way racist white men want to see white women treated by black men and, I can only assume, the ways in which interracial couples who are driven by racist fantasies might interact sexually. I had difficulty writing the sex portion, which is usually the easiest part for me, so I took the sex from another story and just changed the names. I was literally drained by writing the first half of the story to the point where constructing the sex scene was beyond my capabilities.

I’m proud of the finished product in a way that I’d love to see the story examined in a college class on race or debated and discussed in an academic setting. For now, I’ll have to be satisfied knowing that somewhere, someone might read it and walk away with a better understanding of the intricacies of race and sexuality.

Catering to a Man’s Ego

I was asked to be a participant in a group chat the other evening. The participants included four women and one man. They were talking about, and all in agreement with, how there are certain instances when a woman has to cater to a man’s ego. In fact, they said that if a woman didn’t cater to a man’s ego, that made her a bad woman. When I spoke up in dissention, they got offended, saying that I wasn’t being supportive of Black men and insisting that men were fragile and needed their egos stroked in order to function properly. Catering to a man’s ego and being supportive are two different things.

Catering to a man’s ego is to allow him to continue to hold on to dysfunctional beliefs and practices in order to make him feel good. Being supportive is helping him grow, mature, and being there to be a shoulder to cry on in his hour of need. Being loving is showing affection and nurturing him because you care about him, his happiness, and his well-being as a person. To cater to a man’s ego is to feed his insecurities, to foster dysfunction in your relationship, and to perpetuate unhealthy ideologies.

The example was given that if a man lost his job, that before they go out to dinner the woman should give him the money to hold in order to allow him to pay for the meal in public. How absurd. If a man loses his job, and he can’t deal with a woman paying for dinner, then he’s emotionally immature. Moreover, in order for a woman to be supportive and loving, rather than catering to his male ego, she would be better off helping him work on his resume, emailing him job opportunities that match his needs, or taking that money and having his suit dry cleaned or doing administrative work to help him start his own business.

We live in a society where the male ego has gone rampant and unchecked. It needs to be reigned in. It needs to be harnessed and controlled in order to move the emotional maturity of Black men ahead. We, as Black women, MUST stop catering to a man’s ego. Black men are egotistical, expecting women to cower at their whim, jump through hoops in order to satisfy their needs, and blaming Black women for all sorts of things without taking responsibility for their own wrongdoings and misperceptions. The fact that we, as a society, equate a woman’s worth with her ability to appease a man’s ego speaks volumes about how diseased we are.

Jungle Fever

Darren was a brotha on a mission. It was Friday night and the club lights were coming up and it was time to take someone home and this white chick he’d been talking to didn’t even put up the pretense of playing hard to get. Darren had more than Jungle Fever; he had Sub-Saharan Tropical Rain Forest Malaria and slutty white girls were his penicillin. The object of his affection smelled of beer, cigarettes, and hair spray. Her drug-store eyeliner was smudged and all that was left of her lipstick was a barely detectable line of equally cheap, pink lip-liner framing her thin lips. The rest of her lipstick was adorning the six or seven bottles of beer she’d consumed. Her name was Jeannie . . . Janey . . . Jenny, something like that, but her name really didn’t matter to him. She was so wasted, he could have called her Matilda and she probably wouldn’t have noticed. She grabbed her purse and air kissed the girlfriends she had gotten a ride with goodbye and trailed behind Darren, stumbling and teetering on her cheap heels, completely comfortable leaving with a total stranger she’d only met an hour ago.

Darren held her arm, making sure she wouldn’t fall and bust her ass. When they got outside to his truck, he had to hold her blonde hair back from her face as she blew big chunks in the parking lot. Better projectile vomit there than in his vehicle. Behind the tinted windows and feeling better having relieved herself of some of that alcohol, she started chatting away. “Turn on the radio. Ohhhh, 50cent, I LOVVVE him. He’s so gangsta. You know what I mean? Keeping it real. From the streets. Word. Me and my girlfriends would love to just hang out with him and his homies, ya know?” She turned up the radio as loud as it would go and leaned out the window like she was a Crip in South Central. Never mind the fact that the closest she’d ever been to any hood was getting lost in Hartford once and driving into an area where she felt like she had to lock her doors. “And his wife Beyonce is so pretty right? She’s got a real badunkkadunk. She’s got some junk in the trunk, you know what I’m saying? Drop it like it’s hot. Drop it like it’s hot. Black women have the best asses. I wish I had a big ole booty like black women.”

Darren was concentrating on the drive home. He contemplated telling her that Beyonce was married to Jay-Z, not 50cent, but what was more important to address was the fact that she had struck a nerve with him and he had to set her straight. “I don’t like those big, jungle butts. Fuckin’ black chicks wit their Ubangie butts ‘n shit, n’ big lips n’ shit. Fuck dat. Gorilla lookin’ bitches . . ." He was hardly finished detailing what he considered the many repulsive features of Black women but Jenny passed out somewhere in the middle of his diatribe.

She woke up and continued on with her conversation like she hadn’t missed a beat. “What do you do? I go to school at Stamford. I’m studying to be a whatchamacallit, a anthropologist, they study people, you know what I’m saying? I really want to be a interior designer or a makeup artist but my parents made me take anthropologism. It totally sucks. What do you do? Are you a drug dealer? You look like this guy I fucked once who was a drug dealer. He had some awesome X, dude. God, his cock was huge. Black guys are really packing. I only fuck black guys, you know what I’m saying? You know what they say, ‘Once you go black you never go back.’ Black guys are the bomb in bed. Man, I swear if my dad ever found out that I was fucking niggers . . . oops, sorry, I mean niggazz, you now what I’m saying, he would kill me.” Jenny’s penchant for talking without caring if the other person contributed or not, heightened by her inebriation, didn’t seem to bother Darren one teeny, tiny, little bit. He wasn’t even particularly disturbed by the fact that her “hood” vernacular came directly from MTV or that she had stereotyped him as a degenerate. He thought she was hot and that was all he cared about.

They arrived at Darren’s apartment in no time at all. It was a fairly decent complex with a pretty diverse group of residents, not too extravagant, certainly not the ghetto. They pulled into the parking lot in front of his building and Jenny couldn’t wait to get things started. The second Darren turned off the engine, she dove for his cock. She didn’t mind the taste of another woman’s pussy on his dick, or at least she didn’t say that she did, because Darren had fucked some random bitch in the bathroom at the club for a hot minute. It had been just long enough to get his dick wet but not enough to cum, so he was ready for some head and then some hot pussy. Jenny didn’t disappoint. She sucked his cock like a porn star, gagging on it and deep throating it, spitting on it and begging to get her face fucked, all while still in the front seat of his car.

It was time for them to get more comfortable so he pushed her away, with some difficulty mind you, she was really intent on giving him head, and zipped up. True to the nature of most drunken white girls, Jenny felt the need to flash her tits to the world in the cool night air. Some old white dude had paid good money for her brand new 38DD’s in exchange for the opportunity to eat her pussy any time he called and she was damn proud to show them off whenever the mood hit her. “Yeah, you like my hot, fucking tits, Derrick? Woo Hoo!” If she’d been on the beach in Daytona during Spring Break, it might have been appropriate. At 2:30 in the morning in a residential apartment complex in Connecticut, it was rude and inconsiderate. And apparently, knowing his name wasn’t a priority to her either.

The lights in the first floor apartment came on with all the commotion and Darren quickly grabbed Jenny by the arm and quickly pulled her towards the stairs to his second-story walk up. His downstairs neighbor was used to being awakened by Darren and his endless string of trampy white women in the middle of the night.

“Quiet down,” he said, “that fucking bitch who lives downstairs from me is always giving me dirty looks. She’s just fucking jealous I wouldn’t touch her with a ten foot pole.”

“YEAH, FUCKING JEALOUS CUNT BITCH!” Jenny yelled into the night towards the complete stranger’s apartment. “I’m going to get this big, fucking, black cock and you won’t get any, you ugly whore.”

Darren’s downstairs neighbor was neither ugly nor was she a whore. She was a quiet, attractive, young Black woman who was far more tolerant as a neighbor than most people would have been. She never called the cops or anything but she didn’t bake cookies for him at Christmas either. Darren hated her with a passion because he just knew that every time she looked at him that she was judging him for dating white women exclusively. It really didn’t matter that he was completely fabricating her thoughts in his mind. He especially couldn’t stand the sight of her because she wore her hair in dreadlocks and he thought it was just plain stupid to wear a hairstyle that reminded the whole world that her hair was nappy and ugly. He kept his own head shaved bald so he didn’t have to answer questions from girls about his own particularly dense hair texture.

Darren had never, not once in his life, dated a Black woman. From the time he was in the first grade, he wanted to sit next to the white girls, just like all the women he saw on TV. When all the little white boys on his little league team were making fun of him, making a game out of calling him the various racial slurs they’d learned from their older brothers and neighborhood friends, he learned then that being white was better than being black. In his little adolescent mind, he wished he could be white. He knew he couldn’t but as long as white girls liked him, he felt validation. He especially hated black girls because they reminded him that he would always be those names the other boys called him. In high school he was a jock and he played sports year round in order to be with all the cheerleaders. In his predominately white college, he was the campus stud, having white girls line up in the dorm hallway to swing on his Mandingo cock. He made it known to the few black girls on campus that even an ugly white girl was WAY better than any black girl. He didn’t like the fat ones so much, but he’d rather have a slutty looking white girl to bang than a black chick any day of the week.

Now that he was a productive member of the community, holding down a job as a fireman, he had plenty of Black male friends, all of whom only dated white women coincidentally. He stayed as far away from Black women as he possibly could. He thought Black women were ugly, loud, unsupportive, sassy, and stupid. The KKK could have used him as a spokesperson when it came to his opinion of black women. He’d never even so much as had a conversation with a Black woman other than his mother and his sister, let alone dated one, so he had no way of knowing what Black women were really like. Assured that there wasn’t a burglar breaking in or that no one needed assistance, his downstairs neighbor turned off her light just as the pair passed her front door and Darren said in a voice loud enough to make sure she heard, “Black bitch.”

That inspired Jenny to give her little speech about race, loud enough for all the neighbors to hear. “What the fuck is her problem? Doesn’t she know color doesn’t matter? Geez, Martin Luther King said that thing about . . . you know . . . about how color doesn’t matter. I’m not racist. I only fuck Black cocks. Get over it you fucking jungle bunny, slavery was over a long time ago.” It was pretty much assured that Jenny wouldn’t be getting a job doing diversity or sensitivity training upon graduation.

Once inside his sparsely furnished apartment, Jenny wanted the party to start. “You got any meth? I need something to keep my buzz going. Fuck, I need a drink really bad.” She started pulling off her denim mini skirt, g-string, and top, of course, leaving on her heels, and started posing like Paris Hilton at a photo shoot. “Hey,” she said with a flash of drunken brilliance, “why don’t you call some of your friends over and we can all party, you know what I’m saying, and get really freaky. I need some fucking black horse cock rammed in me. Gangbang style, you know what I’m saying? I swear, I’m such a fucking slut, right?”

Darren handed her a glass of straight vodka and she downed it in one gulp. He ignored her question about calling some friends because he wanted her all to himself. He wanted to prove to her that he was all the savage beast she needed. He was going to blow her back out with all eight, thick, ebony inches of his equipment. He was certainly larger than average by every calculation and most white guys would KILL to have a cock as big as his, but he felt insecure because he didn’t have a 12 inch dick and he didn’t need the completion.

His bedroom was just as desolate as the rest of the apartment, with only a mattress on the floor; two pillows and filthy sheets that looked like they had been screwed on a few times too many that were crumpled up in the corner. Darren pushed her down roughly but that was okay with her. Jenny wanted to play and play hard so she made it known. “Come on, fuck this dirty white cunt. You love this nasty white pussy, don’t you?” She spread her legs and bared her bald slit. At 5’3” and a couple of ounces shy of anorexic, she looked like the pre-teen she was trying to emulate with her shaved twat. With the exception of her massive fake tits, she couldn’t didn’t have enough meat on her to cover her rib cage or hipbones.

She rammed three fingers in her loose, sloppy twat and started fucking herself. She shoved those same fingers in her mouth and sucked them, tasting her juices but more importantly, getting them wet so she could shove them in her asshole. Flipping over on her knees, she rammed her fingers in her ass. Ray Charles could see that she had fisted her own ass numerous times in the past, or at least someone had fisted her, considering the ease with which she took those three fingers. She made a show of licking her ass juice off her fingers and ramming them back up her asshole a few times. “Oh yeah, I want you to fuck my tiny white asshole too, ram your big, black cock up there.”

Darren didn’t want be on deck anymore, it was time for his turn at bat. He took off his clothes and climbed on top of her. They kissed, swapping spit and tongues. Her thin, non-existent lips, in comparison to his full, sensual lips, were ideal to him. He liked anything that wasn’t like him. He loved her pointy, pug nose, her stringy, dyed blonde hair felt luxurious in his tight grasp, her pale skin that was now red with arousal looked erotic next to his own, smooth chocolate skin. Having a flat ass was WAY better in his mind than having a butt that looked like it belonged on an African savage swinging from the trees. His dick couldn’t get hard unless he saw the contrast in skin color.

Fantasies fueled by race ignited his desires. He found it erotic to think of himself as a slave on the plantation, taking the slave master’s wife. With that one single act of fucking her, he became the untamed Mandingo buck, getting his chance at the desirable white woman. He was the mack-daddy pimp, owning the white whore. Name a racist stereotype and it was sure to get his dick hard. He was proving to those white boys on the baseball field who were all grown up now that he was just as good as them because he could fuck any white woman he wanted. And when he finally got one knocked up, he was going to have kids that would never remind him that he was a descendent of cotton picking, illiterate slaves who were the victims of slavery, not sexually aroused by it. Color mattered to Darren because to him, his identity, his sexuality, his entire reality was tied to the fact that he believed with all his heart that white women were better. Moreover, he believed that being with a white woman made him better.

Jenny was getting her own jungle fever needs filled as well. Fucking black guys was dirtier than fucking white guys. Fucking black guys was beneath her, so that made it more thrilling. Most of her girlfriends knew the real deal but there were still a few holdouts that thought it was nasty to let a black guy touch them. It was her mission to convert them to nasty sluts for Black cock whenever she could so that they could enjoy the sensation of being a dirty, filthy nigger-loving whore. And as long as she said, “I’m not racist,” after the fact, it didn’t bother her at all that she never saw Black men as real human beings, just studs with oversized genitalia to service her insatiable appetite for extreme and perverse levels of degradation and abuse.

An intelligent person might want to contemplate what made this privileged, twenty-something white girl, who had never had a responsibility in her life, crave being used like a fucking rag doll by black men while spewing the most vile racist epithets . . . but who has time for such cerebral musings?

For all of his admiration and love for white women outside the bedroom, when it came time to fucking, he couldn’t degrade them enough. Jenny wasted no time in getting between his legs and giving him head. She grabbed his erection and started stroking it, making it leak precum. She licked the salty treat and told him how good he tasted. She took the head in her mouth and swirled her tongue around it and Darren could barely control himself. She went down on it slowly, licking and sucking with painstaking precision. She was getting every black inch wet with her mouth and tongue and sucking it expertly with her lips. Jenny was moaning and slobbering all over his dick like a cock-craved whore and fingering her pussy at the same time. Darren grabbed her semi-golden hair and twisted it in his hand and shoved her mouth down on his dick, making her choke and gag. He held her head down and she thought she was going to pass out. That made her pussy leak even more. He fucked her throat hard and deep, not caring at all about if she was experiencing pain, and she was. He gave her enough time to gasp for air and he began fucking her mouth harder slapping her face and calling her a stupid cunt.

Jenny wanted more. She wanted to taste his cum and she didn't care how Darren treated her. She was looking him in his eyes and asking him if he liked it. Darren was out of his mind; it was sensory overload. She focused on sucking the engorged vein on the underside of his dick and it allowed him to calm down enough to regain normal control of his breathing. The room was spinning and it felt like it was 100 degrees in there. She started humming on his dick, sending vibrations up his spine and talking dirty. She was proving herself to be a filthy nasty slut desperate for cum and abuse from any black man that would fuck her senseless.

“You like my mouth on your hard cock? Treat me like a filthy white whore; it makes me feel good when you say nasty things to me. Treat me like a dirty white slut. Use me. Use me with your superior black cock.”

He grabbed her head one last time and started moving it up and down on his dick, fucking her throat like she was a rag doll. Jenny gagged but it only seemed to inspire her to be that much nastier. It seemed she couldn’t get it wicked enough, she was in a zone where she wanted to be debased and used like a cheap prostitute. She was deep throating him and stroking him and licking his balls. The raunchier she got, the more she needed verbal stimulation.

“Come on you fucking white cunt, suck my fat dick. Show me what a slut you are for that fuck meat in your slutty mouth. Choke on my hard dick bitch. Look at you, you fucking filthy cocksucker. Suck my god damn cum out of my big hairy balls. Lick that fuck tool real good and get it nice and wet so I can ram it in your wet pussy. Yeah, I’m going to fuck you senseless. Is that what you want? You want me to ram this big hard black cock in you so hard you scream like it’s going to rip you apart? What sort of nasty whore gets off on sucking my dick like that? Maybe I will bring all my friends by and let them take turns using your body and they can pay me for the chance to ram their big black dicks in your nasty asshole, pussy and mouth,” he taunted her. “You'd like that wouldn't you? Sucking all those hard black cocks after they fuck you in the ass? You like that you dirty slut?"

Jenny wasn’t satisfied, she wanted more and she wasn’t afraid to go for it. She was in a sexual fog, a lust inspired by the fulfillment of her nasty dreams and she started screaming for him to use her, not caring if the upstairs, downstairs or next door neighbors heard her. “I want more. I want to show you how REALLY nasty white cunts are.” She got between his legs and lifted them up. He knew he hadn’t showered for more than 12 hours and his ass was ripe with sweat and musk. Jenny seemed to not notice or care one little bit. She seemed to delight in looking at the brown hole and Darren was pushing out, making it open and close for her. “Oooooh, talk really, really dirty to me, make me feel like a nasty whore.”

Darren didn’t hesitate for a second. “Oh yeah, eat my dirty asshole. Stick your tongue in there and lick it out good, Get it nice and clean like a good slut should. Taste that hole you and lick it good and deep.”

She didn’t waste a second and started licking and kissing and sucking his brown hole. There weren’t many things Darren loved more than a tongue in his ass and he was grinding his ass on her face and pulling his cheeks apart so she could get deep. Jenny looked up at him and stared straight in his eyes as she said, “Mmmm, I love the way your ass tastes. It makes my slutty white pussy so wet to know that I’m being such a dirty whore for you.” Then she went back to her feast, sucking Darren’s asshole like a woman possessed. The filthy nature of her words and actions, he thought, was the way sex was supposed to be: primal and raw, animalistic and dirty. She was in sexual nirvana. Darren held his legs wider as he enjoyed the sensation of his sexy white bitch making a feast of his ass.

Jenny loved every second of it and she wanted more. This was the treatment she craved, being treated like a depraved and perverted white whore and who better to do that than the sexy black god with a smooth brown body, rippling muscles, a juicy booty and a dick of death? Darren had to stop for a minute and wonder exactly what sort of limits this white bitch had if any and the idea of how filthy could get almost made him work a load up from his nuts.

There was no need for pretense because Jenny was a woman that needed to get fucked and fucked hard. She was desperate to feel every inch of that hard meet rammed in her cunt walls and she needed him to do it hard and fast and rough like only he could. He grabbed her hair and pulled it like reigns on a philly. She responded by chanting, “Fuck me, fuck me, NOW!”

Darren took careful aim. He lined up the fat head of his dick with her slutty hole. He grabbed her hips and with one fluid, fast motion, he rammed the entire length of his dick deep in her uterus. She screamed out in pain but that didn’t stop her from begging for more. Darren began fucking Jenny with his force and she took it all and begged for more. He worked his thumb up her ass and she started using her muscles to coax out another load of cum. He started smacking that pale ass and reached around to her huge tits. He mauled her tits, pinching her nipples and causing her to moan. He squeezed her inflated chest so fucking hard she was surely going to have bruises the next day. He pulled them and twisted them with his dark fingers and she encouraged him to do it harder. “Pull my fucking nipples black mother fucker. Make them hurt. Slap them. Ohhh, it feels so good.”

Jenny was fucking him back extraordinarily hard, grunting and snorting like a crazed animal. “I need what every filthy white slut can’t get enough of. I need you to fuck me in my nasty asshole. Please? Fuck my white ass with your big, black cock.”

He pulled out of her pussy and saw her juices all over his erection. She had taken his finger with no problem so he spit on her asshole and started to work more fingers in. “Damn you Darren, ram it in there and make it hurt. I don’t want you to give a damn about me, use my asshole, rip it apart. Shoot your cum deep in my ass. Make me cum from dicking my shithole and then make me lick your dirty cock clean.”

“You fucking bitch, you asked for it. I don’t want you to complain one little bit that it hurts either. You better beg for more. I want you screaming and begging me to fuck the shit out of you, for me to never stop, you hear?”

“What are you waiting for? Slam it up my ass. Fuck this slutty white bitch in her backdoor. What’s the matter? Afraid my tight little ass will make you nut too fast? Yeah, it takes a real man to handle a hot, sexy hole like this, not a little boy.” Her teasing had one objective, to ensure that Darren fucked her until he fucked her unconscious.

The head of Darren’s dick didn’t even look like it could fit in such a small hole. He held his dick still as he pushed the tip in. Jenny gasped for air and gripped the sheets tightly, sweat was forming on her body and she was in agony and ecstasy. The sensation of Jenny’s tight ass ring on the shaft of his member was so intense, he was sweating trying to work all 8 inches in and he didn’t understand how she could even take it all so easily. Jenny took control and started fucking him back. “Fuck my naughty asshole, make me a bad girl. Make me crave getting used by big black cock in my asshole. Make sure I never want white cocks again.”

Darren grabbed her hips and started pounding. Jenny lowered her head and stuck her ass up in the air so the last few inches could get the right angle and sink deep in her ass. Darren could smell the earthy, strong aroma of ass fucking and it was intoxicating. Jenny was moaning loader, begging for it harder. Ass fucking was supposed to be dirty and primal and filthy in every way and Jenny and Darren were two untamed wild animals that were lost in debauchery and pleasure. Jenny had craved the sensation of losing herself to a man completely and she started to cum. It was a mental orgasm, a freedom from society and rules and inhibitions.

“Oh shit, I’m going to cum. Fuck the shit out of me. Shoot your cum deep in me. Empty your nuts in my slutty white asshole. Make me shit out your baby juice all night long.”

Darren grabbed her hips and started ramming himself deeper and harder, practically ramming Jenny’s head in the wall. “OHHHH FUCK! Take it whore, take my load.” He pulled out and shot his load in her mouth and Jenny sucked every drop of his sticky, sweet cum. He pushed her down on the bed and wiped his dick off on the sheets in the corner.

When all was said and done, it was just another typical Friday night for Darren. He would drop her off in the morning and they would exchange numbers like they were really going to keep in touch with each other. Next week, there would be another slutty white woman in his bed, whose name he might or might not remember, begging him to use her, fulfilling her dark-continent fantasies.


Copyright AfroerotiK 2008