Blac Mamba

At precisely 2:55 in the afternoon I parked the classic 1971 red Jaguar E-Type convertible I was delivering on the turning circle in front of the house on Shawnee Drive at the end of one of the swank community finger peninsulas out into the Northeast River in the old Maryland town of North East just off the I-95 corridor down the East Coast. The house was a big, sprawling gray clapboard mansion that looked about right for someone who had bought a classic Jaguar to be delivered to him from New York with added special services.

I saw that there was a note on the front door as I approached it, saying "Come around back."

I did that, taking a long walk around the side of the house--there was water on three sides of the lot--and I didn't quite do a double take when I got to the back of the house where a swimming pool surrounded by terracing extended almost to the water's edge. The instructions had been precise on the time to show up, and now I knew why.

The guy's body wasn't too bad. I could manage. He was probably in his late forties, a little soft and pudgy, but not too much. He was well tanned, with stark tan lines of a skimpy Speedo. His body was slightly hirsute, his hair black on his body but with some gray patches in his close-cropped head hair. He was on his knees, face down, on a lounge bed, his chest and cheek pressed in the cushion and his butt raised in the air. He was wearing a blindfold. His arms were dangling off the side of bed, his hands grasping the base of the legs at the head of lounge bed. Restraints nudged his wrists, ready for him to be secured. The balls end of a thick dildo protruded from his ass. He'd opened himself up massively.

It was quite clear what he wanted me to do with him.

A couple of cold beers, a bottle of lube, and a small stack of Trojan Magnum XL rubbers lay on a small table beside the lounge bed. There also was a wad of cash--hundred-dollar bills. I didn't bother to count it. It looked thick enough to be what was agreed with the guy who sent me from the classic car dealer in New York. I occasionally delivered a car for him, especially when there were added services involved, which he specialized in through an Internet club. My main job was as a Chippendale-type dancer at a strip club in a Chelsea gay bathhouse. My stage name there was the Black Mamba, which reflected my performance specialty. It also declared that I proudly was a black man--a black bull, as I was called. When I was on stage all oiled up and gleaming under the lights, all eyes in the audience went to me. I wasn't ashamed of that; I was proud of that. I kept myself in tiptop condition.

"Bind my wrists" was all he said, sensing I had arrived, before I did just that. Standing beside the lounge bed, I pulled my T-shirt off, popped the top of one of the cans of beer, and took a swig of beer. I stood there for a moment deciding how I wanted to proceed. By his stance, he was declaring how he wanted me to proceed. It was his money, so I indulged him. I unbuckled and unzipped my shorts and let them fall to my ankles. I pushed my briefs down and my half hard--which would be a full hard for most guys--popped out. I kicked the clothes aside.

"Fuck me. Fuck me, you big black brute," he murmured, his voice hoarse. He was taking it on faith that the black muscle stud who showed up was the one in the photograph he'd been sent. For what he was paying, he was getting what was advertised.

I laughed, grasped the silicon balls of the dildo up his ass, and roughly fucked him with it as he gasped, breathed heavily, writhed, and otherwise thoroughly enjoyed himself. I took a couple of more swigs from the beer can, put it down on the table, took my cock in my free hand, and started working myself up.

"You. Now you. I'm open for it. Give it to me. What I saw in the photo..."

"Yes, it is," I said.

"It said eleven thick inches."

"Yes."

He moaned. "Do it. Give it to me."

I pulled the dildo out of him. I recognized it. A thirteen-and-a-half long, over-five-inch-thick Mr. Hankey Ogre XXL. His hole was gaping and oozing lube. He indeed was ready for it.

He heard me snapping the Trojan on and moaned, "Yes, fuck me, big boy. Give me that black stud cock."

He cried out an "Oh, shit! Oh, Fuck!" and writhed under me as I straddled his hips, grasping them with my hands to hold him steady, mounted and penetrated, and began the dance of the doggy fuck. My black mamba must have been value added over the Ogre dildo, as he writhed and sobbed and mouthed off the pain-pleasure of the servicing.

Afterward, after I'd untied him at his direction, I stood over him--again at his direction--and I finished my beer and he drank the other one while, blindfold gone and sitting up on the lounge bed, legs bent and spread, he felt me up with his free hand, running it all over my torso and spending extra time stroking and hefty my balls.

"They're jet black. Darker than the rest of you."

"Yes. I came that way."

"And eleven inches hard."

"A bit more."

"Wow. And you're a Chippendale dancer. You sure have the body for it."

"We go a bit beyond the Chippendale style where I work."

"You strip all the way down?"

"Yes."

"You fuck guys on stage?"

"Yes." This wasn't just banter. He was using the images he got from this to work himself up again for another fuck. It was having that effect on me as well.

"Guys from the audience?"

"When they pay for it--if they have good enough bodies to entertain the other patrons."

"Wow." I'd filled out again under his stroking and he leaned forward, took me as best he could in his mouth, and gave me a blow job, taking me to and beyond ejaculation, which he took in the face. Afterward he cleaned off his face, and fiddled with the wad of cash on the table.

"The Jag you bought is out front," I said. This was a point at which this transaction could be done. But it wasn't. He reached down into a bag by the lounge bed and came up with another wad of cash. He fanned out five hundreds.

"If you can stay around for a little while, you could have a swim. I'd feed you supper and drive you to your motel. Where are you staying?"

"The Motel 6 on Route 40." He didn't offer to let me stay here in his big house. He probably thought he couldn't afford an all-nighter--or survive it. It was probably right on both counts. But then, maybe he thought a black guy would rob him.

I had no desire to spend the night in his house or on top of him, though. I needed to be at the Motel 6 the next morning. A guy was driving up from Richmond to deliver a classic 1956 Thunderbird to New York and was giving me a ride home, picking me up at the motel in the morning. I reached over and fingered the smaller wad of cash next to the bigger one. "You want me to fuck you again before fixing me this dinner and driving me to the motel?"

"Yes," he said. "But first I'd like to watch you move. Walk around the pool, pose and flex for me. Swim some laps."

When I came out of the pool, dripping wet, I had my black mamba in hand and was stroking myself hard again. I strutted to the lounge bed, where he was still sitting on his butt, legs spread and bent, feet flat on the cushion, stroking himself under a bit of a paunch with one hand pulling on his meat and swigging a third beer he'd pulled out of a small cooler with the other.

"The Black Mamba. Eleven inches," he murmured.

"Yes," I said, straddling his thighs, stroking my cock, and brushing it against his cheeks, teasing him, as his mouth tried to capture it. I slapped it against his cheeks a couple of times before I let his lips latch onto it. I let him slide his lips down the side, and then I grabbed his head, pulled his face roughly into my groin, and made him deep throat me. He gagged and thrashed about but then settled down as he was able to open to it.

I pulled out when I sensed his total surrender. "You want it hard this time, don't you?" I asked.

"Yes."

"You do it. You slide the rubber on." He picked up a Trojan XL packet, slit it open, and smoothed the disk onto my cock.

I surprised him by slapping him across the face, both across one side and then the other. He yelped and his head snapped back onto the lounge bed. He grunted and whimpered, giving me a look of panicked mixed with lust as I put his ankles on my shoulders, mounted and thrust inside him, held his head to the lounge bed with a grip on his throat, and fucked him hard and deep and long.

"Yes, yes, YES! Fucking A own me! Shit you're huge! Oh, F-U-C-K!" he cried out as I pounded him.

The little white whimpering fucker was totally mine.

* * * *

When he drove me out to Route 40 and the Motel 6, I asked him, "Is there a gym around here I can tone up at--that would be user friendly for me?"

"For a transient, or a black guy, or gay friendly?"

"Yes to all of the above," I said.

"That would be Jimmy's Gym. We'll pass it on the way to the motel. You can walk there from the motel."

When I got out of the Jag at the motel and had hauled my duffel bag out of the back, I said, "This is a real sweet ride. It drives like a dream."

"It better for what I paid for it. But you mean me, of course, don't you? You mean I was a sweet ride." His expression was one of teasing amusement.

"You pay well. And I was able to get it up for you."

"Yes, you did, didn't you? Still can't believe I took eleven inches."

"That dildo you play with is over thirteen."

"Yes, but nothing like the real thing. Was I good enough that I can come in and get a freebee?"

"Let's not push it," I said, turned, and walked to the office without looking back.

"I do like playing hard to get," he said to my back.

* * * *

They were soldiers from the nearby Aberdeen Proving Grounds and they fancied themselves as ardent gym rats by being regulars at Jimmy's Gym in the town of North East, where the three of them typically took the gym to closing on Tuesdays and Thursdays. They were all in pretty good shape and they shared an interest beyond the bodybuilding. They liked to share guys and, unusually enough, all three of them were submissives. They did each other pretty far down the performance road, but they liked to have a meaty top to share, and word was out how a guy could get three lays from some pretty fit guys in their late twenties just by taking Jimmy's Gym to closing on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

I was about as meaty a top as any of them was going to get--I was muscled up more than those three and I had more swinging between my legs than they'd gotten from anyone else. I also was in North East on a Thursday evening, stuck in a Motel 6 room, waiting for a ride the next afternoon, and missing my gym time. I was told the Jimmy's Gym was gay friendly. I wasn't told that it was gay predatory, but I didn't really care that that's what I found there.

They were Pat, Steed, and Carl and were much the same of the dirty blond, squared-out soldier, slightly hirsute, not-too-bad-looking, chip-on-the-shoulders type who, because they loved their muscles, could be found in the basic gyms at 10:00 pm at night.

Jimmy's Gym closed at 11:00. I got there at 9:30. By 10:15 the place was beginning to empty out, although Pat, Steed, and Carl were still there, talking with and spotting each other. The three of them were seriously working out and with seriously well-worked bodies. But each of them had taken time to chat with me in the "You're new here, aren't you?" and "Where are you from and where are you going?" mode. Carl, the more outgoing of the three, had managed to move on to admiring my build, saying there weren't too many black guys coming to the gym, but I was a definite improvement on the décor here. He was quick to make clear that being black at this gym was OK--more than OK. Each of them had come over to spot me and each of them, while doing so, had managed to touch me, first tentatively, and when I didn't react badly to that, more intimately. Pat had audibly gasped when his touch was on my crotch and he got the hint of what I was packing. He immediately went off to consult with the other two, and it looked like Steed, who had appeared to be starting to wrap up for the evening, decided to stay.

"You say you're just passing through for the night," Carl said to me at one point.

"Yes," I said. "Staying at the Motel 6 over on 40," I said. I hadn't said anything about just passing through. Did these guys know I'd be coming to this gym? I didn't know how they'd know that.

"Traveling alone?" Carl asked.

"Yeah. Somebody's picking me up tomorrow to get me to New York."

"New York?" Steed asked, coming up to us. I knew both he and Pat had been keyed into what Carl and I were saying to each other. "What do you do in New York?" he asked.

I had no reason to hide it. These guys obviously were coming on to me. Maybe I'd be doing one or more of them in the motel room that night. That would be fine with me. I liked a sub with a great body. None of these guys was muscle bound but they all had developed what they had really well. "I deliver classic cars up and down the East Coast. And I also dance in a male review--something like the Chippendales, but raunchier--in New York," I said.

That set all three of them twittering.

"I knew it must be something to show off that great body of yours," Carl said. "I guess you know we like the looks of you--all three of us do."

"Yeah, I got that idea."

He reached out and touched one of my nipples and I didn't shirk away. I let my eyes trail down to his basket. He was hard and he knew I could tell he was hard.

Although they looked manly, the tell-tell signs were there that they were submissives, especially in the way they twittered with each other and gave me longing looks.

"You know they have a sauna here that's great for soothing the muscles out after a good workout," Carl said to me as the three of them were closing up on the floor and heading for the showers. I got the message.

"See you there then," I said, and Carl gave me a grin.

They were still in the communal shower when I got there, naked and walking proud. All three of them were half hard at least and pulled away from each other as I entered the shower. The eyes of all three of them went to me and they gasped almost in unison in seeing me swinging eleven thick inches. All three of them were fit and well-proportioned, but I was a black god swinging eleven inches and we all knew it. I looked from one to the other. Which one would I be taking back to the Motel 6 and destroying? They all seemed so alike. Would all three let me do them? Yes, probably, from the way they were eating me up with their eyes.

They left the shower together. "The sauna is just over there," Carl said as they left.

When I entered the sauna, the three of them were spaced out, Carl sitting on the second tier, near a corner, Pat and Steed sitting on the side opposite this, where they'd get a good view of the corner of the room. I noticed that the heat wasn't up to sauna temperatures. The unit had already been turned off and the room was cooling down. This wasn't a time for sweating in the Jimmy's Gym sauna. It was time for other action.

With just a towel knotted around my waist, I entered the sauna and climbed up to sitting near the corner of the third tier. Carl was sitting just below me and to my left on the second tier of the side wall. We all knew what we were there for. There was no need to be coy or to spin the time out. I spread my legs under the towel, letting my eleven-incher and hefty balls hang down to where all three could see them. Again, I heard the gasp across the room of appreciation.

Carl put his right hand on my left calf and I left it there. No time to be coy. His left hand went there too and slowly glided up to my crotch. I felt a bit of pressure on the meat of my left calf and, in response, I raised it and hooked the leg on his right shoulder. He laced my balls in the fingers of his left hand and, encasing the root of my engorging cock with his hand, started a slow stroke.

"So nice. Huge. So black. A thick black snake," Carl murmured.

"Thus my stage name," I said. "The Black Mamba." He gave a little laugh, leaned over, and took my shaft in his mouth.

Pat and Steed, watching us, had moved together and were kissing and stroking each other's cocks.

The sauna door opened. I gave a little jerk but the other three didn't react. It was as if they knew someone else would enter and that it wouldn't disrupt anything. I instantly understood, as Ted Sinclair, the Mr. Jaguar of earlier that day, entered, naked, and perched on the second tier of benches opposite where Carl was giving me head and watched both Carl and me and Pat and Steed having sex. He grasped his cock, stroked, and shared the sex with us. Of course, that's how Carl and friends knew I was traveling alone. Mr. Jaguar had told me about the gym and then told his friends I might be there, that I was hung, and that I was horny.

After a few moments, Pat and Steed came off their bench and moved over to Carl and me. Carl pulled away, and Pat was crouched between my spread thighs and taking my erection in his throat. Steed was sitting beside me on the third tier, moving his hands over my black body, licking and nipping at my nipples while Pat took over the blow job from Carl.

I unknotted my towel and brushed it away. I leaned over and grasped Pat's narrow hips in my hands and pulled him up into my lap, facing me, and, to the sound of his heavy panting and groaning, put him on my cock. He swooned backward, his torso streaming down the tiers of the benches, his hands grasping the front edge of the lower bench, while I pulled him on and off my cock to an ejaculation.

I looked across the sauna to see that Ted Sinclair's legs were raised and spread and Carl was kneeling between them. Sinclair's fists were gripping Carl's shoulders. His fingers were spreading and digging in to the same rhythm with which Carl's buttocks were moving forward and back. Sinclair was receiving his "spotters" reward for having guided me to Jimmy's Gym and into the hands of the Aberdeen Proving Ground soldiers.

With a cry and an ejaculation, Pat fell away from me, to be replaced by Steed, sitting on my cock, facing away, his torso streaming down the tiers of benches, his hands grasping the edge of the bottom bench, and his feet pressed into the cedar wall behind us, using the balls of his feet for leverage on fucking himself on my eleven inches.

* * * *

When they offered to give me a lift back to the Motel 6, it occurred to me that I'd had a piece of two of them but not Carl, who had been the most forward of the trio. Had I read him wrong as a submissive, I wondered. He was at least a flip-flopper because he fucked Ted Sinclair, Mr. Jaguar, in the sauna. I thought I must be slipping because I'd read all three of the Aberdeen Proving Ground soldiers as bottoms.

But they weren't finished with me. I had no sense of direction, so when we took off in the Camaro coupe, really cramped for the four big bruisers and with me wedged into the back, I didn't notice that they were driving in the opposite direction of where my motel was. Even when I realized we were, I said nothing, because there was no way I could do anything about getting out of the car at that point.

They drove me to a riverside park that was deserted at that time of night. Carl noted then that he hadn't gotten his piece of me, and so I wasn't surprised when they told me to strip and go down on my back with my head between the roots of a big tree and work my eleven incher up while they watched. When I was stiff as a board, they surprised me by grabbing my hands and pulling my arms around the base of the tree and restraining my wrists so that I couldn't move from there.

When I was immobilized, a naked Carl straddled my hips, facing me, lowered himself on my shaft, leaned back and grasped my knees with his hands, and fucked himself on me. Pat and Steed stood by and watched.