My Wife - a Blac Gang Toy

WARNING: This story contains scenes including reluctance and interracial sex. If these subjects offend you then you should find another story to read.

NOTE 1: This story takes place in a fantasy world, a world where there are no STIs or unwanted pregnancies. The characters and experiences herein are a complete work of fiction.

NOTE 2: I want to give a huge "Thank You" to Phil Anderer. His expertise as an editor uncovered several things that I had overlooked. The changes and additions that he suggested, have resulted in a much more well-rounded, cohesive story. Thanks, Phil.

INTRODUCTION: This story is a continuation of the saga of Pat and her husband Steve, an adventurous middle-class couple who find black-on-white sex extremely erotic. Pat is an attractive, well-proportioned blonde and her husband Steve is a handsome man with a muscular physique.

Pat’s Exhausting Shopping Day

Steve wasn’t up yet allowing me to enjoy these few precious moments alone. The fresh coffee tasted wonderful as I mentally reviewed my plans for the day. From time to time I need to get out of the house on my own and today was going to be one of those days.

Steve and I had been invited to a party this weekend which gave me the perfect excuse to take a trip to town to look for a new dress. Smiling, I added new shoes that matched the dress to my list. A new dress and shoes were my priority for the day but, after that, I wasn’t the least bit averse to checking out any store that I found interesting.

It was likely that I would still be out around lunchtime so I anticipated stopping somewhere for lunch. There were a couple of new restaurants that I was considering but, I would wait until later to make my choice. My lunch plans would be dictated by where I was when the urge to eat overwhelmed my shopping desires. All in all, I was looking forward to a fun, relaxing day.

My husband Steve walked into the kitchen just as I finished my second cup of coffee. I love the way he looks in the morning. His hair was disheveled and he was wearing just his pajama bottoms. His bare feet slapped on the floor as he stepped up to the kitchen counter and poured himself a cup of coffee.

As he raised his cup to his lips, he looked over the rim and gave me a thorough once-over. “What are you all dressed up for?”

A hint of frustration entered my voice as I responded, “Steve, I told you last night that I was going shopping today. I need a new dress and shoes for the party on Saturday. I don’t know why I bother telling you things since you never listen to what I say.”

“I heard you. I’m just not convinced that you need a new dress. Have you looked in your closet lately? You don’t need to go shopping. You look beautiful, sexy, and desirable no matter what you’re wearing. Hell, you don’t even need clothes to look good, so why in the world do you need more? Your closet is full now.”

Steve had a ritual and we had to go through it every time I wanted to buy a new outfit. My husband felt obligated to object every time, so I simply smiled and let him vent. We both knew that I was going shopping no matter what he said but he felt the need to rant a little so I continued to smile and humor him.

“Have you bothered to take a look in the mirror? You’re going shopping wearing a strapless red dress I’ve never seen before. I bet this is the first time you’ve ever worn that dress. Why in the world do you need another dress? You could wear that little number this weekend and all the women would be jealous and the men would be tripping over their tongues.”

“Of course you’re right sweetheart. You usually are, but I know you want me to outshine all those other women. Besides, I could use a little time to myself. Pretend that I’m going golfing like you do. My new dress and shoes probably won’t cost as much as the fees you pay when you and the guys take off for the day.”

“Well, since you put it that way.” he said, “Maybe I’ll call one of my friends and see if we can get a tee time at the new golf club.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek he said, “Have fun.”

Heading for the door before he could change his mind, I smiled back at him, “I should be home before dinner.”

I was thankful that this wasn’t a school day which meant that most soccer moms would stay close to home. As a result, I didn’t have much trouble finding a parking spot near where I wanted to shop.

My first stop was a little dress shop I had frequented several times before. A salesperson greeted me as I walked in the door and offered to assist me. I declined her help, preferring to search the racks myself. I only found one dress that interested me but when I tried it on it didn’t make me feel special so I reluctantly left it with the lady in charge of the changing room.

I enjoyed the walk to the next store. It was a lovely day today, the sun was shining and the temperature was mild and pleasant.

My second stop was more encouraging. I found three dresses that I liked but only one that I thought looked good on me. My spirits lifted knowing I could be happy with this dress, but I decided to go to a new shop that I had heard about but never visited. If I didn’t find anything better I would return and get this dress. The salesperson was very helpful and agreed to hold the dress for the rest of the day.

I almost changed my mind when I saw the third shop. A friend had suggested the store but it didn’t look too promising. I considered leaving but, I trusted my friend so, I put my first impressions aside and entered the store.

The store was unlike any store I had ever patronized before. It was small and cramped, with so many racks of clothing stuffed inside that you could hardly move around. In a word, it was “wonderful”.

I must have wandered those cramped aisles for an hour before I saw what I had been looking for. I’d never owned a dress that shade of blue before but, when I put it on it made me glow. It fit perfectly and I knew it was exactly what I had been looking for.

I was so pleased with the new dress that I floated out of the store on a cloud of expectations knowing that I would be successful in my hunt for the perfect pair of shoes. How could I fail?

Feeling the first pangs of hunger, I began to look for a place to eat.

This morning it had been cool when I left the house, but now the bright sun had warmed things up considerably. Thankfully, the store where I bought my lovely blue dress was willing to deliver it so I wasn’t forced to carry any bags with me as I looked for a place to eat.

A few minutes later I stumbled across a new restaurant that had just opened. On a high because of my successful hunt for a new dress, I was more than willing to take a chance. The dark cool atmosphere inside was a pleasant change from the rising temperature outside. A young lady met me just inside the door and guided me to a seat at a small table for two.

It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the cool shadows inside. While I waited, I perused the menu. After finding something that I liked, I took time to look around. It was a small place with only five small two and four-seat tables and three booths along one wall next to a waitress station.

It only took a few moments to examine the small space. Soon afterward, the waitress arrived and asked what I wanted to drink. While she was there I gave her my complete order for an unsweetened iced tea, half a ham sandwich, and a cup of cream of potato soup.

I resumed looking around the restaurant now that I had more time and wondered if I might have made a bad decision to come here. It was just after noon and there were only a few other customers. The place certainly wasn’t alive with activity. There were only two customers, a couple across the room and a single black man sitting just a few tables away from mine.

As I waited for my food to be prepared I realized that the black man was staring at me. His attention had already made me a little uncomfortable, and I became more concerned when I watched him arise and walk toward my table. As he approached my table, he stared intently down at me and asked, “Don’t I know you?”

When I looked up, I took a moment to study him. I noticed that he was handsome and muscular, but not overdone. Judging from his looming presence, I assumed he must be over six feet tall. The overall effect was quite pleasing.

“I don’t think so,” I replied.

“I’m almost sure I’ve seen you someplace before.”

“I don’t mean to seem rude, but I’m pretty sure I would remember if I had met you before.” He was making me nervous.

Shaking his head, he turned towards his table, but stopped, turned back to me, and said, “It’ll come to me.”

A moment later my waitress arrived with my meal. The food was good but I wasn’t enjoying it because of my encounter with the stranger who continued to glance at me. I was relieved when he finally rose, paid his bill, and left without looking my way.

With the disturbing stranger gone, I relaxed and enjoyed the rest of my meal. Even so, something about him had set my nerves on edge.

If you don’t already know, I am one of those white women who get aroused at the thought of having sex with black men, but I much prefer a more controlled situation. Meeting them on the street when I am alone or away from home generally makes me very nervous, and this was no exception.

The soup and sandwich had been surprisingly good and now, feeling more relaxed, I paid my bill and left a generous tip for the waitress. Slinging my purse over my left shoulder, I abandoned the cool comfort of the restaurant to return to a day that had turned even warmer.

As I searched my mind to decide where to shop next I remembered that just down the street there was a boutique I hadn’t visited recently. It was just a short distance away, so I set out to find my shoes. With my mind occupied, thinking about what shoes I might like, I walked past an alleyway without paying attention. Suddenly, a hand grabbed my arm, quickly pulling me into the dark, dank opening.

I was so shocked that I never thought to scream as I found myself relentlessly dragged deeper into the alleyway and behind a dumpster. As I tried to process what was happening, I was surprised to realize that the first thing I noticed was the horrible smell. It must have been rotting food from the restaurant.

If you’re thinking it was odd that the odor was the first thing I noticed while being dragged deeper into the alley, you’d be right. Despite the gloom and darkness, I finally got a good look at my attacker and was surprised to see the black man from the restaurant staring back at me intently. Although his actions had been aggressive he did not look as if he intended to do me any harm now.

“What the hell do you think you are doing” I demanded. “Let me go,” I exclaimed jerking my arm free of his grasp. I started to storm past him but froze when I heard him say, “I know who you are, Pat.”

Suddenly things became clear. For those who don’t know my history, now would be a good time to fill you in.

Several months ago my husband and I got involved with a gang of black thugs. I was forced to submit to the sexual desires of the whole gang. Mind you, neither my husband nor I was totally against what happened, but there were things that I was forced to do that I would not have done under other circumstances.

The Boss and his gang of thugs had forced me to perform in several videos and photo sessions. Every time I was shown being used by numerous black men for their sexual gratification. Over several weeks, both my husband and I had been videotaped performing all kinds of kinky sexual acts involving The Boss and most, if not all of his gang members. The Boss had sold these tapes and photos and used the money to fill his pockets.

One night, after being used by several black men, The Boss forced my husband to hold me down as my nipples were pierced. When that was done, a tattoo artist had been instructed to tattoo “Black” just over the nipple of my right breast and “Owned” over the left nipple. Under normal circumstances, a regular bra covered the tattoos but if I wore a pushup bra or a halter top, it was possible to see the words tattooed on my breasts.

As if that hadn’t been humiliating enough, the artist had added the spade playing card symbol with a “Q” inside it, signifying that I was a “Queen of Spades”, on the mound of my shaved pussy just over the top of my crack. The Queen of Spades tattoo made it impossible for me to wear a low-cut bikini.

Although I enjoyed having sex with black men the symbol carried a further obligation. It signified that I was available to be used by any black man who demanded my services. I would not normally have agreed to such an arrangement, but I understood that there would be consequences if I failed to comply and, so far, I had been unwilling to discover what those consequences might be.

When The Boss finally got arrested and his gang dispersed, the arresting officer, Officer Smith found the damning video evidence of my husband and me, then he used it to force us to continue with my degradation. Hell, there was even a calendar out there with twelve months of me being used by mostly black strangers.

Since this stranger knew who I was, it was obvious that he must have seen either a video or photos of my interracial escapades.

This man could have seen the materials available in hard copy or on the internet. From there it would have been pretty easy to have learned my name since little to no effort had been made to hide my identity.

“What are you talking about? What do you want,” I sputtered.

“I’ve seen your videos, and I know what you do. You fuck black men. You’re a Queen of Spades, available to all black men. Do you deny it?”

Still at a loss for words, I just stared at him, desperately trying to find a way out of the situation and the alley but he had me cornered behind this dumpster. As I looked around for some way out he continued talking.

“I hope you realize that I have no intention of hurting you but, if I am correct, I have every intention of using your lovely body for my enjoyment and filling your cunt with my seed, so here’s the deal.

“I’m going to have a look and see if you have the Queen of Spades tat on your pussy. You can fight me or you can make it easy. It’s up to you but, either way, I’m going to get a look at your pussy.

“If I’m wrong, you’ll still have a choice. I can walk away and we will both forget that this ever occurred. I’m not a rapist and I have no plans to take advantage of an innocent woman. Or you could start to scream and cause a commotion but I’ll probably be long gone before anyone arrives and what will you tell them? That a strange black man told you to expose your pussy, which you did, but he did nothing else.

They’ll want you to show them your pussy, and when you do, they’ll see your Queen of Spades tat and laugh at you and forget about the whole thing so you will have embarrassed yourself for nothing.

“What’s it going to be?”

The thought of being used sexually by this unknown man was morally abhorrent to me yet it was so damn erotic at the same time that I felt my nipples harden just thinking about it.

As I stood there I thought about how pathetic I was. I don’t seek out these situations but somehow, they just seem to happen, and when they do, I’m always disturbed by my involuntary reaction. I shouldn’t like being used by any damn black man that comes along but, I couldn’t ignore the thrill I got when it happened.

I could already feel the blood flowing into my pussy lips and my juices beginning to flow as I contemplated feeling a new, strange cock sliding into me.

I looked down at my dress and then up at him. Capitulating, I slowly grasped my skirt and began to raise the hem. Grasping the cloth in each hand, I slowly gathered my skirt at my waist. I felt the cool air brush my thighs as the hem of my skirt passed over my knees and started up my thighs. Once again, I questioned my decision not to wear underwear this morning.

I watched the man watching me and saw his eyes widen as my skirt rose, exposing my thighs. He seemed to be holding his breath in anticipation. I could see a clear and very pronounced bulge in his pants.

Finally, I crushed the hem of my skirt at my waist and stood there, my shaved pussy exposed showing my mark of ownership to the black man. The spade-shaped tattoo outlined in black with a capital “Q” inside proclaimed for all to see that I was a Queen of Spades, a white woman, a slut who fucks black men on demand.

“Beautiful,” was the only word out of his mouth for several moments. It was as if we were both suspended in time. Then he said, “I guess that proves I was right doesn’t it, Pat? Nice of you not to wear any underwear.”

He finally tore his eyes away from my exposed womanhood and smiled. He was in control and knew it. “Drop the skirt,” he said. “I want to get a first-hand look at those fabulous tits of yours.”

Doing as I was told, I released my skirt, allowing it to fall. “I’m glad that dress is strapless,” he said as he reached for my bodice. He tugged my dress down, releasing my full tits.

I shivered as the cool breeze caressed my full breasts and, as I stood there, exposed to this man, I felt my nipples harden. I felt shame having been exposed this way. I didn’t know this man and yet, I had shown him my pussy and now his eyes were focused hungrily on my tits.

On numerous occasions I had wondered what kind of woman I was, or had become, to find it liberating to expose myself to strangers. More importantly, what drove me to prefer black men? The contrast of black hands on my body or watching a black man as he stepped between my legs, and then feeling his hard cock as it slid into my pussy, was the most erotic thing that I could imagine doing. I often wondered what had made me this way.

When he had my tits free, he stared at them noting the pierced nipples but, I knew he was more interested in the tattoos. Over my right nipple the word “Black” was tattooed and “Owned” was tattooed over my left nipple. Any doubt that I would allow him to fuck me, had been erased by what he had just seen.

“Can I go now,” I asked, hopefully.

“Oh no. Not on your life. We’re going to have some fun first. On your knees, Pat,” he barked.

I reached for the bodice of my dress to pull it up but was stopped by his command.

“No! I like looking at your tits. Especially the “Black Owned” part. Leave them out while you do your work on my cock.”

I started to ask what he meant by “work on my cock,” but decided to just get it over with. I knew what he wanted and I also knew that a part of me wanted to suck his dick.

So I did his bidding and knelt there in the dirt and debris of this alley, behind a trash dumpster like some kind of common street whore. It’s strange. Knowing that I was an upper-middle-class married white woman made what I was about to do more titillating than if I had been a whore.

I looked at the bulge of his crotch and tried to imagine what I would find there. Unzipping his pants, I reached inside and grasped his hard shaft. It took some effort to release his stiff rod since it was awkward to remove in its hardened state. Finally successful, I released his black shaft into the light of day and found myself staring down the barrel of a one-eyed monster.

I wrapped my hand around his rigid rod and felt it stiffen even more. I noted the pulsing veins that ran the length of his instrument of love, ending in a bulbous head that was a dark purple. Almost like magic, a small drop of precum formed at the eye of the monster, causing me to flick my tongue out to taste him. Mmm, I thought. Salty and musky. Not bad.

As I parted my lips and moved forward, I felt the head pass my lips and enter my warm moist mouth. I enjoyed the feeling of fullness as I continued to move forward until I had all I could handle in my mouth. With his manhood well seated between my lips, I looked up to see his response. I was pleased to see the closed eyes and the half smile of satisfaction, and then his eyes opened and the smile widened.