I didn't start out being fixated on, or even especially attracted to, black men. Events, and my experiences with both black and white men, combined to steer me into my personal black history. I think knowing a little of my background will help you understand my story.
As my story begins I'm a 33 year old product of a small southern town. It's an old neighborhood of small houses. I'm pale, about 5'9", with long legs and large breasts, I'm well read, intelligent, and a very good Mom. My ancestors not so long ago owned slaves but I never learned prejudice. I had minimal opportunity to interact with black people so I didn't know much about them. The exceptions being casual conversations with families I would see at the park, shopping, etc.
I admit that I am a submissive woman. My family upbringing was in a loving environment where the males were overtly dominant and the females served them gladly. As I went through puberty I enjoyed reading novels in which strong men dominated women sexually and I found myself excited by imagining myself in the roles of the women in those novels.
I married young to the first guy I had any kind of real sexual relationship with and it turned out badly. The best thing that came from it were two wonderful children. Otherwise my husband turned out to be mean, small-minded, insecure, constantly belittling me, and totally out of touch with what I had to offer. If he had treated me well I would have served him as well as a wife can, despite his inclination to spend his earnings on what he felt would make him look much more successful than he was, and his smaller than average dick.
Eventually I had enough and divorced him. While my life instantly became less stressful on a personal level it did put me and the kids in a real financial bind. My ex then fell sick and died, which cut what little help he had given us. We would not have survived had it not been for some support from my parents who live in a town about 30 miles away. The kids were not in school yet so my parents would usually take them for 4 or 5 days a week so I could work from home enough to make at least a little money.
I had no social life other than visits with my parents and the occasional chat with neighbors. I am an only child so no brothers or sisters either. Here is the beginning of my black history.
Tuesday morning is like any other morning since he left. I wake up and start thinking about those damn bills that Roger left us with. With no car and no job, I turn to my only resource - the computer. Ebay is probably a joke to many people, but hey, it's paying a few of the bills and I hope the business will grow.
I barefoot it over to the front door and unlock it. You can't be too safe, not even in this hick town. I need to bring in some ebay packages that are ready to ship just as soon as the addresses are put on them. Most mornings, I go outside in my long tee, no panties. I don't know if I'm daring, kinky, or just unaware, but today I have on my short black dress. It's cotton and comfortable, and besides, I like the way it shows off my legs.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a car slowing down. I usually check out strange cars in the neighborhood, but right now I really need to finish my work. I carry the few boxes back to the kitchen table and set about my task at hand when I hear an unfamiliar voice.
"Mrs. Dimon, that you?"
I quickly walk back into the living room and I'm a bit surprised to see a large dark face peering in.
"Yes, may I help you?" He doesn't answer at first but then he flashes his ID at me.
"Fred Lewis, Columbia Gas," he says. I feel my body tense up at these words. I can tell this is not one of the guys that read the meters every month. This is a man of authority - and I get the feeling my ass is in trouble.
"I'm here to talk to you about you being in arrears on your gas bills. I'm going to have your service turned off if we can't come to a satisfactory agreement. Now, may I come in?
"Yes, of course," I stammer. What else can I say? I want to shut the door on this huge presence, then run and hide somewhere. But that won't make bad things go away. "Please have a seat," I say gesturing toward the sofa. "Can I get you some iced tea?" Why did I ask that? He's here to make my life miserable, and I'm offering iced tea. Well, I do have a fresh pitcher on the counter and I was raised to be hospitable.
"Iced tea would do fine, Mrs. Dimon. As long as you're getting the tea it might be better if we sat at the kitchen table. Do you agree?"
"Oh, uh, that would be fine, Mr.?"
"Lewis."
"Oh, yes. I'm sorry."
I move around the kitchen like I'm out of my territory. It takes me a moment to find Mr. Lewis a glass. I don't know if the threat of disconnection is having an affect on me or if it's this intimidating man. I mean, yeah, he's been polite but there's something about him that makes my skin tingle.
I hand him the glass and become aware of his eyes moving up and down my body. A thought flickers through my mind. No, not a thought, really, but a brief image of this black bear of a man handling me... roughly.
"Would you care to explain why you have neglected to make your payments?" He asks sternly. "You do recall signing a contract that stipulated your agreement to pay on time or risk having your service terminated, don't you? We've been lenient up to now, but this is not a one-time problem. You have a history of late payment and shut offs. I'm strongly inclined to recommend a permanent shut off at this point." My hand shakes as I place the tea on the table in front of him. "Thank you, Mrs. Dimon," he smiles briefly.
"Mr. Lewis, you can't imagine how bad I feel about being behind on my bills. It's not just gas, it's everything." I can feel the tears starting. I always cry when I'm upset and there's no way to stop them.
"Now, now, Ms. Dimon, why don't you sit down and explain your difficulties to me. Bring some iced tea for yourself." It helps for him to be kinder, though I can still hear the authority in his voice, but for some odd reason that in control tone seems to make me feel... safer.
It doesn't take long for me to tell him my story. I tell him how rotten Roger has been. The worse part is I don't have to stretch the truth. I tell this man about the money problems that have plagued us and how he ran off with another woman. But I don't tell him everything. I don't tell him how awful it was to be touched by my ex. If he only knew how many nights I had to suffer at that man's hands. And now I share a bed with dreams of a big, confident man - one who knows how to use a woman's body to drain every drop of pleasure from her until she's deliriously limp in his strong arms. I feel breathless just thinking about it.
