This is a story about a white woman who develops a craving for bbc. If that theme is not for you, please do NOT read the story, nor send me abusive emails.
The story was inspired by the beautiful Tori Owens, who not only inspired my imagination by allowing me access to her world (through her blog and our conversations) but who also added so much value and motivation by reviewing and editing every single word.
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In many ways I'm just your average married woman, albeit one with a high sex-drive. Sex with my husband had always been good, at least until his business began to fail. Those were dark days. Bobby turned to drink then, and occasionally became physically abusive. Along with that, sex waned until it was completely non-existent, at least between the two of us. It seemed, however, that my husband could always find one woman or another when the need took him.
I had always been faithful to Bobby during our marriage, even through the latest rocky times. But the lack of sex was getting to me, and as all women know, even a vibrator can only provide so much comfort.
I began to fantasise, and for some reason those fantasies always seemed to centre around black movie stars—Denzel Washington, Will Smith, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Mekhi Phifer. Gradually, the fantasies developed into more of an obsession. It seemed that every time I used my vibe, it was to the thought of one of my black heroes pounding away inside me.
For a while, of course, that's all it was. But as Bobby became more abusive, particularly after a night of heavy drinking, I found myself escaping by replacing the unattainable movie stars I fantasised about, with the black strangers I saw all around me in real life.
My obsession grew to the point where in my mind, I practically undressed every black man I saw. I fantasised about them fucking me anywhere, anyplace, anytime. I guess part of it was that my husband didn't want me anymore; he liked to hit me, so my head told me I deserved to be taken and used like a slut.
It became very complicated, a sort of mixture of the need to be punished mixed with the sexual arousal that was all but consuming me. When a black man looked back at me, that made me feel better. He wanted me; why didn't Bobby?
So I began to frequent places where I would be able to see or interact with the men in my fantasies. The local supermarket was first on my list. Black teenagers used the car park as a meeting point and the brazen way they looked at me when I arrived on a shopping trip was a real turn-on.
After a while I started to tease them by dressing more provocatively—low cut tops, no bra, short skirts...
There was a particular young guy I liked—he was eighteen or nineteen—who actually worked in the supermarket. I always made a point of using his till to check out my purchases. His name was Antony, and the intense way he always looked at me had him regularly featuring in my masturbatory fantasies.
He was the perfect bridge between my imagination and real life, not that anything was ever going to happen. It was just a way of helping me get off when lying alone in my bed, and partly satisfying my growing craving for black cock.
I knew that it would take either an extraordinary set of circumstances or something completely unexpected to turn those sexual cravings into a real life encounter.
It happened on a Monday...
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"Ya should be careful, Missy," Antony said to me one day, when I was checking out at his till.
I loved that deep, youthful voice. We had always chatted a little while I was there, but it was the first time he had taken the initiative to speak to me like this.
"Careful?"
"Some of the boys around here talk about ya," he said, his gaze alternating between my face and the hard nipples poking through my top. "Them boys ain't right for a beautiful woman like you. Ya best be careful, I'm tellin' ya."
His unexpected warning took me completely by surprise. The boys who hung around the car park talked about me? A blush ran up my neck and I patted my hair while I tried to think of how to respond.
"I'm sure they mean no harm," I weakly said.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"They only have one thing on they mind, Missy. White woman dresses the way you do, they get the wrong idea. They always got that thing on they mind."
If it was possible for my nipples to harden further, they did. Instantly. In a fluster, I leant forward to collect the final piece of my shopping from the counter and his eyes met mine again. Then they slowly dipped into my cleavage. I found it impossible to stand upright again until his gaze returned to my face.
It was at that moment my life changed.
I don't know if Antony recognised the look of desperation in my eyes, or if he thought I was sending him a message by leaning forward so provocatively. I wasn't. Not deliberately. Was I? Whatever the answer, a knowing look covered his face.
"I have my coffee break in ten minutes," he simply said.
His eyes darted around him to make sure he wasn't in danger of being overheard.
"There's a blue door at the back of the store," he said, lowering his tone. "You can park your car there..."
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My whole body was shaking as sat in my car debating whether to drive home, or around the corner to that blue door.
The slutty side of me was telling me that I'd never forgive myself if I didn't follow this through. Nothing was going to immediately happen, of course, but why not have a cup of coffee with the boy and see where it led?
The other side—the sensible side—screamed that I should get out of there as quickly as I could, sprawl out on my bed, and use both of my favourite vibes until I was able to quench the need inside me.
Yes, that was the thing to do...
So it came as a considerable surprise to me when I found myself slowly circling the car towards to the back of the store. I just wanted to see the blue door, of course. Just out of curiosity. I sat there, staring at it, willing myself to start the car again and drive home, when it opened.
Antony's head peeked around the corner. The smile that creased his face when he saw me waiting for him found its way between my thighs.
Okay, I told myself, taking a deep breath. One coffee. It couldn't do any harm. Talking to him again at close quarters would make it all the sweeter when I returned home and fucked myself while imaging him pounding my brains out.
I left the car and hurried inside before anyone could notice what I was doing. I'm not sure what I expected, maybe a corridor through to the coffee area, but instead I found myself inside a very small storage room. As soon as he closed the door behind us, I felt his hand on my arm.
I turned to speak to him, but he was suddenly all over me like a whirlwind. His mouth found mine, one hand cupped my right boob and the other slid underneath the hem of my skirt.
I gasped out loud and tried to push him away, but he was too strong. His thick lips were all over my neck and he was pinching my nipple between his fingers.
"Wait, wait," I told him, trying to catch my breath. "I'm married, Antony."
