I awakened with a dull headache and a cottony mouth, proof certain of excessive imbibing of the fermented grape and the evil weed last night. I blinked and squinted into the bright morning light streaming in through the sliding glass door that leads out to the bedroom patio. The blue, acrylic hot tub sunken into the deck was uncovered and wisps of heat vapors danced above it. I didn’t remember getting into it but obviously someone had removed the cover at some point during the evening, probably one of the two men who had been here partying with my wife. The three of them had still been going at it when I finally tired of watching and fell asleep sometime in the early morning hours.
At the moment, and in my condition, that tub looked very inviting. Turning my gaze back into the room, I smiled with remembrance of their activities as I took in the sight of my naked wife curled up beside me, a soft, pale, voluptuous sexpot even with her makeup completely sexed away and her blond hair in tangles. One sheer black nylon lay twisted in the sheets between us, making me wonder idly, which of her lovers had finally pulled her hose off those shapely legs. She’d still been wearing heels and hose when I dozed off, her legs wrapped around the black guy’s back, fucking him for the third or fourth time.
My god! A black guy! My lovely, middle-aged, Louisiana belle had actually fucked a black guy. Watching her sleep, I smiled to myself with the smug satisfaction that Charles and I had been able to persuade her to do it. Her white lover, Charles, a CPA she had been screwing on a regular basis for a couple of years, had brought this black guy, Tommy, with him last night. And after some initial reluctance, Blondie had let her libido override her southern upbringing and had fucked the young man. With restrained enthusiasm at first, I recalled, but once he got that huge black dick in her, my wife had fucked him willingly, definitely enjoying her new experience.
Hallelujah! My little white sexpot had finally gotten some black cock! And it had certainly proved to be everything we’d heard it was. The young man was hung like the proverbial horse and he knew how to use his heavy equipment. Blondie had fucked him bareback, too, no rubbers; his first load had been huge and she’d even teased with me about the possibility of a potent young black stud getting her pregnant. Now, reflecting on that in a more sober, morning-after mood, it didn’t seem quite so humorous. But, it had been her choice. She’d told me, while cleaning herself up from their first coupling, that it had been deliciously exciting to let a black man cum in her. For a white woman from an old southern family, fucking a black man was the quintessence of decadence and depravity. And she’d let him do it at least two more times that I knew of, perhaps more after I fell asleep.
Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was almost ten o’clock and got up to make coffee. Standing there somewhat unsteadily in the kitchen, I looked first at the coffee maker, then at the array of liquor bottles still sitting out on the bar and said, “What the hell, it’s Saturday,” and proceeded to make a hot, spicy bloody mary in a very large frosted mug, just a little hair of the dog. I noticed a joint, three-quarters unsmoked, sitting in a full ashtray on the kitchen counter. With another, “What the hell,” I fired it up and headed for the hot tub with my drink. As I slid the patio door open I heard,
“Mmmm, Sugar, I could use one of those.”
Blondie was stretching and yawning when I turned and asked,
“You mean the drink or the doobie?”
After a moment’s consideration, she smiled and replied, “Both, Darlin’, both.”
I walked around the bed and handed her the joint. I put the bloody mary down on her bedside table and headed back into the kitchen to build another drink. Rejoining her on the bed, I leered at my little bottle-blond sexpot and inquired somewhat smugly,
“So, did you have a good time last night, Sweetheart?”
I was totally unprepared for her response, a quickly snapped,
“I don’t want to talk about it, OK?”
Now this was totally contrary to our normal, morning-after-a-sex-party routine. Usually, we’d do just what we’d started here this morning, smoke a joint, drink bloody marys, and fuck while Blondie told me all about how much fun she'd had the night before and what particular things she and her lovers had done that she’d really enjoyed. I asked cautiously,
“Something wrong, Babe? You don’t feel so good, maybe? Hung over, hmmm?”
She didn’t look at me as she shook her head and responded,
“I’m sore as hell, but that’s not it. I just don’t feel like talking about it, OK? Can we just get in the hot tub and relax, hunh?”
And that’s what we did; with no further talk of the milestone events of the night before. Sadly, I concluded that my fantasies of endless new sexual adventures with Blondie and black guys had been premature. Apparently, my hot little sexpot wife, who’d eagerly fuck another man while I watched, even a total stranger, was not enough of a slut to overcome her southern heritage and the deeply ingrained prejudices that went with it. Diplomatically, I dropped the subject entirely and did not mention it again. Charles called later in the afternoon wanting to know when Blondie wanted an encore performance and was extremely disappointed when informed of the situation.
Imagine my complete surprise a few weeks later, when, while we were having sex one night, Blondie asked in a tone of sweet innocence,
“I don’t suppose you’ve made contact with any other black guys have you?”
She was on top, her lovely conical breasts swaying above me as she rode me steadily. I looked up into her pretty face, with my stunned surprise obviously showing. Blondie, acknowledging my amazed reaction, gave me a wicked smile and confessed,
“I know, I know; I acted like a silly little bitch about it afterwards, but, god, Sugar, every time I think about that night my pussy gets wet and I get so fucking horny.”
As evidence of the truth of her admission, she ground her cunt into my pelvis with increasing pressure and moaned. I said nothing, letting her carry it. Suddenly, she sat up straight, cupped her breasts and smiled down at me lewdly as she thumbed her nipples. With her hips working insistently, she whispered,
“Oooh, yeah, Sugar, your sweet little ol’ southern gal wants you to find her some more big black dick, OK? I’m sure you don’t have a problem with that, do you now, Love?”
I was still stunned, but growing inwardly delirious as she smiled naughtily and purred,
“It’s got to be someone besides Tommy, OK? I don’t want to fuck him again cause he’s not all that attractive, but I do want to fuck another black guy. And with no Charles around this time either, just me, my husband and a black guy, OK? How ‘bout it, Sugar, think you can find another black stud for your hot little wife?”
She directed a smoldering gaze into my eyes and murmured, “Hmmm?”
Finally regaining my voice, I croaked up to her that I‘d made no effort to find any other black guys because I thought she didn't want to do that again. She responded in a sultry voice,
