Boyfriend Lost

Author’s note: This short story (meaning there will be no follow up chapters) is for all those who—from some of the feedback I get, apparently feel disenfranchised by cheating white wife stories.

This story could just as easily be titled “Better Friends Acquired”, or even “Tom, Dick, Harry, and Jack”, but both titles would be getting way ahead of things. So, to keep from losing you entirely, I think it would be better if I started from a point closer to the beginning.

My boyfriend had lost me; he just wasn’t aware of it yet. In fact, until I ran into my own version of the “Fantastic Four”, I wouldn’t have dreamed it possible that he could have ever lost me. But, this is the crux of the story, so I best get at it.

It all started one evening when Aaron, my boyfriend at the time, stood me up. It wasn’t intentional—he had to catch a flight to clear up some problem a manager down in Brazil couldn’t deal with, but it still ticked me off… more than it probably should have. You see, this was the fourth time in three weeks that Aaron had been called out of town to “handle” something that, apparently, no one else could.

Of course, being his company’s lead troubleshooter, this sort of thing comes with the territory. But, when a woman is all dressed up and ready to get out and party some on a Saturday night, being told at the last minute (via cell phone, while her boyfriend is already in the air and it’s too late to even complain) that she’s going to have to stay home (by herself) is generally not taken real well. Especially if the woman in question is a healthy 29 year old blonde, very nicely put together, who is considered more than fairly attractive by many men, with all the normal wants and needs of a woman this age. Most especially when those wants and needs center on getting herself (to put it bluntly) fucked and fucked, then fucked some more, until she has a little trouble walking the next morning.

And, this was my exact mood when I had wished Aaron a safe trip (with an absolutely pitiful pout clearly evident in my voice, of course) and hung up. Then, I had cursed him. “Damnit!” I had stormed around the living room, kicking the expensive furnishings, tossing velvet throw pillows everywhere. “God—fucking–damn him!” I even threw his golf clubs out on the balcony. Even though I seriously considered doing it, I hadn’t pitched them over the rail into the pool twenty stories below. I’ve got more sense than that. Guys will tolerate a temper tantrum, but putting a serious fuck on a full set of Taylor Made’s and a custom leather bag, can get a girl in some real deep shit.

My temper finally vented, I had slumped onto the disheveled couch. But, my anger was still there. “Well, he can just kiss my peaches and cream ass if he thinks I’m staying home while he’s having a high ol’ expense account time down in Rio!” So, I dug in my purse for the name of the club across down that a girlfriend had given me. She had said it was a hot place, good tunes, drinks that weren’t watered down and packed with good looking guys who were willing to pay for those expensive drinks in exchange for a dance… and maybe a little come-on that would let them think they might get lucky tonight.

Now, Aaron knocking down a real healthy nine figure yearly salary trouble shooting, I wasn’t about to jeopardize my relationship with him (I’m no fool) but I figured that a little harmless dancing—along with maybe some misleading flirting—couldn’t hurt. Could it?

I sure as hell didn’t think so, and forty-five minutes later I was pulling into the parking lot of the club. For being on “the wrong side of the tracks” it seemed like a very upscale club; intimately lit, a very good three piece combo up on the stage playing mellow jazz, and a large mixed crowd, but not a boisterously loud one… just the sort of place Aaron would have enjoyed bringing me to. “Too bad he’s not along,” I said under my breath as I wove my way between the dancers to a small table against the back wall.

I ordered a double vodka gimlet, and three drinks arrived at my table—none of which I had to pay for; three different guys had picked up my tab. Now this was my kind of place… real friendly. I looked around and picked out my three benefactors; a stereotypical lounge lizard, complete with a mint-green leisure suit—not worth my time, even though I perfunctorily toasted him with my drink; a preppy sort of guy—mildly interesting, even with his modishly long hair—I toasted him as well; and a darkly handsome guy sitting in a nearby corner booth with three similarly complexted friends.

Now, I said “darkly handsome” to keep from stating the cliché term Black. I am not a prejudiced person—far from it, but I had never been intimate with a black guy before. This didn’t stem from any aversion to black men, or from some archaic belief against mixing of the races, I simply had never been attracted to any black guy I had previously met. But, this guy could certainly change all of that… if I allowed it to happen, of course.

I toasted my darkly handsome benefactor and received four smiling salutes in return. Yep, this was a real friendly place all right and I toasted all of them right back.

I had apparently come in near the end of the set because a few minutes later the combo took a “pause for the cause”. Next thing I knew, four more double vodka gimlets were arriving at my table—all from the same table—along with a note asking if I would care to join their table. I looked around, saw that there were other interracially mixed tables and decided “Why not?” The four Black guys (Now that I’ve used it once already, I might as well continue using the term) all looked pretty up scale—casually dressed in slacks and polo shirts, no obvious thugs in the lot. It certainly beat the hell out of sitting and drinking all by myself.

I picked up a second drink and, with a drink in each hand, I walked over to their table. “I’m afraid I had to leave a few behind,” I said. “I only have two hands.”

“And very pretty hands they are,” the guy in the middle—the one who had sent the original drink my way—said. He snapped his fingers and three of the other three guys leapt to their feet and went to fetch my left behind gimlets. “Please, sit down, Miss...”

“Marjorie,” I replied and sat down. “Margie, for short.” The guys returned with my drinks and two of them slid into my side of the booth; forcing me to slide around until I was, for all intents and purposes, smack in the middle of a group of black men. This made me a little nervous, to say the least. To cover this, I asked, “So, what’s the party for?”

“Well, Margie For Short,” the guy to my left said with a friendly smile, “it’s my birthday. By the way, I’m Tom. The guy on the other side of you is Dick. Next to him is Harry and then there’s Jack the Loser.”

Loser? Tall and lanky, 24 maybe 25, clean cut, wearing a pale yellow polo shirt, the guy across from Harry certainly didn’t look like a loser. He was really quite good looking.

“I shot six strokes behind everyone else today,” Jack supplied before I could ask. “Ergo, I’m the loser.”

I smiled. “I see, so it was a round of golf and drinks for your birthday. “ I lifted my glass. “Happy birthday, Tom.”

“Much happier since you decided to join the party, Margie.” He clinked glasses with me. “Actually, the golf is a weekly thing; my birthday just happened to fall on it.”

I took a sip of my drink and asked, “So, did you win?”

“Harry took the pot; three C notes.” Tom shook his head sadly. “You’d think a guy would be allowed to win on his 30th birthday.”

Three hundred dollars? These guys played some serious golf. “What sort of handicaps do you carry?”

“I carry a nine, myself,” Tom answered, then went around the table; Jack with a ten, Dick with an eight, and Harry with a twelve. “Do you play, Margie?”

I smiled. “I carry an eleven handicap.”

Dick grinned. “Then, we must get together and play one of these days.”

“Hear, hear!” The four of them lifted their glasses in salute. I clinked mine against theirs. I’d downed three gimlets by this point and they were beginning to affect me somewhat, because I distinctly heard my inner voice say, “Here… or there.”

The combo came back and started off with a slow number. Tom looked at me. “Would you grant an old man a birthday wish, Marjorie?’

I eyed him suspiciously. “That would depend on the wish.”

“Nothing serious, or even dangerous. Just a dance, is all.”

That would be fairly harmless, I figured and glowered at the other three. “Since you guys weren’t thoughtful enough to let Tom win on his birthday, the least I can do is dance with the birthday boy.”

Dick and Harry slid out of the both; allowing Tom and I to slide out. Tom took my hand, led me onto the dance floor and took me in his arms. He held me close, not so tightly that I was pressed against him, but close enough for me to feel his body against mine. He proved to be a very good dancer, smooth and effortless as he guided me around the floor.

We talked as we danced. I learned that all four of them were lawyers—Tom, a criminal defense lawyer and Harry in the corporate law department with the same firm; Dick in private practice, specializing in divorce cases and Jack an up and coming wiz in contract law with another firm. Being a paralegal myself, this meant that I had two things in common with my new drinking companions—golf and the legal profession, which is one more thing than I had in common with Aaron. Of course, Aaron is white—like yours truly, so that gave him a socially acceptable plus, versus the man whose arms I was presently in and the other three back at the table. Or, so I thought at the time.

The song ended and another began, so Tom and I continued to dance and talk. I found out that Jack was indeed 25—fresh out of college and the junior among them; that Dick was 31 and that Harry was the “old man” at 32. The second song ended and as Tom politely guided me back to the table, I pointed out that 30 wasn’t old. Maybe for some women 30 could be traumatic, but guys weren’t supposed to slam up against that over-the-hill benchmark until they hit forty.

“Then,” Tom laughed, “I’ve got another ten years before I have to start worrying.”

“You look like you’re in pretty good shape, Tom.” I slid in alongside him, this time close enough that our hips were touching. “I’d say you have more than ten good years ahead of you.” Three more drinks had been added to my growing stash. “If you guys are figuring on getting me drunk, forget it. When I feel that warning buzz inside my head, I quit. I don’t like not being aware of what’s going on around me.” I picked up one of the fresh drinks and took a sip. “But thanks for the thoughtfulness.”

The conversation flowed easily after that—mostly about golf and different golf course we all had played. You’ve got five avid, low-handicap golfers at the table, what else are they going to talk about? I learned that Harry was the only one of them to have been married, but was now divorced. They, in turned, found out that I was a paralegal and that I was “sortta” engaged. ”Sort of engaged?” Tom inquired. ”Or is it the real thing, Margie?”

“I really don’t know.” Six double gimlets were now warming my tummy. It’s the only excuse I can offer. “I mean, Aaron is a really nice guy and all; he’s good looking, well-built… He makes a ton of money being a trouble shooter, and… Well, all in all, he’s a pretty okay guy.”

The conversation had not gotten lewd, but, as is normally the case where booze is part of the mix, it had become progressively more ribald. That all changed when Tom bluntly asked, “How is Aaron in the sack?”

“Best I’ve ever known,” I answered just as bluntly. “So far.”

“Sounds like an unsure fiancée to me.”

“Sounds like it to me, too,” Dick added. Both Jack and Harry chimed in with, “Ditto.”

It hit me that I should have stopped one drink earlier, but I ignored the warning buzzer. One at a time I looked each one of them in the eyes. “Anyone here think they can change my mind?” I quickly realized—way, way too late—that I really, really should have stopped at five double gimlets. But, it was too late now; I had thrown down the gauntlet.

Tom took my hand and placed it in his lap. “That answer enough?”

Aaron was six inches plus when hard and what my fingers were now instinctively wrapping around felt at least that big… and it wasn’t fully hard yet. “Very nice,” I said, kneading the hardening cock in Tom’s slacks. Without conscious thought, I dropped my other hand into Dick’s lap. A little bigger—maybe 7 inches, but then Dick’s cock was already rock hard. I challenged Harry and Jack with my eyes. “You’ve all seen one another in the shower; are you two as well endowed as this pair?”

“Pretty much,” Harry answered with a smile.

Jack grinned. “I might be junior in age, but I’m senior where it counts the most.”

I had my inquisitive fingers curled around what felt like two seven inch cocks, Harry had said that he had about the same, and Jack was inferring that he possessed even more. This I had to see for myself. “So, everything I’ve heard about Black men is true.” It was a little tricky (I’m predominately left handed) but I managed to get both Tom’s and Dick’s zippers down. I dug out both cocks and kneaded the naked flesh tubes under the table. They were both so hard, and so hot in my hands. “Is this what the four of you are telling me?”

“When you get hold of the right black men, yes,” Tom informed me.

“You mean like I’ve got hold of the both of you right now?” I responded.

Jack caught on real quick. “Not a fair comparison, Margie. You’ve only sampled two so far.”

“Well, you and Harry are too far away to reach,” I said as I continued to double fist the two hard cocks. “And I’m not about to crawl under the table to find out if you’re telling me the truth.”

“That would be considered tacky,” Harry said. “Kinky as all hell, but still on the tacky side.”

”We could always go some place… less public.” {Had I really said that?} “I’m sure Tom and Dick are both game. They ah… they both feel game to me, anyway.”

“Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for, Marjorie?” Harry asked. Harry was, apparently, the more conscientious of the bunch.

Aaron had once suggested a three-way to which I had, in no uncertain terms, rejected the disgusting idea. I was not into group sex and more than two participants, to me, constituted a group. Now, here I was with four men—two of whom I already knew (conclusively) to be hard and ready rock and two more that I strongly suspected were just as hard—and if I left with the four of them, it wouldn’t be group sex, it would more closely resemble a gangbang, with me being the center piece. I shouldn’t have, common sense told me that I could be biting off a hell of a lot more than I could possibly chew… But the two hard, hot cocks I presently held in my fists felt “sooooooo” good… And I was at least ten times hornier now than when I had left home… And I knew (beyond a shadow of a doubt) that my four companions were just as horny, if not hornier than I was, which gave us all one more thing in common… I wanted to get laid (desperately) they obviously wanted to lay a good-looking chick—specifically, me. That made at least four things the five of us had in common. The erotic combination was too powerful for me to resist.

Dick’ cock twitched invitingly and Tom’s definitely grew even harder in my fist. I was totally lost, knew it, and didn’t give a shit any longer. I smiled at Tom, then at Dick and Jack, and then smiled brazenly at Harry. “Unless there’s been some serious misrepresentation going on here, I’m letting myself in on the pleasure of experiencing four hard cocks… two already in hand and two more yet to sample, compared to one that’s presently out of town.” This time I knew exactly what I was saying and I meant every word of it… especially the two words “four” and “hard”.

I fisted the two hard, throbbing cocks a little more vigorously; the jerky movements of my arms proof positive to the other two guys just what I was doing under the table to their friends. I grinned at Jack, “And, I do believe that a verbal contract is legal in this state, right?”

Jack ginned right back. “Legal and binding, Margie.”

“That settles it.” Tom forced my hand off his cock, somehow managed to get that big hard thing back inside his slacks and zipped himself up. “My place; since I’m the birthday boy.”

I reluctantly let go of Dick’s cock and we all waited impatiently for him to get himself “more presentable” for public viewing and slid out of the booth. I got some very ugly looks from both the lounge lizard and the preppy guy when I walked out with my four Black chaperones, but I really didn’t give a fuck. At least two of my Black golf buddies had what I needed most and there was no guarantee either of them would even come close. What my other two Black Buddies had for me only remained to seen. And also, I fully expected, to be thoroughly (and repeatedly) enjoyed.

Tom and the guys all piled into a black Escalade and I followed along behind… sortta like being pulled along by a magnet. Four hard, Black magnets, to be totally precise. They were all hoping (more likely praying) that I wouldn’t chicken out half way there. I know because I saw the relief in their eyes when I pulled my little MG in behind Tom’s SUV and got out. “Well, what are we waiting for, guys? This is your course, all I did was agree to play it.”

It became sort of a mad, laughing race from the carport up to Tom’s apartment. He lived on the ninth floor of a high rise on the upper west side of town; a large apartment, tastefully decorated in white, polished brass and smoked glass. “Okay,” I said once the front door was closed and locked behind us, “who goes first?”

“Well,” Tom offered with a step in my direction, “since I’m the birthday boy, I guess I should unwrap my pres…”

“I’ll unwrap myself, thank you.” These guys were likely to be in a hurry (I know I was) and a Dior cocktail gown can only stand up to so much heated impetuousness. I quickly divested myself of the gown and stood before my “new” Black friends in just a pair of skimpy black lace panties, matching garterbelt and nylons, no bra, and three inch black suede pumps. “Okay, your turns.”

In real short order, I was the only one with a stitch left on. I was also admiring four “very impressive” and very hard black cocks. Actually seeing what I had been fisting in the nightclub, I wished I had ducked my head under the table for “more personal” inspections of both Tom and Dick. If I had, there would have been a lot less delay in getting the hell out of there; their hard black cocks were positively pussy-wetting.

From the wrinkled roll of skin behind the big black head of Harry’s cock, it was easy to surmise that he was uncircumcised. This alone was enough to make him special; I had never had an uncircumcised cock before. At least seven inches of uncircumcised black cock jutting straight out at me from the thick thatch of his crinkly black pubic hair I took to indicate that Harry wanted to use his uncut weapon on me at least as badly as I wanted him to give it to me… all seven hard inches of it, and hopefully more than once.

While Jack might be the junior in age, he was indisputably the senior cock of the bunch—a good, hard nine black inches. His entire groin was shaved baby-butt smooth and the dilated peehole in his golf ball-sized cockhead glistened with precum, which made my mouth water more than it ever had before. Since my very first blowjob (a cheerleading initiation rite anxiously bestowed on the opposing quarterback underneath the bleachers in high school during a night football game) I‘ve thirsted for the taste of cum in my mouth, the salty/sweet flavor of man-juice, craved the sliminess of it on my tongue. Ben and Jerry could make a fucking fortune off me if they had a cum-flavored ice cream.