Honestly, I'd never given too much thought to being with a black woman, never mind two of them at once. Funny how things work out. It certainly was an unforgettable educational experience that broadened my cultural horizons, so to speak.
I was twenty-four years old and having the time of my sexual life. I worked in the Merchandise Information Systems department at a major department store's home office. The job itself might sound rather mundane, but think about it. At the risk of stereotyping, who works in retail? Gay men and beautiful young ladies, mostly.
Ergo, if you're a reasonably attractive heterosexual male in close proximity on a daily basis to hot, fashionable chicks, you're going to get laid. A lot. And I was. Boy, was I ever.
Hence, when Joanne Milligan started to flirt with me incessantly and rather aggressively, I pretty much shrugged it off as something not worth pursuing. To be perfectly candid, in my youthful naivete, the idea of fucking an older black woman scared the shit out of me, despite the reality that Joanne was built like the proverbial Brick House. Given a dose of truth serum, I'd have to confess that if she was white, I would have taken her up on her suggestive offers in a heartbeat.
Joanne was in her mid-thirties, I'd estimate, and worked behind the scenes as a call center supervisor, so she could wear skin-tight jeans and low-cut blouses to work virtually every day. The brothers who worked in the warehouse next to her office practically lined up when she paraded past them on her lunch breaks, Joanne's body was that sensational, there was no debate about that. She stood about 5-feet-4, with huge missile-shaped tits that jutted out and bounced wildly during her sexy struts, and a round, bubble-shaped butt that was essentially perfectly shaped. That is, of course, if you preferred round, bubble-shaped butts. And, oh yes, lest I forget, her camel toe that protruded routinely through her jeans indicated that she wasn't a big fan of panties, apparently.
I was more of a thin-tight-butt kinda man myself, and that is why if I WAS indeed going to have any interest in a black girl, it was going to be Muriel Haynes, who worked in Joanne's department. Muriel was lighter skinned, mocha-colored compared to Joanne's deep cocoa, and she was tall, thin, and quiet to the point of being shy. She was a knockout, though, a Halle Berry-type when Halle had lighter, longer hair. I learned in casual small talk that Muriel was a year out of college where she had been a champion high-hurdler in track and field. I confess that on more than one occasion I had imagined Muriel hurdling herself over and over on my cock.
One day, as I was lingering much longer in their department than I needed to while installing some new software into their department's main frame, Joanne approached me from behind and caught me in the act of ogling Muriel's long, shapely legs as she sat at her desk in a flowery summer sundress, revealing a nice view of her shapely calves and muscular thighs. Busted.
Joanne sidled up to me and whispered into my ear. "So you DO like us black girls after all, eh, John? There is hope for us yet." She turned on her heels, smiling wickedly over her shoulder at me, and I couldn't help but notice that her butt looked especially squeezable today. I guess my hormones were over-active that particular day, but my cock began to rise involuntarily, and Joanne peered down directly at my crotch, bulging through my khakis, and licked her lips discreetly. She had all but asked me to fuck her several times before, and for the first time, maybe spurred on by Muriel's beauty as well, I had begun to sincerely consider the possibility.
I blushed like a stop light, and after hastily gathering my stuff, I walked into Joanne's office to take her temperature, and pushed the door so that only a crack remained open, obscuring the view of any passersby without being blatant about it.
"Allright, Joanne, suppose I DID ask you out, where would we go?"
She rose from her desk, walked past me close enough so that our hips touched as she passed, and closed the door entirely. She stood with her back against the door and raised a finger to her mouth, placing it between her full, brown lips.
"Here," she said, sucking languidly on her manicured fingertip.
Her finger lowered to her deep cleavage, and she ran it slowly in circles along first one nipple, and then the other, the nubs rising visibly beneath her blouse. "Here."
The same finger cascaded down to her jeans, and she ran it along the obvious slit on her crotch, tracing the outline of her prominent labia as I fought to stifle the drool forming in the roof of my mouth. "Here."
Her next gesture irrevocably changed my mindset on fucking a black woman. My cock felt as if were about to burst through my zipper as she turned around, placed one hand on the door to brace herself, bent over at the knees, and placed the same exploring finger directly between her jean-clad asscheeks. "And, if you like, here." She pushed the digit lewdly into her denim-covered asshole.
She turned once more, and opened her full lips, and I inhaled her musky perfume and feminine scent, all mixing as one, and she gently bit my lower lip as her hand reached down to judge my reaction to the performance. Neither of us was disappointed.
"Mmmm, you ARE a big boy, aren't you? I knew it, I just knew it. Maybe we can overcome this hesitancy of yours, John. Maybe you're re-thinking the errors of your ways?" I nodded nervously, sweat forming on my brow now as she continued to stroke my cock, running her lighter-hued palms across the length of my shaft. Joanne seemed to revel in my discomfort, like a predatory panther toying with her skittish prey.
"We're having a little inter-departmental Happy Hour after work on Friday at the Heartthrob Cafe, handsome." She mercifully released her grip on my cock, perhaps sensing that I was about ready to burst. "Muriel will be there, since you seem to like that sweet young stuff." I shifted on the balls of my feet, trying to regain some semblance of composure.
Joanne then lifted her breasts up with both of her hands, cupping them so that they raised almost to her chin. They were, as Teri Hatcher's character infamously uttered on Seinfeld, "Spectacular." Joanne's pinkish tongue darted out of her mouth and she mimicked licking her globes, and out of the corner of her mouth, she cooed, "And these puppies will be there, too. Perhaps we could find a nice home for that impressive white-boy pole of yours."
Gee, guess where I ended up going for Happy Hour on Friday?
I showed up more than fashionably late, strategically so, and by the time I arrived, the crowd had thinned considerably, and most of those that remained were well on the path to drunkenness. This included Muriel, who greeted me with a big, enthusiastic hug as she downed a shot of some fruity-colored liquor from a shot glass. Joanne, who appeared to be stone sober, quickly approached from the rear, and urged Muriel, "I told you he'd come, sweetie. Go on, girl, tell him what you told me earlier."
