lily-white
INTERRACIAL EROTIC STORIES

Lily White

Lily White

by daedalusdoright
19 min read
4.38 (11200 views)
adultfiction

1. Call me Lily.

I was born in a lily-white suburb of Cincinnati. My family moved around the country several times for my father's job before I graduated high school -- Helena, Richmond, Denver, Phoenix, Philadelphia -- but each time we settled into the same kind of suburban neighborhood, and I made the same kind of friends. We would make fun of the weird family down the street with the car up on cinderblocks on their front lawn. If there was a Black neighborhood anywhere nearby, we knew to stay away from there. If by some fluke a Black person came within our orbit, we knew, without needing to be told, that we shouldn't get too close to them; they were a source of danger or contamination, in some undefined way.

Where did we get these ideas? If you'd asked my father, he would have denied having a racist bone in his body. "I judge people by their merit: it doesn't matter if they're White, Black or purple with green polka dots, heh-heh." But out of the other side of his mouth, he would rant about "decent, law-abiding people" needing to protect themselves from the "criminal element, from bad neighborhoods." It was implicitly understood what skin color went with those contrasting categories. My mother never said much; my father did more than enough talking for the whole family. I don't remember other folks around me -- friends, their parents, our teachers -- using the n-word or saying explicitly racist things. That would have been in bad taste in our middle-class circles. I just didn't think about people of color much at all. I didn't have to. I moved frictionlessly as a White girl in a White suburban world. The teachers grudgingly observed Black history month, but it was understood that the other eleven months of the year were for learning more important things, normal things. White things. Unconscious racism was the very air I breathed.

I'd hoped to get into UPenn, but my grades weren't quite high enough. Daddy tried to steer me toward Penn State Brandywine. But I had been accepted at Temple, and I knew it was a better school; I put my foot down, for nearly the first time in my life. It was a shock, living and going to classes in North Philly. I had escaped from the confines of my all-White world, into something much more interesting, and sometimes unsettling. I had Black classmates, I walked past Black people on the street; and the White people around me treated this as No Big Deal. So I acted as though it was no big deal for me either. I learned new kinds of music, that my parents wouldn't have approved of. One of my college friends even dated a Black guy for a while. But I didn't have any Black friends myself. It never occurred to me to try to get to know any.

My junior year in college, I met Henry in a "math for humanities dummies" course that I needed to satisfy the distribution requirements for my Art and Design major. Henry wasn't in the course himself; he was a math geek TA-ing our section. He asked me out (which he shouldn't have done, as my TA), and we started dating. I was grateful for the attention. Up to that point, boys hadn't shown much interest in me. I have a pretty face, and nice light-brown hair, so I've been told; but my body is short and dumpy, a build I inherited from my mother, with a behind that's way too large, so I thought, and a bust that's way too heavy. Diets and exercise never helped.

I had sexually experimented a little bit in college before meeting Henry. Those boys had been pretty disappointing in bed; but as a chubby girl, I took what I could get. By comparison, sex with Henry was... nice. He could make me come, more often than not; and even when he didn't, I enjoyed the feeling of closeness with him. We got married shortly after graduation. My parents approved of Henry. He was "a good bet," with a secure career trajectory ahead of him. And there's more to marriage than just sex. That's what my mother told me -- one of the few times she expressed an opinion on anything. Henry got hired fresh out of school as an actuary for an insurance firm. I got a job as an interior decorator, with Ashley Wilton Design Consultants.

So Henry and I settled into the next chapter of our comfortable middle-class White lives, in another mostly (but not entirely) White suburb of Philadelphia. We tried to start a family, but Henry, it turned out, had an extremely low sperm count: even IVF couldn't help. In time, our sex life dwindled to once a month, then even less. Then we kind of forgot about it entirely. I didn't seem to miss it much. I didn't even feel the need to pleasure myself anymore, like I had done in high school and college. Henry put in long hours at the office, preparing reports on stuff that I didn't really understand, new techniques in risk modeling. I put on more weight.

One day I was vacuuming out the interior of Henry's car, and way under the seat I found a woman's thong. I didn't wear thong panties.

What did I feel, at this discovery? Some anger, for sure; and sadness. But mostly an overwhelming soul-tiredness, and resignation. I was only twenty-six years old, but I felt like a dried-up old lady inside. Should I confront Henry? Should I leave him, or kick him out? It all seemed like so much effort, so much unpleasant upheaval to go through. Why bother? Our marriage had become an arrangement of mutual convenience. What difference did it really make to me if he was doing... sexual things, with other women?

I asked Henry to start sleeping in the guestroom, ostensibly because of his snoring. He didn't object. Two more years went by.

2. I meet Antoine.

I mostly work from home. I've got a good eye for design, but I'm not so strong on handling clients; I have to pair up with a more sales-oriented team member for client meetings. Lately Ashley, my boss, has asked me to take on more of the supply side of the business, setting up deals with carpeting, appliance and furniture vendors, painters, cabinet installers, etc. This is easier for me: I know what kind of materials would work well with our designs; and the onus is on the vendor to keep me satisfied, not the other way around.

One day I reach out to a new firm that supplies granite and engineered quartz countertops. The receptionist tells me their sales rep, Antoine Francek, is out of the office at the moment, but he'll get back to me shortly. An hour later, my phone rings.

"Hello, may I please speak with Lily Richards?" The very male voice on the other end is deep and resonant, the kind of voice you just want to cuddle up inside of.

"Speaking. Is this Antoine?"

"It is indeed. Well, yes, thanks for reaching out to Brax-stone Countertops. We hear very good things about Wilton Design. I actually had you on my list to contact, but you beat me to the punch, Ms Richards." God, that VOICE just does something to me. It's deeply comforting, but also... dangerously sexy. My libido, that had been soundly sleeping like Rip van Winkle, suddenly wakes up and smells the coffee.

"Please, call me Lily."

"Certainly Lily, it's a pleasure. I'm sure you've already had a look at our colours and textures on the website, but I suggest coming in to our showroom so I can show you our products, up-close and personal, so to speak. Can we set up an appointment?"

"Sure, sometime this week?" I have to stop myself from squealing with excitement. I certainly want to get up-close and personal with the owner of that voice.

"How about Wednesday at 12:30? I'll take you to lunch afterwards and we can talk about your firm's immediate needs."

"That'd be lovely. See you then, Antoine."

I've got some immediate needs all right. My vagina has turned into swampland. I rush to my bedroom, tear off my panties and urgently bring myself to an intense, wet climax with my fingers, for the first time in years, with the sound of Antoine's voice playing in my memory.

The next day, I get my hair and nails done. Wednesday morning, I agonize over what to wear, finally deciding on an artsy-looking skirt, blouse and scarf ensemble. Not that I really think Antoine would ever be interested in dumpy old me, except as a client. Besides, I'm not really available; I'm a married woman. Technically. But it can't hurt to try and look my best.

"You must be Ms Richards," the elderly receptionist smiles toward me as I walk in. I nod in reply. She picks up her cell phone: "Antoine, Ms Richards is here for you."

Antoine comes out of his office to meet me. I'm standing there for a second with my mouth hanging open. It simply hadn't occurred to me that Antoine Francek might be a Black man. And what a man! More like a Black god. He's maybe six foot six, taut muscles rippling under his suit, skin like ultra-dark chocolate, probably a couple of years older than me. His perfectly shaped head is shaved, with a goatee around his full lips and strong chin: it's the handsomest male face I've ever seen, or could ever imagine. I have to fight against the impulse to bow down and worship him. My panties are drenched.

I become aware that Antoine is staring back at me, with an intense look that's hard to decipher. A hungry look. Maybe he's just looking forward to lunch.

"Excuse my awkwardness there, Lily. It's just... you remind me of someone I used to know. Can I get you some coffee? No? How about we step over here then and get started. Here are some of our granite samples..."

With an effort, I snap myself out of the estrus-fog that had settled over my brain.

Right. Get ahold of yourself Lily. Countertops. Act professional, dammit!

For the next half hour, Antoine shows me a range of samples. I note the high quality of the granite. The engineered quartz looks pretty impressive as well. Now that I've seen them in reality, I have something to go on when I refer to the online images.

"Don't think of them as just for kitchen countertops," Antoine tells me. "These materials can be used for very attractive surfaces in the dining room, the living room... even the bedroom. Shelves, wall accents, table tops, lots of possibilities."

"Yes, I can imagine that."

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God, I can imagine his dark, granite-hard body making an attractive surface in my bedroom.

"Well, you've seen all my goodies now," he laughs. "Are you ready for lunch?"

Is he flirting with me? God, I wish!

We get in his car and drive to La Izqierda, a very posh tapas place in the Chestnut Hill area. Along with a generous glass of rioja, we sample a broad variety of tapas, delectable mouthfuls of this and that artfully combined with who-knows-what and je-ne-sais-quoi.

"So Antoine," I ask, "how did you get into this line of work?"

"When I was a boy, I had a rock collection," he shrugs. "I guess that's where it started. You ever collect anything?"

"I had Pokemon cards. I suppose they're still at my parents' house."

"OK, same kind of thing; you understand the impulse to collect stuff. But I could find my rocks for free, just walking around the neighborhood. I was fascinated by my tiger eye, feldspar, rose quartz, what have you."

He pauses, looking at me uncertainly for a moment; then his expression softens. "I... uh, well, I had a rough childhood, Lily. I grew up in foster care, one home after another, and it was... rough. That rock collection was the one thing that I had that was mine, you feel me? I would talk to my rocks; they were my friends. Then one of my foster brothers threw 'em away, just to hurt me, y'know; but I knew about minerals by then and I started over, a new collection. Then I got placed with the Francek family. They were the first foster parents that cared about me, that weren't just doing it for the money. They adopted me. Mr. Francek bought me an electric rock polisher, and we got those little lumps gleaming like gemstones." He looks up at me. "Sorry, that was a lot to unload on you. Was it... too personal?"

Antoine's god-like hand is lying on the table, and I can't resist the impulse to reach out and lay mine on it, just as a gesture of empathy. "No, please, go on." God, it feels so good touching his hand. His sexy voice is still doing it for me, but I'm getting drawn into his story as well, hanging on his words.

"Well, once I was with the Franceks, at age thirteen, I started doing much better in school. Then Mr. Francek was killed by a drunk driver, my sophomore year in high school. Mom and I -- I mean Mrs. Francek, her name was Milena -- we just had each other." He pauses, and takes a sip of wine. "She put me through college. Well, the athletic scholarship I got helped. But everything good in my life, I owe to the Franceks. So, I graduated with a degree in geology and mineralogy from Temple..."

"No way! I'm a Temple grad too!" I squeal. "You were an Owl?"

"Yeah, basketball team. Wow, so you're a Temple alum. It's so cool that we have that in common, Lily."

"I wonder why we haven't crossed paths before -- either in college or in this line of work."

"Well, in college I was a few years ahead of you, I'm guessing. Class of 2017."

"I was 2020. The Covid class."

"OK, so we overlapped a year. After college, I wasted three years trying to make it in professional basketball. I got shunted around the country, from one G League team to another -- it was kinda like foster care all over again... no, not nearly that bad -- but, I didn't really have what it takes. Then mom got cancer, and I came back to Philly to take care of her full time. She passed away two years ago."

"I'm so sorry." I squeeze his mighty hand, and he squeezes back.

"Thanks. So I looked around for a way to put my geology degree to some use. I didn't want to be a minerals scientist, didn't want to go through grad school and all that. It was the aesthetics of stone that appealed to me. I came across Brax-stone online, sent them my resume, got an interview, and now here I am, a glorified rock salesman." He takes a bite of the shrimp and roasted garlic. "Well, that's my life's story, whether you wanted it or not," he laughs. "How about you, Lily? Lay it on me."

I want to lay it on him all right, cowgirl position. How do I even know that term? Henry and I have never done anything but him-on-top.

"No, don't apologize, thanks for sharing your story with me, Antoine. I feel honored. And wow, you've survived so much adversity in your life already. I can't imagine going through that kind of devastation. As for my story -- there's not much to tell, I'm afraid. I've had a pretty easy life, pretty boring to look back on, actually."

"I don't believe that for a second. You're married, I see," he notices my wedding ring. "Any kids?"

"No, no kids. We can't... well, Henry can't."

"Henry's your husband?"

"I guess you could call him that. We've kind of... drifted apart. Shit, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be burdening you with my marital problems. Not very professional of me, is it?" Our hands are still together, but now Antoine's beautiful, massive ebony hand is wrapped around mine, and it feels so good. His wrist looks so sexy. Against every impulse in my body, I pull away.

"Shall we talk about engineered quartz surface materials?" I ask.

"If you really want to, Lily. I'd rather save that conversation for another meeting. I expect our firms are going to be doing a lot of business with each other, so it's worthwhile for us to take a little time to get to know each other, on a personal level. Don't you think? And it sounds like you need a friend to talk to. If you want one."

"Are you my friend now, Antoine?" I'm on the edge of crying.

"If you'll let me be." I want so badly to believe him. I'm so turned on by him, but at the same time I feel completely, deeply safe with him.

"Damn, Antoine, how can you be so gorgeous and so sweet too?!"

"Gorgeous, I don't know about that..." he gives an embarrassed laugh.

"Oh come on Antoine, you're the most gorgeous man I've ever seen! Women must throw themselves at you all the time."

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"I don't know. Maybe they do. I don't take much notice of that."

"Oh. Um... oh. Well, that's fine, if you prefer men... "

"No, that's not it; I'm not gay. Lily... " he hesitates, looking me in the eye. "Can I tell you something VERY personal? I feel like I can trust you; I

want

to trust you."

"Sure..."

"My mom, Milena... after dad died... we just had each other. We were very close. VERY close."

"You mean... "

Holy shit!

He nods. "It didn't become sexual between us till I started college, after I turned eighteen. And she wasn't my biological mother, so not technically incest. We just... really needed each other. I know what you're thinking, but I've experienced real child abuse in my foster families, and what she gave me was NOT abuse. It was real love, and it was fully mutually consensual. I'm grateful for what we had together, and I will be to my dying day. I just wish I hadn't let her talk me into moving away from her, those years when I was trying to be a pro basketball hot-shot. At least we had two final years together. She got too weak for love-making, the last few months, but I was glad to be there, to be taking care of her, any way I could, till the very end."

I take his hand in mine again. "Wow. I wasn't expecting that. But... it sounds like you had something really beautiful with her, Antoine. Do you have a picture of her?"

He whips out his phone and shows me an image: her face has some lines and crow's feet, and there are some gray streaks in her brown hair; but she looks a lot like...

me?

Similar dumpy body, similar shape to our faces, similar expression.

"Since I lost mom... I just haven't had much interest in or energy for other women. Not in a sexual-romantic way. It's been two years now, but I still think of mom constantly. I... God, there's something I want to tell you, but I don't want to weird you out. I mean, even more than I have already."

"I remind you of her?"

"YES! How did you..."

"I can see the resemblance, from her picture. You told me earlier that I remind you of somebody, and I can put two and two together. Does the resemblance weird

you

out, Antoine?"

"No, it feels... really comforting, to be honest. Look, I know you're not her, so please don't think I'm just using you as a stand-in for a dead woman. I want to get to know you better, Lily."

"Well, like I said, I'm pretty boring. I've led a sheltered life. I'm twenty-eight years old, living in Philadelphia, but you're the first Black person I've had a real conversation with. In my whole goddamn life. That's how boring I am."

"And so? How's your first Black conversation going so far?" he grins playfully.

I look into his beautiful eyes. "It's been the most thrilling thing that's ever happened to me." And I start bawling my eyes out, right there in the middle of the restaurant. All the tiredness, the resignation, the disappointment, the deadness of my comfortable, stagnant White life with Henry, comes flushing out of my tear ducts.

Antoine slides around to my side of the table, wrapping his powerful arm around my shoulder, holding me as I continue to sob.

"That's it darling, let it out. I got ya." The tsunami of sadness is receding now. I'm aware of his arms around me, the clean, masculine scent of his skin, the firmness of his muscular chest under my cheek, the sweet pounding of his heart. DAMN it feels so good, being held by him!

I don't want to let go of Antoine. But I know I have to. I sit up, and move slightly away from him. He hands me a handkerchief so I can blow my nose.

"Well, sorry, that was embarrassing."

"Aw, c'mon now Lily, don't go all 'uptight White Lady' on me, after the messy personal shit I shared with you."

"I know. Thank you, Antoine. This has been... really something. But, I should really get back to work now."

"Yeah. I suppose I should too."

He pays the check, and we get in his car. A few minutes later, we're back at the Brax-stone showroom parking lot.

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