She had her orders.
At exactly 5:00 pm she was to be at the given address with fried chicken, cold beer and a good attitude. At 3:00 she made up her face carefully and dressed as directed: short skirt, red thong panties, white blouse, no bra. Looking at herself in the mirror as she applied make-up and brushed her long, wavy locks, she smiled in satisfaction: she knew what an amazingly pretty, fresh piece of ass she was. A black man was a man after all, she reflected and she could use her body to control him as well as any other man. Last night she had more than a bit of trouble going to sleep, and had tried vainly to convince herself that her indiscretion in sneaking out to see Robbie was nothing he could really be upset about... Robbie was really just a friend, a sweet sensitive friend; and if Sarah Jane had given him a hand job, it was just a friendly, nice thing to do to make him feel better and relieve some stress... Stress, worry... she felt that all night. But now, in the light of day, her confidence in her sex appeal and manipulative skill in handling boys came back to her.
It was not a part of town she knew. The tenements were broken concrete, bordered by broken sidewalks and dying trees. Traffic was a mess, and she had gotten turned around, and now it was 5:15. There was the building: six stories of boarded up windows covered with spray paint obscenities. She parked crookedly, ran across the street, and ran up the stairs to the third floor and banged on the dented steel door, welcoming her with a spray painted 'Fuck You.' As she waited, she finally thought the obvious: Why am I doing this? Her heart pounded in terror... 'Why am I doing this?' She knocked again, almost dropping the six-pack of beer. She waited... then realized his instructions were NOT to knock, but simply to enter. She took a deep breath, trying to remember her earlier confident spirit and went in.
There HE was.
He sat in an over-sized easy chair, his huge black frame filling it as though it were a piece of doll furniture. Seven feet tall, deep black, his 54 inch chest a wall of glistening black muscle, his arms as thick and hard as tree limbs, his powerful sloping shoulders like the sides of a dark mountain. He was wearing only a pair of silk running shorts, and had his powerful thighs crossed in front of him.
He was watching a small black and white TV with a coat hanger antenna, sitting on a cardboard box. The TV volume was turned low; somewhere an air conditioner clanked... It was stuffy and warm, and the August sun slanted in silently through greasy windows. His face was impassive over a deep look of silent hatred in his eyes. She was afraid to look at him, but there was little else to look at: a high table with a blanket on the top next to his chair was the only other furniture in the room. When he turned to look at her, she almost fainted... she felt like a baby chick cornered by a huge, black serpent.
He pointed a thick black digit at the floor in front of his chair. She sat, with the beer and bucket of chicken next to her.
The rug was filthy, the stuffing was coming out of the torn chair, cum throne. He was watching TV, seemingly as bored as he was angry. At last he reached out a broad black hand towards the beer at her right. She broke off a can, and handed it to him. He drank it down in one thirsty pull, crushed the can and threw to the corner of the room. Without looking at her, he extended his hand for another beer. He finished the second can as quickly as the first, and reached his hand towards the bucket of fried chicken. She help up the bucket and he reached in an pulled out a piece of the greasy, warm chicken... He took a couple of bites, threw the rest into the corner, with a grimace of dissatisfaction; then selected a second and third piece, consuming them noisily. A third and fourth beer, and then he paused, belched and then finally looked down to observe Sarah Jean.
He wiped his greasy paws on her white blouse, then dragging his greasy fingers through her long blonde hair. Wiping his hands on her blouse again, he lost patience with leaning over and grabbing the blouse in both hands he tore it off her, jerking Sarah Jane half way to her feet before the thin fabric ripped off her body.
He took his middle and index finger and laid them along the long bulge in his silk running shorts.
"Suck it, bitch."
Sarah Jane realized she wasn't playing a game now. There was no choice being offered, and the consequences of displeasing this huge black bull were serious and real.
She worked his shorts down carefully releasing his member. Her heart pounded as though it would jump out of her body as his 14 inches, hard black and swayed rigid before her eyes. Thick as a soda can at the base, sloping to widen at a broad mushroom head, it seemed to have a life of its own. She reached to gingerly take his pole in her pale little hand, planning to plant a sweet, tender kiss on his cock-head; knowing that this sensual gift would assuage his anger, and all would be forgiven now...
He took his black flesh club in hand and cock slapped Sarah Jean's face as she was leaning forward. He grabbed her behind the head with his free hand and cock-slapped her pretty face repeatedly... She was rigid with fear.
Releasing her, he ran his two fingers along his scrotum, his testicles hanging heavily as tennis balls. He scooted forward towards the edge of the chair, and Sarah Jane lowered her mouth to kiss and lick her Black Master's balls. Taking a chance she took his huge black balls, one then the other, into her warm, tender mouth. His huge black member grew even harder with her tender sucking of his balls. Now he took the lower part of her face in his huge palm, squeezing, forcing her mouth open, and placed the head of his cock between her lips. She obediently sucked, glad of a chance to accommodate her breathing to the size of his member; it was hardly time enough: he took her head in his hands and began to crudely face-fuck her. Sarah Jane was gagging on just the first few inches, and thought she that her end, choked by a huge black cock, was near.
