Shadows Over My Pleasure

Shadows Over My Pleasure

By Samuel Night

It all started with a photo. A photo of Sara, from behind. Her ass. A huge, fat ass that drives me wild to the point that just thinking about it forces me to pull down my pants and masturbate savagely, as if possessed by an animal passion. A thick, perfectly round, enormous ass. A massive ass.

My taste for her ass is particularly controversial given where I come from. My lovers are slim, white, delicate women. Sara is black, thick, and big-assed, 25 years old. I'm forty.

Wonderfully big-assed. Wonderfully thick. My lovers could tolerate me messing around with one or another, even threesomes; they felt flattered by my traditional, chic taste, so characteristic of classic European beauty. Until I saw Sara's ass.

The first to criticize me was Noelia, in Milan, Italy.

She was a bit buck-toothed, but that hardly mattered. White as milk. Long, shapely legs. Wasp waist. Shoulder-length, wood-brown hair.

Noelia was riding me. She moved with desperation--she always moved with desperation in bed. My hands squeezed her delicate breasts. Her eyes were closed, and she begged me to last, not to come too soon. "Don't come, don't come," she shouted, desperate, the little slut. I loved her pleasure-filled face. When she wasn't talking, her mouth hung open, as if the pleasure left her face slack. Then I grabbed her hips and moved her harder. "Yes, like that, give it to me, give it to me, harder," she screamed, as if pleasure were the greatest good in a meaningless life. Her delicate body contrasted with the roughness of her ride. Then she let out a loud scream, slapped my face, and collapsed on top of me. I hugged her weakened body, lifted my hips, and thrust a few quick times. I shot a strong stream of my cum. The urge to sleep started creeping in.

We took a short nap, about fifteen minutes.

When I woke up, she wasn't beside me. I got out of that mahogany bed with gray silk sheets. The marble floor felt cold under my feet. I headed to the living room. The walls were granite, and the light came from strange, oddly shaped lamps. She was naked, sprawled on one of the thick black leather sofas.

"What are you looking at on my phone?" I asked.

Noelia loved snooping into my conquests. Whenever we met, which was about three times a year, she adored reading my chats. Sometimes she'd masturbate when there were erotic photos or steamy conversations.

"Joris, what's this? She doesn't look like a model," she said, showing me Sara's photo on the screen.

One of the things Noelia loved most about me was my taste. I was a renowned fashion photographer, and she admired my eye for fine, classic beauty. My attraction was a compliment.

"Variety is the spice of taste. Her ass drives me wild. We've been chatting for weeks. I met her at a book launch. I'll see her in a few days in Paris. I'm going to sleep with her."

Noelia was furious. She said I was betraying my chic taste.

"You like a big-assed black girl? You'll ruin your taste like that. Samuel, think of your career!"

So I walked over to her and shoved my hardened cock into her mouth. She gave it three sucks, pulled it out from between her lips, and said:

"Well, at least now you're more aggressive. How many times have I told you you need to be rougher and..."

I didn't let her finish. I shoved my cock back into her mouth, and she started sucking eagerly. Her thin lips curved nicely around my thick member.

"Suck it good. And I'll look at Sara's photo while you blow me. Your mouth will be my jerk-off toy. And while I enjoy you sucking me off, I'll imagine I'm savoring the wonder of that huge ass. And I'll come in your mouth. You'll swallow all my cum, something you've never done before."

This domineering attitude seemed to please her like never before.

I lied about how I met Sara. It wasn't at a book launch. Sara's a waitress at a shady dive bar run by africans. But that was more than Noelia's classism--an arrogant international model--could handle.

***

The one who knew I wasn't classist or racist was Rita. Though she'd definitely critique Sara's body shape.

She was ten years older than me. Until her thirties, she was a lingerie model. Then she turned to international art sales. The day I arrived in Paris, I went to see her.

Her apartment was full of religious paintings. She had a thing for ones showing praying monks. In contrast, she also had plenty of erotic, realistic, pornographic paintings. Most featured athletic men screwing some woman in a forced position.

For fifty, she had a youthful body. Her few wrinkles and long, fiery red hair struck me as incredibly sexy.

As soon as I stepped into her apartment, she offered me drugs and an Aperol Spritz. Rita loves Aperol Spritzes and made them with impressive speed and efficiency. She talked about an art auction and... who cares what we talked about? What mattered was how good we fucked that afternoon.

On her round bed, I spilled the Aperol Spritz glass over her perfectly round, silicone-enhanced tits. I sucked them eagerly while she rubbed her pussy against my hard cock. Her nipples were pretty big. I stretched them with my lips. She moaned aggressively whenever I did that. I drank what was left in the glass. She got on all fours. I put my cock in her mouth. She sucked it a little, but my urge to fuck her made me pull out and penetrate her from behind. I grabbed her hips and started pounding her hard. We always started hard.

"So good, how I missed your cock," she said.

In front of us hung a huge painting, from who-knows-what century, a meter by a meter, of a skinny monk holding a skull, as if praying. Above him, a cross.

I fixed my eyes on the sacred image while I pounded Rita hard, her screams filling the air. My body felt the ecstatic trance of sexual pleasure coursing through every muscle fiber. I felt the effort of each thrust I gave her. My heart pounded. Her body was hot. Her white skin, so smooth under my palms! Then I sat on the edge of the bed, and she sat on me. I put my hands under her ass and helped her move up and down. We kissed passionately. Her tongue went wild in my mouth.

Then we heard footsteps...

Samuel, her husband, walked in.

It wasn't the first time he'd come in while we were at it.

He didn't say a word.

We kept going.

He sat in a corner, lit a cigarette, and watched us like someone observing a theater play. We were the clowns in his private circus.

She threw herself on the bed. Her abundant red hair spilled across it. I threw myself over her delicious body and stuck it in her. I gave her several good thrusts.

"Like that, like that," the woman in heat said.

I fucked her with all my strength. We were both sweating. The cigarette smoke enveloped us. And I shot a thick load of cum just as I noticed she had hit orgasm.

"Not bad, Joris", Samuel said with a chuckle and left the room.

Minutes later, we both got out of bed. Me in my underwear, her in a light green robe she left open.

Samuel was in the kitchen slicing tomatoes to make a sandwich.

"Good to see you, Joris. It's been a while since you last visited my wife," he said.

"I've been busy."

"The photography business. I was in it for a while myself," Samuel replied.

Rita gave her husband a kiss on the lips, drank a glass of water, and sat by the microwave.

"Before we got down to it, Joris told me something interesting," she said to her husband.

"Interesting?" he asked, now using the knife to cut the bread.

"Joris, show him the photo of the woman you're into," she said with a sarcastic tone.

"Is that necessary?" I asked, a bit uneasy.

"Come on, don't be like that," she insisted.

I grabbed my phone and showed Samuel some pictures of Sara.

He looked at them with the careful eye of someone who knows forbidden pleasures.

"Beautiful. A delicious woman," he said calmly and went back to making his sandwich.

"I'm not saying she's ugly," Rita replied. "There's nothing wrong with her being black. I've fucked plenty of Black guys. But her body--she's too thick. And that huge ass..."

"Rita, how many times have I told you, darling, that for men, variety is the key to taste? Catalog beauty is for fashionistas, not for lust-filled men. We need variety."

***

Several days later, Sara and I met up.

Sara, you're a fresh breeze that pulls me out of the suffocation of frivolous women, from the dogma that's not just about looks but about a way of living and being in the world. Your mere presence makes me feel free. I've been tired for so long.

My thoughts fluttered like a flock of pigeons as I watched her smile at me while we crossed the Place de la Concorde. Her smile alone was different from the smiles of all those women I was used to. It was a relaxed smile, not one that put itself above others. It was a smile that felt natural, true, human. Full of so many things that felt so good, in contrast to the bitter desert of airheaded models, stiff aristocrats, and moneyed, perverse souls like Samuel.

With Sara, we drank Coca-Cola as we walked among the trees of the Champs-Élysées. Walking down the street drinking Coca-Cola with a woman was something special to me. Just walking for the sake of walking with a woman like Noelia? Impossible. Drinking a simple Coca-Cola and having a conversation that wasn't pretentious with a woman like Rita? Impossible with her and so many others. Sometimes I feel like they're all cut from the same cloth. Sara was beautiful. Her gaze radiated sweetness, and sweetness was something I hadn't seen much of in a long time. She wore tight, non-designer clothes, and I liked that. She had on comfortable-looking sandals that revealed delicate, beautiful feet. She moved her hands a little as she spoke, subtly and pleasing to the eye. Her body wasn't gym-sculpted or diet-shaped, but it was attractive. I could imagine her dancing. And her ass. Her marvelous ass. She wore leggings that highlighted that delectable attribute of hers. In that moment, she was the woman who attracted me most in the world.

I didn't make love to her on that outing, but on the fourth one.

We went to my hotel.

To my surprise, as I undressed her, I had one of the biggest, hardest erections of my life. My arousal was abnormally high. I was shocked myself at how hard my cock got. I felt much younger, like I was discovering the fumes of sex for the first time. And I was intoxicated by Sara's natural sensuality.

Right now, she's in front of me, naked. She looks at me with an inviting face. Her legs are spread. Her light cocoa skin drives me wild. Her shapely, smooth legs, her voluptuous dark breasts. Her thick black hair. I throw myself at her and start kissing her legs. I feel like crying, as if something repressed in me for so long is finally breaking free. Desire finding itself. True satisfaction that isn't just satisfaction because it's called that. I put my lips on her large pussy. I spread her vulva with my fingers. Inside, it's pink. The color change turns me on immensely. She moans. I'm in heaven.

I lie on top of her. We start kissing. Her lips are full--not like Noelia's or Rita's thin lips. It's a kiss that feels like a kiss. I penetrate her slowly. It feels like the first time I've ever penetrated a woman. She moves her powerful hips intensely. We switch between fast and slow thrusts. I feel her tits against my chest. My heart pounds hard. Hers does too. Her skin smells like vanilla.

After a few minutes, I pull out and turn her over. I start kissing those glorious cheeks. I rub my face against those obsession-worthy buns. They're so soft and plush. I can't take it anymore--I spread her cheeks and, for the first time in my life, give her a rimjob. Sara screams with pleasure. I massage her anus but don't penetrate it, just her pussy. We start doing it doggy-style. Each thrust isn't just a thrill--it's a visual delight to watch those powerful cheeks slamming against my body. The freedom in their movement. I stare at her anus intently. She moans. I moan. Our moans mix together. I come. She seems satisfied.

We lie side by side. We chat for a while about everything and nothing. Then she starts getting dressed. I put my clothes on too. I give her two hundred euros as a thank-you and for her personal stuff. She takes it with a smile and gratitude. She leaves quickly.

Now, alone, I stand by my room's window and look out at Paris. I light a cigarette. I feel like life is cold and empty. I don't want to see her again. I think tomorrow I'll visit Rita again, and in the coming days, my other female lovers in Paris. What time is it? I'm hungry. I think I'll make myself a sandwich.