I recently had one of my favorite men over and asked him to tell me a fantasy about the two of us that he hadn't shared before. I was highly aroused by this one, and I wrote it down as a story, from his perspective. Hoping to bring this scenario closer to reality in the not-so-distant future... :)
I arrive at your place on a black Wednesday night in November. It's pouring so hard that I took a cab over. I buzz your number and it rings five times.
Finally you answer, your voice hard and mocking: "I'm not buzzing you in tonight. You can go around the back." The line goes dead.
I can feel a kind of throbbing, trance-like heat at the back of my head as I process your words. And obey.
The cuffs of my jeans are wet from wading through your garden as I reach your back patio. The glass door is ajar. I stop for a moment and stare through the glass.
You're reclining on the couch with a glass of red wine in your hand. You've put on big gold hoop earrings, and your delicious, ample breasts are barely restrained in your leopard-print dress. On your right ankle, charms dangle from an anklet, just above a small, freshly inked tattoo.
All of this is on full display for the young, well-muscled black man in a form-fitting red T-shirt with a Portugal soccer logo, who's sitting right next to you. You're smiling, laughing, and flirting. Even outside on the patio, I can feel the physical chemistry, something raw and palpable.
Again, that throbbing, trance-like heat comes over me, flooding down from the back of my head and making my cock stiffen.
I open the door and step over the threshold. Your expression shifts to something new: cold, hard, commanding.
"There you are. I expected you 20 minutes ago," you say flatly.
"There was some road work on Main Street. Bit of a traffic jam."
"Well, that's not my concern. Take off your shoes and get my guest another beer."
The young black man hasn't said a word, just sizing me up, apparently expecting my presence. I can feel two sets of eyes on me as I go to the fridge.
The last can of Emerald Crown Lager is tucked right at the back and I have to move some jars to get it out. I ask: "Would you like a glass?"
There's no reply, but I hear murmurs and a deep sigh of pleasure. I stand up and see you on the couch, passionately and aggressively French-kissing your new partner. His hands cup and squeeze your tits, as your tongues intertwine. As you stick your tongue out fully to slurp and swallow his saliva, your eyes shift to meet mine, commanding the audience that you fully deserve for your exhibitionism.
At length, you pull away. Again, I can feel that intense ambience of arousal.
"He'll take a glass," you tell me. "I suppose it's time for introductions. This is Alex. He's 26. He's completing his Master's degree in public health and policy at UW and will be returning to Barbados in May. So it's a very busy time for him -- but not too busy to connect with me on the app."
"Not at all," Alex tells you with a smile. His Barbados accent is very light, but I can hear the "t's" verging on "d's." "Your ad was the fulfillment of so many fantasies I've had since I was a teenager growing up in Bridgetown."
I place the glass of beer on your coffee table and kneel on the carpet nearby.
"Alex had a summer job handling luggage at the cruise terminal," you inform me. "Our tastes are formed early, aren't they? And there's just something magical about white women with young black men."
"Yes -- when it's the right white woman," Alex says. "I knew from the moment your ad came up on my phone that I had to meet you. I had to find out more. I wanted nothing more than to be with you."
"The feeling was -- and is -- mutual," you tell Alex. "I tell you what: after this, it's going to be hard to go back to some fuckin' white boy."
You laugh with open, vicious contempt and make direct eye contact with me on the floor before leaning in for another passionate kiss with Alex. As your lips meet, you calmly, deliberately, and unambiguously raise your middle finger to me. Your arm is fully outstretched to make sure I absorb the full weight and power of your message: "Fuck you, white boy."
My cock is so hard from the way you own and control the room, taking what you want from Alex physically and forcing me to submit mentally.
You shift to the end of the couch and beckon me to approach. "One thing this white boy does good is foot worship. Want a demonstration?"
Alex nods and moves closer to watch. You extend your right foot for me. I kneel at the end of your couch, cupping and squeezing your heel before working the length of your perfect sole with my firm thumbs. You grunt with fully deserved pleasure. There's something that registers with me as I gaze at your foot and ankle -- although part of me knew it all along.
You hike up your leopard-print dress just enough to give me a glimpse of your hairy cunt. I know you want to control and torment me with thoughts of whether Alex fucked you before I arrived tonight, whether your cunt is full of his cum right now.
