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.
My eyes drift back to your foot and ankle. You've gotten a new pedicure -- shiny black nails. And the tattoo -- it's a tiny black spade framed by the letters: "Q, O, S." Queen of Spades.
I continue to massage your foot as I lower my mouth to your toes and obediently take as much of your foot into my mouth as I can. You grimace with satisfaction.
"This motherfucker is addicted to my pedicure," you tell Alex. "Always has been, always will be."
"That's a white boy for you," Alex says. "Exactly how it's got to be."
"And now he's seeing me come into who I really am. I consider myself to be a Queen of Spades. And I deserve more pleasure than any woman has ever had. I want to be the center of attention. I deserve to be treated like the Queen I am, and I'm going to get fucked by real black men. Whenever the fuck I want!"
I can feel pre-cum leaking into my underwear as I submit to the new reality. Worshipping your body and your words as I suck your foot in deep.
"You got that message, right?" you say. "Why don't you repeat that back to me so that me and our guest are real fuckin' clear on where you stand, white boy?"
I carefully slide your foot out of my mouth. "You deserve to be treated like the Queen you are, and you're going to get fucked by real black men. Whenever the fuck you want."
"That's a good boy. Now finish off Mama's foot massage. I've got more work for you."
You turn your attention to Alex as I massage your left foot, giving all the energy and focus I can to your pleasure while you enjoy yourself with your new, young black partner.
"God, I would have fucked you years ago if we'd met in Barbados," you tell him. "I had an overwhelming response to my ad, but I always make sure I get nothing but the best. Which is why I've been enjoying your beautiful body to the full this week before you have exams."
I finish massaging your left foot, and you turn curtly to me. "Take off all your clothes now. I want you naked."
I obey your order. Meanwhile, Alex casually pulls off his red shirt, revealing his hard, defined arms and abs. You lustfully trace your fingertips over his torso.
"I have selfish reasons for what I'm about to do," you tell me. "I want you to give Alex a foot massage as well. Right now."
