Temptations in the Garden of Desire
Dipping Our Toes
Eden and Cathy submit to their deepest desires and explore the forbidden pleasures of interracial cuckoldry.
Mary Not Wollstonecraft
© Copyright 2023 by Mary the Wollstonecraft Woman
This is a work of fiction and not intended to promote a lifestyle. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental.
Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.
Temptations in the Garden of Desire Dipping Our Toes
Few things have been more beautiful than my diary when I dropped it into the chilly waters of Dillon Lake one Sunday morning. The thing floated for a moment, bobbing this way and then that, in the gentle waves. A motorboat passed near me. In its wake, the book, like a submarine, dived below the surface.
The waters of Dillon are quite clear, and the book hung there, six or seven inches under the surfaces. After a moment or two, it opened to reveal the pages somewhere around the middle of the year-and-a-half-long journal. In my handwriting, clearly visible, was the date at the top of the page, September, something or another. The pages were pale blue, which took on a green hue in the sunlight filtering through waves.
It vanished and, with it, the record of my humiliating descent.
Without a second thought, I dove into the fridge waters, swimming down, struggling deeper into the icy void. Grabbing the record of my life, I pulled it to my heart and swam to the surface. I clambered into the boat, grabbed a towel, and tried to dry myself. On a bright October morning, I'm shivering like a woman about to be fucked for the first time.
How could I have been such a fool?
After making my way to my boat slip, I rushed to our cabin and made the morning coffee. As I waited for the rest of the house to wake, I thought about the past year and a half.
This whole cuckold affair started as a fantasy, but quickly escalated into reality. Sometime in December 2017, while we made love, we fantasized about me watching her being fucked by a black stud. This continued for a week or two, and one morning, after a night, when I didn't satisfy her, she suggested we should try it for real.
"Baby," she said, using her most affectionate nickname for me, "how about we do this cuckold thing for real? After all, you've told me how hot it makes you. You get so turned on. Well, you're done before I get any pleasure."
For a few minutes, this stung, but she was being truthful. The horrible fact is, I've only ever satisfied her with my tongue. I'm not under-endowed, but I lose it right after I enter her hot, moist pussy. Or worse than that, before.
We talked about it for another week. That's when I started keeping this diary. I opened it and began on the first page, not realizing how cold I was in my wet clothes.
Friday, January 7
th
, 2017
Cathy looked so wonderful, with her blonde hair hanging in perfect waves, framing her lovely face. The pale blue of her eyes matched her satin dress, which hugged each of her curves. Her big breasts stretched the shy fabric of the low-cut top. Hard nipples pressing the material into points of interest to catch any wandering eye capped her wondrous bosoms.
She wore lacey stockings, which held their place by the straps of her garter belt. And the bright red, high-heeled shoes would make a fantastic click-clack when she walked. In short, she dressed to thrill.
We'd looked forward to this for several days. Making our way into the bar, excited about listening to hip-hop music by local groups, my wife considered this only recon. Black people filled the crowded bar. The joint, packed to the rafters, with couples, singles, men, and women, sprinkled with a few whites here and there.
I'm sure the white men, who looked like deers in headlights, spotted me right off as a kindred spirit.
As we went through the throng, I realized every man's eyes were on her. Quite a few of the women were rubbernecking as well. As my wife lost some of her old hang-ups, her beauty showed through for others to see. Cathy was no longer a wallflower.
We wound up in the back of the bar, where a few unoccupied booths sat in a poorly lit corner. The throng of people obscured the stage. The table was round, and the booth seat wrapped around it, and we slipped into the middle.
A pretty black girl with long curly hair came to take our order.
"What'll y'all have?" she asked with a distinctively southern drawl.
"Vodka tonic for both of us," my wife said.
"With a slice of lime?" the pretty girl asked.
"Yes, please," I said.
"The gentleman, over yonder, told me to tell you, y'all's first drink was on him."
"Really, please thank him for us. And, um, which gentleman?"
"The tall, good-looking man stand over there," she turned and pointed, turned back to us. "The one looking at you, ma'am."
I followed her finger to a man who had to be over six feet six inches tall. With flesh so swarthy as to be true black. Nigerian black. The man sported a pale blue fedora. He reached up, touched the brim with two fingers, and nodded.
Cathy gave a royal wave wag and smiled at him.
"This makes me a little nervous," I said.
"He's just being friendly, and we're only seeing what's what."
After a few minutes, the first band blared away, and the barmaid sashayed back to us. After she placed our drinks down, she turned and strutted away. Her ass swayed as if on ball bearings, and I ogled her as she returned to the more crowded part of the bar.
"She's out of your league, Stan." My wife momentarily teased me about not measuring up for a girl like her. When she took her first sip from her drink, she gazed at the handsome black man and lifted her glass to him.
He strolled towards us and slid into the booth next to my wife. Putting his arm around her, wrapping his gigantic hands over her arm, he pulled her tightly to him. Leaned his head and whispered to her.
Cathy giggled for a moment and glanced at me. "No, he doesn't mind at all."
He continued to murmur words I couldn't make out. Cathy laughed and snuggled into him. All the while, his bear paw hand rubbed her shoulder, ran down her arm, and his long, black, thick fingers danced over her pale white flesh, turning it all pimply.
Cathy reached out and touched his other hand. Her index finger ran circles over the dark, shiny flesh. He pulled a strap from her shoulder, exposed one massive breast, and then touched and fondled it. Massaging her nipple, caressing her pure, white boob as the gooseflesh spread.
This was supposed to be an exploratory excursion into the darker side of town. It was rapidly evolving into something more.
Once again, he whispered into her ear. Her hands dropped to his lap, the zipper slid down, and she gasped. Cathy tugged and pulled for a moment, again gasped, and turned to me.
"Baby, look at this."
"I don't think so."
"It's okay," the man said in his thick African accent.
"No, I'm fine," I insisted, feeling weird about the whole damn situation.
My wife hit my arm with a balled-up fist.
"Ouch."
