I run my milky hands around her dark chocolate breasts while penetrating her mouth with my tongue. Her head bobs slightly back, while her chest thrusts towards me. I feel her large nipples harden and protrude far out of her chest, pressing into me, as her erection inducing lips part. “Let’s play slave and master.”
With a long uncomfortable silence, I finally mutter out that “I’m certainly open to new things, but I just don’t know how comfortable I am with this. It’s just that the barrier of hundreds of years of . . .”
She stops my long awkward “power to the people” speech before I have time to talk about our differences. Before I can talk about oppression, she lets me know that “you should stop being such a pussy and just play. You want to fuck me don’t you?”
“Yes.” What choice do I have? She is the finest representation of the female physical form that I could ever imagine, so I have to put my hand on her afro and tell her to “get on your knees and polish it slave.”
She shoots me a queer glance as she shrugs my hand off her head, grabs my shoulders, pushes me down to the ground, and tells me that “you got it wrong slave. You’re my bitch.”
“Yes master.” My tree grows as she turns around, lifts her skirt, and puts her bouncy, pantyless onion booty in my face.
“Eat it slave.”
Gross. She’s got a sweet rear, but the only thing I do to the backend is bite it, slap it, and shoot my juice on it. I smack it then turn her around, but she pulls away. She slaps me in the face and informs me that “you’re going to pay for that slave bitch.”
“Yes, please master. Make me pay.”
“Close your eyes and stick your tongue out bitch.”
I comply, and she grabs my head and starts shaking it back and forth as she gyrates across my tongue. It tastes so sweet, like nothing I’ve ever had before. I open my eyes and smile. She smiles back, pulls me up, unbuckles my belt, and we both tear away the rest of our clothes. She wraps her arms around me and motions her leg upward. I pull her up, sliding in, our eyes locked. We’ve gone from a super sexual fantasy to a real, genuine, loving, moment. Time stops moving, and her lips quiver; she moans; I feel the short firm pulses while she grabs me tighter. I kiss her lips, and I feel myself about to . . .
“Hey Sappho. How you doing buddy? Oh, you’re, uh . . .”
“That’s Stain, who didn’t knock before entering,” I whisper to the woman I’m still inside.
“Can you put me down?” she returns.
I pull her off me and set her down. She puts her clothes on, kisses me on the cheek, and while walking out tells me that “you can come see me anytime you want.”
Stain stares at my raging rooster that’s ready to crow, and in a confusing apologetic babble tells me “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Who was that? Nice wood dude! Who was that? Hot!”
I tuck my meat away in my clothes, while responding that “I have no idea who that was or how to get a hold of her again. She was selling something, and I invited her in.”
We stroll out of my place, and Stain points at the obvious bulge that still plagues my pant area, asking “when will that go away?”
“It’ll take a while,” my shaking voice utters while we walk down the street.