0 comments/ 261737 views/ 18 favorites Confessions of a Southern Wife Entry #01 By: LadyBlueMoon I have found this website, to which to post my 'confessions'. Why do I bother? Perhaps as a catharsis, an emotional cleansing. I have sinned, grievously. Might I yet find redemption? – Erica H. Journal Entry 07/17/02 Mine is a story told a thousand times before. Why, then, do I bother even writing? Perhaps because it happened to me, something I would not have imagined possible until this moment. If the voyeur within takes you, if your prurient interest is aroused, then read on. If not, file this away as just another tale of forbidden lust and seek elsewhere. For many it is hard to accept that forty years after the civil rights movement there are still pockets within this country that segregation holds sway. The small Mississippi town in which I reside is one such place. Blacks and whites keep to themselves, no longer by law, but by choice. Thus, I never really had the opportunity to know someone of color. While I fantasized along with my girlfriends as to what it would be like to be with a black man, this was simply teenage girl talk. None of us would have dared cross that forbidden line. As the years passed, such fantasies grew dim for me. Marriage, children, maintaining a home, all the usual trappings of middle class white southern life, dominated my thoughts and actions. Sexually, I knew that I was a bit different from my friends. Most of them enjoyed the waning attention of their husbands. Even those who knew their spouses sought comfort elsewhere were not upset. To them, sex had been a burden, a duty, payment for the lifestyle they sought. With me, though, sex was a very prominent part of my life. Even after twenty years of marriage, my husband and I made love on a regular and thoroughly enjoyable basis. Yet, as I entered my fifth decade of life, my mind again began to wonder, to ask what I might be missing. It was such thoughts, I am sure, that led to the events I am about to reveal. While our home is not the most ostentatious in the neighborhood, we do take pride in keeping it up, both inside and out. The latter is accomplished in large part because of the excellent lawn care and landscaping service we employ. An elderly black man, Richard Deeds, who personally attends to the care and upkeep of our yard, runs it. This is typical of our town that blacks do such labor. And Richard had been with our family for such a length of time that I rarely even took notice of his presence in the yard. Frequently I would sunbathe in the shelter of our backyard while he worked, oblivious to what he might be thinking. He was, after all, in his seventies, and such thoughts as my bathing suit clad body might have aroused should have long since left him. Thus, it so happened one day last month, I took no particular notice of the lawnmower noise as I went out back to sunbathe. Wrapped up, as I was, in a particularly engrossing book, I paid no attention to who was operating the machine. It was not until I looked up to apply more lotion to my legs that I saw it was not Richard mowing the lawn but rather a young black man I had never seen before. I suddenly became aware of how exposed I was to his gaze. The bikini I wore was too revealing for public swimming, but had always served me well for private sun bathing. My husband was fond of my tanned look, and for him I would sometimes even remove my top while tanning. Of course I would never do such a thing when Richard was about, but the thin piece of fabric covering my breasts seemed inadequate to cover me properly from the eyes of this new man. Still, I felt the best action to take was one of nonchalance. "Hello," I spoke to him over the noise of the mower, "Who are you and where is Richard?" The man explained to me that he was Jonathon, Richard's nephew. It seems Richard had suffered an accident, and that he, Jonathon, had come down from Jackson to run the business while his uncle recovered. Jonathon was a student at Jackson State University, but was free for the summer, and thus able to help out his uncle. As he explained all this my eyes could not help but notice his muscular chest beneath the white tee shirt he wore. His calves and thighs were also well sculpted, I noted. I felt a tingle I shouldn't, not when talking to a black man, certainly. Perhaps it was the way he looked at me, or the softness of his voice. I do not mean to imply that he was disrespectful in any way. Blacks in our town knew their place, and would not have dared to be forward with a white woman. Still, I could sense an electricity in the air as we spoke. Our small talk ended and he went about his business. I, however, had lost all ability to concentrate on my book, preferring to sneak glances at Jonathon as he worked. Over the course of the next month, I found myself eagerly anticipating 'lawn care days'. I would be sure to look my best when I knew Jonathon would be about, and I found myself having the fantasies of my teenage years once again. I don't believe I am revealing any secrets by admitting that most white women have fantasized about black men. The rumors of their size, the images of contrast between their skin and ours, their purported stamina, all stuff that make for excellent fantasies. I certainly had no intention of ever acting on them. My position and that of my husband in this community simply couldn't risk it. That is why I still find it hard to believe what happened today. Perhaps it was the heat. It was a typical July day in southern Mississippi, humid, with the temperature near one hundred degrees. Perhaps that combined with the wine coolers I drank, I really can't say. It might just be that I finally decided to live out a fantasy. If so, it was a spur of the moment decision, but one I do not regret. I was on my third cooler when I decided to be a bit brazen. I rolled onto my stomach on the chaise and undid the top of my bikini. The wine had made me so very relaxed, and the sound of the mower combined with the heat of the day to make me drowsy. My mind drifted into the nether area between sleep and wakefulness. I began to fantasize, and my hand slipped under me and between my legs, rubbing gently on my mons. I was thus occupied when I noticed the absence of the mower sound. Turning my head, I saw Jonathon, watching me. As soon as he saw me look up, he turned away and busied himself tinkering with the mower. That was when, with my inhibitions down and my libido aroused, I crossed the line. Without thinking about the consequences, I called out to him, telling him I needed a favor. He hesitantly approached, bandana in hand. "Would you be a dear," I asked, "and spread some of that lotion on my back?" He froze for a moment. I could see he was wrestling with the idea. Finally, he did as I asked. But as he squirted the lotion into his hand, he spilled it. Perhaps it was because his hands were shaking, or perhaps it was intentional. It doesn't matter now. It provided me with an opening, as if providential. "Oh, you spilled some on your pants," I said, innocently, then reached out and took his bandana from his hand. Slowly, I wiped the lotion from the front of his pants. A thrill shot through my body as my fingers felt what was beneath the fabric. Jonathon's eyes rolled as my hand slowly and firmly pressed against his crotch, wiping up the lotion. I sat up then, leaving my top behind. My breasts are full and soft. They sag a bit with age, but still attract the gaze of men. They certainly attracted Jonathon's. "Mrs. H.," he began, "We shouldn't… I mean…" I hushed him then, reaching out with my hands to his zipper. Quickly I undid his pants and pulled them down his legs. I gave an involuntary gasp as I saw what they had concealed. His penis was long and thick, twice the size of my husband's it seemed. It put me in mind of the black snakes that used to come up into the yard when I was a girl. I reached out and took hold of it. Hard, so hard, and hot it was. I used my other hand to lift a breast, guiding the tip of his penis along my soft flesh, across my stiffened nipple. I felt the moisture that had gathered in its slit. His precum was sticky. I pulled back and observed the strand that stretched from my nipple to the head of his cock. I bent my head down and flicked it from his penis with my tongue, then looked up into his eyes. He said nothing, but his faced said everything. His look was one of pure desire. My hand slipped down and cupped his sack, feeling his testicles heavy in my palm. I guided his penis to my mouth and licked along the pink head, around the rim, tasting the saltiness of his sweat and desire. I squeezed his scrotum and his hands moved to behind my head, black fingers entwining in my red hair as he forced my mouth down onto him. I gagged as I took him in, his cock thick, filling my mouth, pushing to the back of my throat. I fought against the reflex, concentrating on relaxing my throat muscles to accommodate his size. My saliva oozed along the sides of his shaft and my head began to bob, helped by his hands in my hair, pulling me up, pushing me down. My finger slipped down, between the cheeks of his buttocks, and sought out his rectum. I pushed one in, and he moaned loudly. His penis stiffened and twitched in my mouth. I fought against his hands, trying to pull my head off his cock. Not yet, I thought, but it was too late. I managed to disengage my mouth at the moment his first spurt of semen shot forth, catching my hair. My hand wrapped around his spurting cock, and I stroked it up and down across my breasts as he continued to ejaculate. His semen covered my breasts, my neck, my chin. At last he stopped, spent. He stepped back, his penis slipping from my hands, and he began to mumble an apology. I hushed him with a finger to his mouth as I stood, then reached out and took his semi-hard manhood in my hand and led him into the house. We went into the bathroom, where I cleaned his jism from him and myself. I slipped off my bikini bottoms and stood before him, naked. He appeared mesmerized, unable or unwilling to move. I took his hand and pressed it against my sex. He felt my wetness as my lips opened for him. His hand began to explore, spreading open my lips, fingers slipping up, into my vagina, thumb finding and rolling my clitoris. My knees went weak; I put a hand to the wall to steady myself. His hand increased its speed. I began to move my hips in time with it. Finally, I could take no more. I pulled his hand away, and walked to the bed, encouraging him to follow. I lay back on the bed, legs spread, inviting him to mount me. His penis was rock hard again, and as it slipped into me, I cried out in ecstasy. Never had I felt so filled. Ever nerve in my vagina was stimulated. I raised my legs into the air, spreading myself wider, accommodating his size. He began to pump then, pushing deep, touching my cervix, then pulling back, until the head teased my pussy lips. We settled into a rhythm, long slow strokes, my hips rising to meet his thrusts, allowing the deepest access we could. My cries of pleasure filled the room, juxtaposed against his own grunts as he worked. My first orgasm built quickly, washing over me. I slipped my legs around his waist and held him in me, deep, as the orgasm subsided. Relaxing my grip, he began to pump into me again, and another orgasm followed, fast, but stronger than the first. My fingernails dug into his back as yet a third orgasm began. His tempo increased, his cock moving faster and even deeper. Then his muscles tightened, and his seed filled me as I had yet another orgasm. Faster and faster he stroked, spurting deep inside me. At last, he pulled out and collapsed on the bed. His semen oozing form my cunt, I lowered my head and sucked him dry, the combined taste of his cum and mine, intermingled, led me to one final climax. I lay my head in his lap and watched as his thick black penis slowly began to soften. I ran my tongue across the head and giggled with pleasure as I felt the warmth inside me. Finally, we arose, headed back to the bathroom and cleaned ourselves. Not a word was spoken during this time. He left, and I soon heard the sound of the mower again. As I write this, I have come to realize I have crossed a threshold, entered into an altogether new realm of existence. I do not apologize for what I have done. No, far from it, I anticipate with eagerness the next 'mowing day." Confessions of a Southern Wife Entry #02 I again turn to my laptop to purge my soul of sins. Much has happened since last I wrote, as will soon be revealed. – Erica H. Journal Entry – 8/22/02 The Wednesday rendezvous' with Jonathon, my black lover and lawn care man, have continued for a month now. His thick, long cock and incredible lasting power have led me to explore a side of myself I was unaware existed. I have entered a different realm and partaken in forbidden pleasures. Our trysts have left me sore, spent, and totally sated. Yet I find myself almost immediately looking forward to our next encounter. I worry that I have in some way become what my friends refer to as a 'slut'. I have increased the frequency I masturbate, and have brought a new, exciting attitude to my sex life with my husband. It is only on this point that I feel guilt. Though I must hide my affair from the public, not daring to tell even my most trusted friend, I ache to confess all to my husband. But I dare not. I cannot bear for him to know I have turned him into that most pitiful of southern men, a cuckold. Yesterday something happened that might change all that. As I have stated before, though my friends claim satisfaction that their husbands no longer demand sex, I have always enjoyed making love with my husband. Despite his reaching fifty this year, we have sex at least three times a week. Far more than any of my social circle would admit to. In fact, some of them have boasted outright that their husbands are seeking pleasure elsewhere and they are happy with that. I could never fathom why, nor how I would react if I discovered that about my own spouse. Yesterday caused me to find out. Jonathon had not been gone for more than an hour when it happened. I was still in bed, reliving in my mind the events of the previous three hours. The soreness of my rectum a reminder of the new pleasures I had recently discovered in anal sex. I finally arose and slipped into a pair of shorts and halter-top. I looked out the window to see if Jonathon's truck had left when I spied my husband's car down the street. That struck me as odd. Jonathon was gone, the driveway was empty. Why hadn't my husband parked there? I went outside to see. As I approached the car, which was facing away from me, I saw the back of my husband's head above the driver's seat. He seemed to simply be sitting in the car, staring ahead, at what I could not imagine. I was within a few feet of the vehicle when I stopped short, astonished at what I saw. Another head suddenly popped up above the seats, that of my best friend, Mary Sue Whatley. I watched as she wiped something from her mouth, then leaned into my husband and kissed him! I didn't need any pictures drawn to know what they had been doing. I rushed back to the house before they saw me and got a wine cooler. Visibly shaken, I drank the cooler dry and waited for my husband to come home. Fifteen minutes later, in he walked. By this time I had decided not to confront him. After all, was I not guilty of my own transgression? I am not such a hypocrite as to call the kettle black, so to speak. Instead, I greeted him with my usual deep kiss and we went about our lives as if nothing had changed. Two cheaters hiding the fact from each other. At least for now. Journal Entry – 8/28/02 Am I a two-faced bitch? Do I say one thing yet do another? I don't know the answer to that. I do know that seeing my best friend blowing my husband has eaten at me like a cancer. Betrayal twofold. It was only with an intense display of self-control that I was able to keep from confronting Mary Sue at tennis last Saturday. I finally decided there was nothing I could do to revenge myself upon her, at least, not at this time. My husband, though, he was a different matter. My mind worked through several different scenarios. Each, however, ended with the two of us splitting up. That was not my objective. I simply wanted to hurt him as he had me. I know, I am a cheater as well. What right do I have to feel betrayed when I have been sleeping with the lawn man, and a black man to boot? And yet, I could not let it go. Finally, I decided on a plan. Today, when Jonathon visited, I introduced a new aspect to our play, a digital camera. At first Jonathon was hesitant. Though there has not been a lynching recorded here in decades, he was not comfortable with leaving visible evidence that he was fucking a white woman. It was only after I was able to assure him that his face would not be in any of the pictures that he finally relented. I was on top of my game today. I dressed in white silk stockings, four inch red heels, a white garter belt, and matching bustier. I was determined to come across as slutty as possible. I quickly stripped Jonathon of his clothes and handed him the camera. My attire was enough to ensure an enormous erection. I eagerly feasted on his cock, running my tongue the length of the front, feeling the thick vein throbbing with blood. I asked him to take pictures as I sucked up and down the front of his penis, and then sucked on his balls. My eyes looked hungrily at the camera as my lips slipped over his big cockhead. I ran my tongue around the rim, slipped it into the slit, posing for the camera as I did so. Next, I positioned myself on the bed, on all fours, presenting myself to him. He entered me and I cried out in delight, feeling his thickness fill me. I had him alternate pictures of us in the mirror with pictures of his thick cock pounding into my pussy. I orgasmed, long and hard. Then pulled away. I turned and hungrily devoured his cock, as he continued to take pictures. Time, then, for the coup de grace. I turned and again presented my ass. This time, Jonathon knew what to do. He was as into the picture taking as was I. His cock head pressed against my anus, pushing slowly into me. I moaned with a mixture of pleasure and pain. Such good pain. He began to stroke, filling my tight ass with his huge penis. Faster and faster we went, until, at last, he could hold out no longer. Pulling out, he came, spurting huge jets of cum on my buttocks and back. I asked that he be sure to take several pictures, and he complied. Later, we loaded the pictures onto the computer and I sucked him off as we looked at them. This time, I swallowed all he had to offer. After Jonathon left, I showered and dressed. I left the pictures in the computer. I knew that, in time, my husband would come across them. Time will tell what will happen then. One thing I know, I feel vindicated. Confessions of a Southern Wife Entry #03 I use this journal now to document my explorations into the erotic. This is part III of my travelogue, as I continue to shed my chains and open myself to the delights of the flesh. – Erica H. Journal Entry – 9/23/02 A week passed, and then another. No indication that my husband had yet discovered the pictures I had left on the computer, pictures of his wife and her black lover, pictures that no white woman would want to be seen. I began to fret. How could I enjoy my revenge, my retribution for seeing my husband with my best friend, unless he discovered my own degeneracy? I met with Jonathon two more times before he returned to Jackson. The first time included more pictures but the second time was a melancholy one. I knew that my summer of extracurricular carnal dalliance was over. That day, we left the camera in the drawer and made love slowly and passionately. It was as if we each were trying to memorize every detail of the other’s body, knowing it would be some time before we could delight in it again. Jonathon’s thick lips gently suckled my breasts, lavishing wonderful, wet attention to each nipple. His fingers lovingly explored my sex, opening me wide, probing deep, before concentrating on my trembling clitoris. His lips and tongue then replaced his hand, and he brought me to one orgasm after another, expertly licking and sucking my lips and clit. In turn, I lavished great oral attention on his magnificent penis. I began at the head and gently kissed my way down the top of his shaft. I then slid under and licked hungrily at his balls. My mouth moved up the front until it reached the head, which my lips encircled and softly sucked. My tongue lapped up and down his cock as if feasting on an all day sucker. Finally, I took him deep, something I had been practicing with a dildo I had purchased because its dimensions were similar to his. Jonathon loved the feeling of my wet mouth taking him all. I was soon rewarded with more semen than my mouth could handle. I swallowed what I could and let the rest dribble onto his chocolate skin. I then slowly lapped it up, drop by drop. When he recovered his hardness I mounted him and rode him like the stallion he is. Propping my hands on his chest, I lifted and fell onto his hard cock, feeling him deep inside my womb. Climax upon climax followed until he again came. When his final spurt had subsided, I lie across his chest, feeling his penis slowly soften inside me. When at last it was time for him to leave, we exchanged email addresses and made plans to get together in Jackson. He would be home for Thanksgiving, he told me, but I knew I would not be able to wait that long. Journal Entry 10/06/03 It had begun as a fantastic weekend. The Rebels had defeated the Gators, and my husband and I had been on hand to witness it. Still no word had been mentioned regarding pictures, but I suspected he knew. The Whatleys had distanced themselves from us; their usual seats next to ours at VHH Field were empty. We celebrated the victory with a magnificent meal at the Downtown Grill. The wine had definitely left me very aroused as we returned to our hotel room. As I did a sexy striptease for my husband, my head light and my pussy wet, he applauded and told me he had a special treat for me that evening. As the last of my outer garments came off, he asked if I was ready. By that moment, I was hot enough for anything. I slunk over to where he was seated; wiggling my satin cover butt in what I hoped was a seductive fashion. My stockings swished as my inner thighs rubbed together. My bra was low cut and the creamy whiteness of my breasts practically spilled out as I leaned down to give him a long, passionate kiss. He returned it in kind, his thumbs and forefingers finding my nipples through the thin material of the bra. He tweaked and pulled them to erectness. Then, he playfully swatted my ass and ordered me to the bed. I willing complied, anticipating a wonderful session of lovemaking. What he did next surprised me. My husband has never been a particularly imaginative lover. He knows how to bring me to climax, and is quite adept in making sure my pleasure is maximized, but he has never been one for kinky games. Thus, it out of character when he told me to spread my arms and legs, and then proceeded to tie me to the four posts of the bed with his silk ties. The idea of being at his mercy was a turn on, I discovered. Next he produced a blindfold, the kind you use to block out light when attempting to sleep. Bound as I was, I could not have resisted him placing it on my head had I wished, but in truth, I was finding it very arousing. My juices were definitely flowing, my panties were surely stained. My husband sat on the bed next to me, His hand went between my legs, stroking my sex through the fabric of the panties. His breath was hot on my neck. I could smell the whiskey on his breath as his tongue traced wet lines across my shoulder. His fingers pushed up, opening the lips of my pussy. The panties kept his fingers from entering me, but his index finger found my clitoris and began to apply pressure there. I moved my hips to create friction, moaning with pleasure as his finger manipulated my little nub. His lips moved to my ear. Coarsely, he whispered, “You need a good fucking, don’t you, my little whore?” My body tensed at these words. A little thrill of what? Fear? Shot through me. He did not talk like that, never used words like “fuck” or “whore”. “Yes, please,” I breathed, barely audible. “What did you say?” he asked sternly. “Fuck me, please? I need it,” I replied. “Oh, you need it all right,” he laughed, a sound that again caused me fear, “And you’ll get it.” With that said, he left the bed. My bound hands prevented me from removing the blindfold. I had to rely on hearing alone to determine what he was doing. I heard him walk across the room. The door opened, then closed. He had not left though. I felt his presence, and the presence of others. My mind panicked, yet my body was responding in a quite different manner. My nipples were hard, very hard. The juices were flowing from between my legs, my panties were soaked. Suddenly, I felt the hands, several hands. They covered my breasts, squeezing, kneading. They slipped between my legs, opening my thighs, sliding across my slit. Cold metal touched my skin between my breasts. A knife? Scissors? Again, a sense of panic. The metal cut through the bra, and hands pulled it away. My breasts lay exposed. Wetness, tongues, two tongues, lapped at my nipples. The metal touched my skin again, cut away first one side, then the other, of my panties. The fabric was pulled from beneath me. I raised my hips, voluntarily, to help. Was this rape? Or did I want it? My husband spoke from across the room. Again, the sense of excitement, knowing the hands, the mouths, on my body were not his. “You enjoy taking pictures, don’t you?” he asked, “Well, I have the camera.” Hands spread my legs as far as the bonds would allow. I felt breath on my pubic area, then teeth, softly pulling at the lips of my labia. Fingers slipped into my hole, probing my vagina. How many men? Two? Three? The fingers opened me wider as the mouth sucked on my outer lips. I moaned, the pleasure was intense. Hands grasped my head, turning it to the side. My lips felt the rough warmness of a cock pressing against them. I opened my mouth, the penis filled it, pushing to the back of my throat, making me gag. “Don’t puke,” my husband ordered, “I want to get pictures of you sucking that cock.” I complied, putting aside my fear as much as possible. The mouth now found my clitoris, licking around it in circles, as three fingers plunged in and out of my vagina. Other hands were still on my breasts, tweaking and pinching my nipples. I began to suck hungrily on the cock at my mouth, it’s owner’s hand guiding it across my lips and tongue. The stimulation of so many parts of me at once almost caused sensory overload. My conscious mind went into autopilot, my pleasure center took over. I felt the bonds on my ankles loosen, then my legs were lifted, spread. I cried out as best I could around the penis in my mouth as I felt another part the sensitive folds of my pussy and plunge deep into me. My legs locked around the anonymous back as the cock stroked in and out of my cunt. My mouth sucked rapidly on the penis in my mouth until I felt the twitch. It pulled out and then the first hot spurts of semen hit my face. I climaxed at that moment. Hips bucking wildly as the cock kept fucking my pussy. I turned my head away as the last of the cum splattered on my cheeks and nose. Immediately, hands grasped my hair, and another cock was pressed against my lips. I hungrily devoured it as well, orgasming again and again until at last the cock in my pussy withdrew and covered my tummy with cum. I continued to suck on the penis in my mouth as I felt hands untying my wrists. The cock withdrew from the reach of my lips. I was turned over. My hands were pulled behind my back, and retied. A pillow was pushed under me, my butt sticking up. “She’s ready for you,” I heard a voice say. Then I felt it, pressed against my rectum. Hands grasped either side of my buttocks, pulling, spreading me open. My husband laughed. “My turn,” he said. As his cock penetrated my anus, I cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure. He began to take deep strokes, opening me. A hand was under me, twiddling my clit. I moved in rhythm with my husband’s strokes. The pleasure had overcome the pain. I cried out as a hand slapped my butt. At that moment, another hot spurt of jism struck my face. More and more followed. Someone had masturbated. His cum covered the side of my face, was in my hair, and was slowly oozing down my neck. Another orgasm, far more intense than the others, racked my body. At that moment, my husband withdrew from my ass and shot his load on my buttocks. As I felt his hot goo sliding down my crack, he stepped forward, and stuck his cock against my lips. “Clean me, slut,” he demanded, and I obeyed, hungrily lapping the last of his cum from his penis. Hands thrust me back onto the bed. The bonds that had held me were redone. I was again helpless. I lie there, feeling the cum that covered my body begin to harden. I felt dirty, yet sated. I paid no attention to the sounds in the room until I again heard the door close. Tears began to stream down my face. But their cause I was not sure. Had I been violated? Or had I been serviced? As I lie there, soft sobs moving my chest, I felt again my husband’s presence. A warm cloth began to wipe me clean. The ties were removed, then the blindfold. He sat there, on the bed, an expression of sadness on his face. No words passed between us, we simply looked deeply into each other’s eyes. At last, I reached my arms out, beckoning him to my breast. I cradled him, not speaking. My tears lay wet upon his back.