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ED

By: RetiredReprobate



It's the same dream, as always. I come in the side door by the garage. The power's off, and the scene is lit by many candles. There are nine guys there plus Shelia, my wife. Everybody's naked and sweaty. She's on the pool table, and five of the guys are fucking her. One pounds into her, while she jacks off two, and she does oral sex with two more. Despite the grunting and groaning, and having her mouth full of cock, I hear her laughing and talking with the other naked men surrounding the table. She and they are planning my torture and eventual murder. Somehow, nobody sees me. I look at the guys gang-banging my beautiful wife. She has jism on her face and on her boobs. There is a pool of jism under her pussy. The men have cum on her and in her, before I arrived. The man inside her, and both of the guys in her red lipsticked mouth cum, and their sperm jets out, adding to the mess on her body. The guys standing around, waiting their turn, begin to yawn and then slump down. Then the men on the table start to fall asleep, drooping over her now comatose body. The new guy in her jerks once, shoots his load on her face, and falls across her body. Now nobody is moving. There's no groaning. The sleeping turns to death. I walk around the side of the pool table, stepping over the dead naked bodies, and look at the softly glowing wood stove. I hear a noise off to my left, and slowly turn. Somehow, my formerly beautiful wife has managed to face me. I can see the ropes of adulterous sperm on her face and in her hair, and her mouth drools with yet more spent liquid manhood. She says, softly, "you bastard, you killed me."

Then I snap awake.

* * * * * * *

My name is David Yeason. That's pronounced 'Dah-VEED.' I'm fairly tall, medium build, not real athletic, sandy hair and green eyes. I have a M.S. in cryogenic physics (that means real cold stuff, like in liquid oxygen). I'm nothing special, just a guy, with a technical degree, a pretty and younger wife, a house and a good job (I thought).

I even had the usual hobbies. I owned a house, and the mortgage was fully paid off. I put in a game room, with a pool table as a centerpiece. I installed a wood-burning stove, running the flue into the disused chimney from the bricked-up fireplace. I played some guitar, and rode a motorcycle.

However, both my father's grandfather and my mother's mom had diabetes. When I was 42, last year, I was diagnosed with Type 2 adult onset diabetes. With just a little care for my diet, and some more effort devoted to getting some exercise, and a couple of well-known drugs, I had my blood sugar under control. With one exception, the side effects were minimal. I could still work, as a cryogenics materials analyst.

There was just one problem, which surfaced right after my birthday. Fairly quickly, over about six months before the diagnosis, I started to become impotent. Yeah, I know, we're all supposed to say 'Erectile Dysfunction.' Can it! I had more and more trouble getting it up, and keeping it up. Limp-noodle syndrome. 

First I tried soft porn. Then XXX porn. Then the little blue pill. Then two pills. Then the yellow pill. Then a cock ring. More gonzo porn. Then the pump (horrible contraption). Nothing worked.

I could still jerk off, although with a pretty limp pecker, so, with a lot of effort, I could still cum.

Finally, floppy doodle went to town, riding as a cuckold.

This last was the hardest to bear. Sheila, my wife—tanned, blonde, and beautiful to my eyes, with the nicest set of hard-nippled breasts I'd ever seen—was never one to give up much sex to me, but as I declined in performance, she started to get the 'itch.' As I couldn't do it more and more, she started to wear less and less in the house, demanding more and more penetrative sex, teasing me about my droopy organ, and dropping broad hints about taking on a younger lover 'who could get it up.'

That drove me crazy, of course, which is what she wanted. The few times I'd get it up, she let me use my cock on her, but she started demanding longer and longer foreplay and longer penetrative-thrusting, and then I'd 'run out of steam,' which left her unfulfilled (she said), and also led to more taunting.

Then, suddenly, my boss at work started finding excuses for him and his two jock sons to get me out of town: conferences, demonstrations of our super-cold specialty manufacturing of exotic-metal super-conductors. Maybe I'm a little slow, but it took me about a dozen trips away from home, before I came back one morning, and saw/smelled a little puddle of spilled semen the 'clean-up crew' had missed.

So I confronted Sheila, and she laughed in my face. She stripped off the sheer panties (all she usually wore around the house, lately), and held open her pussy lips. I saw a thick, grey material oozing out, and the odor was of spilled jism.

I turned and left the house, swearing divorce. When I got to work, to hand in my resignation, my boss and his two hulking sons met me. Both of the young men were holding me down on the floor, laughing and making bets as to how long 'it' would take. Their father dripped liquid nitrogen on my left calf, freezing the skin and muscle down to the bone. Then they took up a hammer and hit the frozen flesh, shattering it into little pieces. They held up the Dewar flask containing the rest of the liquid gas, positioning it over my face and groin.

The message was clear. No divorce. No public fuss. No separation. My quiet cuckoldry, going on forever. My injury was written off as a 'lab accident.' And my wife's willing pussy available to them, and whoever men they and she wanted to bring in to the party. "It" only took about two minutes. Ever since that moment, I've walked with a limp, because the muscle, nerve, and ligaments never regenerated. I had to sell the motorcycle, because I couldn't shift or hold the bike upright with that leg.

Sheila's parties got more and more intense, adding a man or so every month, and getting increasingly kinky. She started to love anal sex, which I never had from her. Then bondage. Then a little pain. Finally she started threatening the major humiliation, making me serve her on my knees, enforced by her toughs with stun-guns, in front of all her lovers, as they humped her.

I thought about murder, revenge and suicide. I thought about my boss, his two thug sons, and about the accountant and company lawyer that I discovered were among the fucking crew.

I thought about my position as their sole laboratory exotic materials analyst. I thought about being left alone with a lot of specialty materials and metals. I thought about it a lot.

Then, skimming the internet, doing cryogenic exotic-metals research, I started following personal leads and surfing. I came across a men's group, and cybered with other guys who had the same ED problem. I got referred to a men's sex clinic on the East Coast, in New Jersey, near Philadelphia. I called them, and made an appointment.

I generated some kind of excuse. A 'conference,' I think. It really didn't make much difference, because the more I was away, the more Sheila and her now-nine guys could play. Nine horny men ... three times each ... that's at least 27 loads of spurting manhood dumped into the cum-slut I was chained to, every couple of nights.

I charged up the wood-burning stove with charcoal, grease-sticks and kindling for an easy lighting and long, slow burn, just like I always did, in case the power went out in a storm, as it often did and pulled her bathrobe off the damper lever, where she always left it. I left the house in the morning, and then after a couple of local errands, I caught my flight out in the late afternoon.

It was early in 2006. From Mansfield, Ohio to Columbus, and then to Philadelphia, PA, by air. I kept the receipts, just like I always did, for submission to the company accountant. I was greeted by nippy winter weather, and a weather prediction that promised a major storm to hit the mid-west. A cab into town, and another cab out to New Jersey, To a motel that the physician had recommended, right across from the office building where the clinic was. Some deliveries and more receipts.

I did the usual, eating and watching TV, and trying to sleep. Plus imagining what was happening inside my house, as nine strong young men repeatedly emptied their bulging sperm sacks over, on and up inside her, plus sucking cocks and a lot of screaming, near-continuous orgasms. I could even imagine what they were saying to each other, during the 'breaks' when she went to bathe and clean up, before being mounted again ... and again ... and again.

The next morning, I had my first appointment. The usual medical history and some rushed lab work. I had an encounter with a 'doppler machine,' whatever that was, which was supposed to measure my penile blood flow.

But when the technician (a guy) suddenly grabbed my dick, and I heard a 'SNAP,' that took me off guard. I was told to lay there. After a time, he came back, and re-measured my 'doppler blood flow.'

I left the office in a state of semi shock, with instructions to return the next morning, with a half-erected cock (more than I usually had, but not enough to do anything with). Also with a bad case of 'dick ache,' which I told the physician about, that thankfully went away in a few hours.

I picked up a delivery at the hotel—several dozen heavy plastic bottles filled with high-purity metallic granules, sent by FedEx Overnight—and dealt with them. 

I spent another night in the motel, alternating between dozing and thoughts of revenge and murder.

The weather channel said that there was a major winter storm over central Ohio, where I lived, and that the roads and airports were closing or had already closed.

I was back in the clinic by 10:00 AM the next morning. I detailed my 'dick ache,' and the doctor just nodded. Then he grinned, saying, "it looks like you're going to be joining The Bi-Mix Club."

The 'Club' turned out to be men who used penis injection to get an erection. The doctor even chuckled as he told me of a song one of his other patients had made up, about the experience.

A song? Injection? About having a stainless-steel spike driven into my tender manhood?

Bi-Mix No. 9

I went to the clinic, to score blue pills,
You know, that men's sex clinic, up in Cherry Hill.
They've got a practice that serves guys really fine,
And seven little bottles of ... Bi-Mix No. 9.

I told 'em that I had a floppy dick.
It started 'way back in 1996.
Doc looked at my Johnson and he made the 'OK' sign.
He said, "What you need is ... Bi-Mix No. 9."

Doc bent down, turned around, and gave it a flick.
He said, "I'll inject it right here in your prick."
He's gonna what? – in my what what!
I felt the stab; I felt the push; I got firm dick!

My shaft got so hard it felt like steel,
I finally had an iron rod that felt so real,
But when I made my girl squeal,
Four hours at a time,
She broke my little bottle of ... Bi-Mix No. 9

Something about bi-mix. What's that?

Doc said, "Here's the definition: Bi-mix: (BYE-mix) When two drugs are mixed for injection into the penis, to produce an erection. It usually refers to a mixture of papaverine and phentolamine."

"Injected," I screamed faintly?

"Well, don't panic," the doc said, "it's not as bad as it sounds. You'll use a really small needle, about the size of a hair. The skin along the side of the penis is a lot less sensitive than up at the head. You'll use only about a small drop of bi-mix, each time."

"What happens then," I quivered.

"Why, you'll get an erection. It takes a little time—about 10 to 15 minutes—so you'll have to plan out your sex. No more quickies, I'm afraid. You have to give up spontaneous sex, so you'll have to plan ahead. Over time, you'll figure out how much to use on a given occasion, but it's a lot less than 1 milliliter, which is a pretty small amount to inject."

"You mean I have to stick a needle into my own dick?" I asked, eyes bulging out, and feeling sick.

The doctor smiled, and said, "well, yes and no. Yes, you'll have to get the drug mixture under the skin of your penis, but, no, you don't have to stick it 'way in, or push the plunger yourself." He held up a plastic thing, a whole lot like a really big blue plastic marker for making bold lines on paper.

"This is an auto-injector. You load the syringe into it like this," as he showed me how. "Then you cock back this spring, and press the blunt end to your penis, along the side. I've drawn up a trial dose, probably larger than you'll usually use."

"Ok, now, touch this button."

I reached out, and, SNAP.

He pulled the plastic gadget away, showing me the hair-like little needle protruding from the end.

Doc said, "You just injected yourself with bi-mix. Any pain?"

I shook my head 'no,' 

"Well, that's about it. Dispose of the used syringe and needle safely, into this red container. You've probably got 40-60 injections in this little vial bottle, and that'll cost $100 each. That's 40-60 erections!"

He went on a bit, teaching me about injection site sterility, and the use of alcohol pads, and alternating sides of my penis, and the location of the injection points.

Then he grinned, and said, "look down."

I had a HUGE ERECTION. The biggest ever I've had, since I was 20 years old. I felt like I could hammer a nail into a piece of hardwood with that erection. I had a boner of steel.

In something of a daze, I paid my bill, gathered up my sack of supplies—syringes, bottle of bi-mix, alcohol pads, the auto-injector, and written instructions—and headed for the clinic's door.

Doc called after me, still grinning, saying, "oh, yeah, by the way, better pick up some kind of decongestant. I gave you a few, but you'll need more, cause you're gonna be erect for four to six hours, no matter what you do, or who you do it with. It won't matter how often you cum, you're going to be completely erect for quite a while. If it starts to ache, take two to four of the decongestants, and that'll bring it down ... eventually. But, remember, you're 'up' for the next four hours at least."

He added, as the door closed, "have fun."

I looked down at my trousers. Despite the cold weather, I had on lightweight pants, because my winter coat was long, and the hotel was just across the street. But now I had a 'tent' in my pants, and no matter how I tried to arrange things, it poked out. 

Back when I was a functioning guy, I never was small. I once measured my cock, from the pubic bone along to the tip, when I was erect and really excited, and I measured out at 8½". Now, I probably had that again, and with an organ that felt like it could have held up two damp towels, or that I could have rammed through a door.

The elevator in the building was achingly slow, but finally the doors opened, and I got on ... to discover to my embarrassed horror that there was another passenger already there. The enclosure was small, and so was the door opening. I had to turn sideways to get me, my sack of sex gear and my massive dong into the space.

Turning to face my riding partner of the moment, I said ... 

Damn, what can you say to a younger-than-you African-American girl in a business suit and skirt, braids around her head, standing nearly face-to-face, in an elevator and sporting a monster boner?

So I stuttered and gulped. The doors closed, and the elevator started. Up! Ah, damnit, I hadn't looked to see if it was going down. Certainly I wasn't going down, anytime soon. As the car slowly went up toward the top floor, I felt her giving me a disdainful eye, up and down, as I tried to say the usual, "hi, howyadoin'?"

Her gaze stopped when it reached my 'tent,' and I saw her eyes widen just slightly. She said nothing.

The elevator stopped at the 8th floor, and the doors slowly creaked open, to reveal an un-occupied space. No heat, even. She hit the 'stop' button, to hold us at that floor.

My elevator partner stooped to pick up what I suddenly saw was a carton. My 'damsel-in-distress' thing kicked in, and I said, "Miss, can I give you a hand with that stuff?"

I got another long, considering look ... and then a smile and a nod. I bent to pick up the box, to discover that it was someone's collection of cement collectables. I could only grunt it into a long arm position, with my hands grasping the box handles. The top of the box was just below my bulging erection, and my length rested on the surface, making it even more obvious that I had a 'protrusion problem.'

She gestured, and I staggered the box about twenty feet, to a pile of other boxes. When I came back, she was struggling with a second box, and going nowhere. When I hefted this box into position, I would have sworn that there was a dark female fingertip that momentarily pressed into the top of my tented trousers, I really couldn't tell.

A dozen of the boxes later, and the job was done. Between lifting trips, I looked over at her. Very dark skin, almost blue-black, like folks from Senegal have. Dark black hair, in a long braid, coiled around her head. Lightly made up. Full breasts (I hoped), but concealed under a woman's business suit and blouse. Dark grey wool skirt. Dark stockings or pantyhose. Dark shoes, with modest heels.  Earrings, a necklace of thin gold, but no wedding ring.

After the last box was placed, I went up to her, and she didn't shy away.

"I'm David. That's two syllables," I said.

"Shayla. Two syllables," she replied, and then, after a several seconds pause, she added, "and, thanks to your help, I'm doin' fine."

Then, a long, slow grin came over her face, as she pointed to my tented trousers and said, "doesn't that hurt?"

A thousand lines crossed my mind in a second or two, but I settle on the exact truth. "No. It feels wonderful. The best I've had in a lot of years."

I added, very carefully, "Shayla, you're safe. Please don't worry."

She continued grinning, and said, "I stopped being concerned about the third box you carried for me," adding, as if it were the most natural thing, "you came from the sex clinic, down on the fourth floor?"

"Yeah," I stuttered, not wanting this encounter to end, and not knowing how to keep it going.

She solved it for me, releasing the elevator from the 'stop' position. Grasping my arm and guiding me around the pile of boxes to a point just out of sight of the slowly closing elevator doors.

I didn't know what to do. I wanted to kiss her. To put my hands on her breasts. To reach under her skirt and find her pussy. To cum in my pants.

So I did nothing, fluttering my hands, and probably looking like a fool.

"Look at me," she said. 

I looked. She held up her hands, and my gaze fixed on them. She slowly dropped her fingers down to my pants, and pulled down my zipper. The cool fingertips found their way past the waistband of my skivvies, and onto the hot shaft of my erected penis.

Suddenly, it was out in the cool air.

"Look at me," she said again, as she dropped her eyes to my throbbing, jerking manhood. She made an 'O' of her forefinger and thumb, and draw her hand down the shaft. A drop of pre-cum was forming on the penis tip, and she caught it on her fingertip, then licked it off with a quick tongue flick. I don't think I've ever seen anything more erotic to that moment, as she whispered, "that's the most beautiful erect penis I've ever seen."

She added, "I've never dated a white boy."

"I've never dated a black girl," I quivered, "I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do."

Shayla smiled up at me, and said, "David, two syllables, you're doing just fine. We're going to be good friends."

Still holding to my rigid, sex-crazed manhood, she raised up on tiptoe and kissed me, long and slow, with lots of tongue. Slow and not hurried at all. When that broke, for breath, she gracefully kneeled and kissed my erected penis. Not a blow job. Not a hand-job. This was an equally long, slow kiss, covering the knob head, with a little vacuum, and a lot of tongue.


ED



"David, what do you want, right now? Tell me the truth. Don't lie. Don't try to dress it up. What do you want?"

It should have been difficult. I should have been stuttering, or maybe suave. Given her a well-honed line.

Instead, I said, "I want you, in bed. I want this hard penis thrusting inside your body. I want to see you take off all your clothes, and I want to see you nude, having another orgasm, under me, as I thrust my hard dick into your body. I want to see and hear you gasp and squeal with pleasure as I use my erection in you. I want to take you sexually, over and over. Then I want to nap a little, and wake up and take you some more. Please loose count of the number of time you cum. And THEN I want to take you to dinner and on a date. It's backwards, I know."

There was a pause. It felt long, except for the cool hand that held my hard penis.

"The guys at the sex clinic usually stay at the hotel, across the road. You've got a room there." It wasn't a question. "Take me there. Now! Then TAKE ME there. Do everything you said. Then do it again."

She pulled her cell phone out of her belt clip, and in a few terse statements, signed herself out of the office for the day.

She stuffed my turgid organ back into my straining pants (no simple feat), we re-called the elevator, and descended to the lobby floor. Then out of the building, in the cold air, and back into heated warmth, as we entered the hotel. My room was on the 2nd floor, and we were standing outside my room door in a couple of minutes. 

Standing there, she suddenly brushed at her shoulder, first on and then the other. I asked, "scared?"

"No," she said, "I just dropped a couple of somethings I don't need any more ... tell you more, later."

I inserted my plastic room card, and started to open the room door, but she put a hand on mine. "David, don't lie to me. I know you're married. You're not getting any, I think. That's not important now. Don't dress anything up. Tell me exactly what you want, and use plain words. Don't be afraid to say 'fuck' and 'cunt' and 'tit'."

I looked down at her, and said, "Talk to me, while I fuck you. Tell me what's happening. Tell me the truth. Make lots of noise. Cum a lot. Tell me how I can move and feel and fuck and thrust, so that you get more and more pleasure, better and better. Do stuff you've only fantasized about before. Don't fake anything."

She grinned and nodded, stepping inside and confronting the expanse of king-size bed, dominating the room. The door closed behind us, and she reached back and snapped the lock shut.

"I've got a condom in my ..." I started to say, but she interrupted, "you came from the sex clinic. If there were a problem, they'd know it and so would you. So you're clean. I don't sleep around, and I'm clean, too. I'm on the pill. Put the damn condom back, get me out of these clothes, and then fuck me forever. Cum in me. Lots and lots of wonderful, hot, sticky cum. 'Way up inside me. Fuck me like a man who hasn't had sex for a year."

I looked down at her and said, "I haven't."

The wide expanse of the king-size bed beckoned. Shayla started to unbutton her business suit coat, but I stopped her, saying, "Me first, pretty lady. I want to watch you strip and I don't want to be distracted by getting out of my pants and shoes. Besides, men don't strip at all well."

I was naked in about two minutes. I stood over her, as she sat on the bed, my engorged penis standing straight out, bobbing near her face.

"Ahhhh," she sighed, "that is the biggest, hardest cock I've ever seen. It's really beautiful. If you don't put that hot, hard monster inside me, I'm gonna scream. But first ..."

She stopped, and started unbuttoning her suit jacket. Sliding it off and letting it fall to the floor, she opened the size zipper on her gray skirt. Looking up and grinning, she unbuttoned her white cotton blouse, and let, too, fall from her arms, down to the floor.

"Uh, Shayla," I said, "you can use the closet hangers for ..."

She stopped me with a wide smile and a finger to my lips. My pulsing cock brushed against her arm. "Fuck the hangers. I'm not leaving this bed until I get LAID!"

Rising up, just slightly, she slid her skir off her generous hips, and it joined the other garments on the floor.

She wore pantyhose, and Shayla started to roll these down from her waist, down over her hips, along her legs, and the off her ankles and feet.

"Look at my cunt, lover," she demanded, and I did. She was shaved. Very closely shaved. Completely smooth. She spread her thighs open. Both vaginal lips were large and puffy, and very dark, even darker than her skin. She put two fingers of her left hand down, and gently spread the dark outer lips, and a flash of vibrant pink showed. Vibrant, pink and wet.

"You want me," I exclaimed.

"You bet I do, lover, and I'm gonna get you, too."

Shayla reached around behind her in that motion that all girls know, and un-snapped her bra. She plucked it off her arms, and tossed it on the pile of her clothes.

She was entirely nude. I stared at her with lust.

She looked at me, saying, "You saw what I did at the door. I was just dropping some things I didn't need anymore. Those were all my inhibitions about sex. I'm yours. I'm your black sex toy. I can even be your slut. I love you. I don't care about what anybody thinks now. I want you to TAKE me. I wanna be USED for SEX. I'm naked. DO ME!"

Bending forward, I started to get my head down between her thighs, to start the lovemaking and lick her pussy, like all of the few other Caucasian women I'd met, but she stopped me.

"Don't you DARE lick me. I couldn't stand it. You get that huge, erect penis inside me, RIGHT NOW! Lick me later, after you've cum and I've washed. But, right now, shove that monster meat into your little black fuck-slut. DO IT NOW!"

In no little shock, I hunched forward. There wasn't any reason to hold and aim my cock at her opening, because her hand was on my iron manhood, guiding it as it slipped inside her pussy lips. I thrust with my hips. Thrust hard.

My lust-crazed cock slid into her, all the way to the base, on the first thrust.

Taking my weight on my elbows, I looked in her eyes, and I groaned with such intense pleasure. She looked right back, and sighed with hers.

"You're my first black woman," I said.

"You're my first white guy," she said, adding, "you feel SO DAMN GOOD in there. Don't pull it out. Just move that wonderful, big thing, just a little bit. Oh, God, YES, YES, YES. I'm getting LAID and I LOVE it. Keep laying me. Big. Thick. Hard. LAID! Yeah!"

I thrust slowly into my black lover, only moving about an inch or so, in and out, while she squealed and thrashed.

"YES, I'm getting LAID! I'm being HAD! Big, hard man-meat. Yeah!"

Suddenly, her face took on a look of surprise.

"Oh, no. It's too soon. It can't be. Not this soon. Yeah, keep FUCKIN' me. Yeah. It's cummin'. Oh, Now, now, NOW!"

Her body stiuffened, as her cuntal muscles squeezed my invading cock, and she screamed through clenched teeth, "yeah, I'm CUMMING!"

Just as suddenly, she relaxed, and looked up at me, still moving uinside her just a little.  "You made me cum. It's never happened that fast. Your hard penis is magic. Keep fuckin' me."

"I won't stop, I promise," I said, and meant it.

A minute later, she said abruptly, "go a little faster. Jam it in deeper and pull it out all the way." She slithered up, and supported her weight on her buttocks and elbows. "I wanna see it go in and out."

We were in the classic missionary position. I hunched up my hips some, and slowly pulled back on my cock, until the knob-head was just showing, and then slowly shived my cock down deep in my lover.

"No," she said, "pull it out all the way. I wanna see you penetrate me. Wanna see you penetrate me over and over. I wanna se you FUCK your BLACK SLUT. Yeah!"

That, what I did, somehow pausing for a split second with the pee-hole of my cock about half and inch outside of her. Then I plunged back into her wet cavity, burying my cock in her womanhood. I started groaning and gasping with pleasure with each penetration.

I looked down at my lover, who was staring at her penetrated body with fascination. She moaned, "Ah, God, each time you go in, it's like a first time. I'm being fucked over and over. Faster now. I can hear myself getting LAID. Suck and plop, OUT and squish IN. Yeah, Oh God, I'm, I'm ... CUMMING!

When she went rigid, I went crazy, and started a furious pounding of her pussy with my maleness, trying to keep her cumming going for as long as I could. I succeeded, because she kept clutching and yelling and thrashing for many long seconds, before she relaxed.

Shayla came out of her cum, eyes wide open, saying, "you bastard, you made it last for me. Never happened before. Now, you FUCK ME good. Take your black-slut-fucker-cock and pump me until it comes out my ass. Hard, fast."

Her arms and legs locked around my back and thighs, as I complied with her request. Truth to tell, I couldn't have lasted much longer as a controlled lover, anyway. I groaned and screamed a little and gasped, as I tried my hardest to turn her into a puddle of sexual jelly. I don't know how long I lasted, but I felt her enter into her CUMMING state again, except that she didn't stop or come down.

I fucked her, in and out, like the sex-deprived mad animal I was, humping and pounding. I don't remember much of what I called her, but it was full of 'slut,' and 'fucker,' and I don't know what all.

My cock swelled up, like it hadn't for months, and I shot stream after stream of hot jism, deeply into her body. I lunged, and screamed like a girl, high and shrill, as I finally got release of my sexual tension.

And, of course, I came down, and relaxed, sort of oozing off the body of my lover, onto the sheets of the hotel's bed, gasping for breath. I relaxed.

I rolled a little to the left, and beheld my lover, who was staring off into space, a big smile forming on her lips. I watched, as her smile spread all over her nude body.

"Look down, lover," Shayla dreamily ordered.

I did. I was still hard, my penis pointed out horizontally, supporting it's own weight in the air. I looked like a male nymphomaniac.

Culling out of my most recent memory, I started to apologize, like all the other Caucasian goddesses demanded. "I think I hurt you," I started.

She cut me off, saying, with that same grin, "you did. Just enough."

She added, still dreamily, "you and your hard penis were wonderful. I want you. I'll do anything to get that penis back inside me,"

Before I had time to be rational, I said, "can I come back here and live with you, and take care of you, and all that stuff?"

"Yeah," she said, drifting off a little and giving off a little feminine little snore.

I woke her after about half an hour of watching her breasts and nipples dance across her chest. She got up to use the bathroom, and wash my sperm out of her.

When she returned, I threw her down on the bed, and kissed her breasts and nipples into super-sensitivity, and then transferred my attentions to her pussy and clit. After ... I don't know how long ... I had to stop, because she had my head in a vise-like grip between her thighs, she was pulling my ears out of their socket with her hands, and I was running out of air to breathe. I long ago lost count of her orgasms.

Then I took my still-hard cock, slipped it into her body, and we tried out a dozen different positions for sex, until I emptied my bulging sperm sack into her body, while she was bouncing on top of my love pole, screaming and clutching her tits, head thrown back and eyes closed to slits.

My black lover, Shayla, literally defined the term, multi-mega-orgasmic.

We both fell asleep in a couple of minutes.

I'd tried to call home, while Shayla was in the bathroom, but there wasn't any answer.  I tried again, later in the evening, with the same result. The storm had cut the power to suburban Mansfield, Ohio, like it had in a dozen other years. I tried to call work, too, but got only the recorded message; I left a brief reply, telling them where I was and about how long I would be. Looking down at Shayla, who was now slowly and contentedly kissing and massaging my man-meat, I had a lot of trouble keeping my voice level.

You have to see a nude African-American woman, slowly sucking on a white guy's rigid cock—while grinning—to know how it's done!. We slowly fell asleep.

It was dusk when we awakened. I was still hard. I looked at my lover, and she returned the favor.

She said, "you know, among my people, I'm a low-class whore."

Intelligently, I said, "huh?"

"Yeah. Even among black folks, the lighter color a girl is, the more high-class she's supposed to be. If you're light, you're 'high-yella.' Most everybody else is 'redbone.' But, if a girl is a dark as me, 'you're a 'blue,' and that automatically means you're a low-class, crack-whore slut."

"Uh, Shayla," I sort of got out, "I kinda remember calling you a slut, one or two fucks ago."

"Ah, but that's different. If a black girl gets a white guy to cum inside her, she gets to have all her friends say, 'girl, you in the money now,' and have all the black guys call her a 'sellout.' And I'd still be a 'blue.'

I looked at her carefully, spread out om the rumpled hotel sheets, legs spread open, breasts moving a little and carefully said, "little girl, let's just put that word, and the b***h word over in the never-to-be-said category, not even while hard fucking and cuming. OK" 

"She smiled, and murmured, "OK."

I consulted with my penis, to discover that I still had a little left in the lust account.

"Uh, Shayla," I started to ask ...

"Oh, my lover wants some more fresh-squeezed jungle juice, right? Here we go, put your wonderful hard cock right here, and then I have something to tell you. You'll like it."

She rolled over on her back, and spread her thighs open, inviting me to get into missionary fucking position. I did, and she gently put just the knob-head of my cock between her cunt lips.

"You're gonna like this. Now a man can really hurt a woman with his legs, so you gotta hold my legs open with your thighs, Spread 'em, like this. And a man can really hurt and maybe kill a girl with his hands and arms, so you gotta put your hands on my forearms, like this."

By this time, I was spread out on top of my black lover, and she was completely exposed, my white cock tip in her pussy. I felt a little surge of male power, looking down at my immobilized lover under me. 

Shayla went on, her voice starting to get strained and tense, and higher pitched, as she said, "Now, you remember I dropped all my inhibitions off at the door, right off my shoulder. But now, I want you the know that I also dropped all my control off my shoulder, to. You've got your hard penis inside a willing woman, no inhibitions, no control over anything that's gonna happen. I love you. I WANT it. I wanna get LAID again. DO ME HARD. Drive it in. Hurt me with that cock. I love you. I wanna feel you RAPE ME with your penis. Come on, man, THRUST. TAKE ME, HARD AND FAST!"

Taken over by the surge of male lust, I did. I fucked her without mercy. I pounded into her body with my lust-crazed body, as she strained up to meet me and twisted in orgasm. I fucked her like a wild man. Like a gang-banging heathen. I was surprised and the surge of power, sheer sexual power that drove me onwards.

And, because this was the third fuck of the night, I lasted a lot longer than I thought.

Particulatly hearing my lover chant, undr me, as I power-fucked her body, "Yeha. I love you. FUCK ME. Use me like the black slut I am. I'm every woman who ever turned you down. Every woman who cock-teased you and didn't put out. Every woman you wanted and couldn't have. CUMMING! Yeah, take your revenge. Pound me. I love you. That's right, USE ME FOR SEX. Do it! DO IT! Cum on, harder, HARDER. FASTER! I love you. CUMMING! FUCK ME!

Finally, squealing like a girl, high and thin, I screamed and came in her, emptying my balls until there wasn't a single drop of jism left in my sack.

I collapsed ... and passed out. We didn't wake back up until late into the night.

- - - - - - -

I had that dream, again.

It's the same dream, as always. I come in the side door by the garage. The power's off, and the scene is lit by many candles. There are nine guys there plus my wife. Everybody's naked and sweaty. She's on the pool table, and five of the guys are around her. She's on all fours, wearing a fishnet catsuit, with open crotch, open ass and openings for her tits. One heavy-hung guy pounds into her from behind, a second is in her mouth, and two are on the table, sucking on her breasts and swollen nipples. She's screaming in continuous oergasm, "yes, yes, YES.." Despite the grunting and groaning, and having her mouth full of cock, I hear her laughing and talking with the other naked men surrounding the table. She and they are planning what they'll do with all the money they got from running the business into the ground, and how to blame it on me. Somehow, nobody sees me. I look at the guys gang-banging my beautiful slut-wife. She has jism on her face and on her boobs. There is a pool of jism under her pussy. I can see it drip down, as the guy in her unloads a huge load. The men have cum on her and in her, before I arrived. The guys standing around, waiting their turn, begin to yawn and slump down. Then the men on the table start to fall asleep, drooping over her now comatose body. A new guy in her mouth jerks once, shoots his load on her face, and falls across her body. The guy in her pussy droops over, and falls to one side, his cock spurting a fountain of white goo in the air. Now nobody is moving. There's no more groaning. Everyone's dead. I walk around the side of the pool table, stepping over the naked dead bodies, and look at the softly glowing wood stove. Her bathrobe is hanging from the handle of the outside vent, which forced it into a vent-closed position. The candles are guttering smoky yellow, and a few are guttering blue. The room is filled with carbon monoxide. I hear a noise off to my left, and slowly turn. Somehow, my formerly beautiful wife has managed to face me. I can see the ropes of adulterous sperm on her face and in her hair, and her mouth drools with yet more spent liquid manhood. She's managed to prop herself up on a couple of the men, one leg cocked aside, letting me see the stuff oozing from her ravaged pussy. Throwing one arm over her head, she gurgles softly through saliva and sperm, "sorry you couldn't make the party, but you killed me just the same."

Then I snapped awake.

- - - - - - -

When I woke, it was about two in the morning. My cock was pleasantly sore and finally flaccid. The room was warm, and the covers had partly come off Shayla. I watched her, there in the star- and moon-light. Her eyes came open, slowly.

"You're watching me," she accused.

"You bet I am," I replied.

"What're you seeing?" she quirked.

"A completely nude black woman, relaxed and lying on her back, with her 'thick' thighs spread open.  She has a pussy with lips that are swollen because they've been fucked for a long time by a very hard, interested man. Her breasts are bare, and they move around her chest delightfully. This black woman isn't afraid of her white lover, and lets him run his hands and eyes everywhere on her well-used body. She's smiling up at him, and she's just recently told him that she loves him, while giving away every little bit of control and inhibition that she had. That's what I see."

She snaked a hand out, and found my soft male organ, continuing, "damn, man, even soft, you're still interested, after fucking me for, how many hours?"

"About three hours. Then we slept. Then we fucked some more, and we fell asleep again. I just woke up. Shayla, I can't make love any more, but that doesn't mean I can't love you now. Far from it."




ED



I added, "Uh, I think all the restaurants and fast food places are closed. All I can offer you is my emergency food."

Still manually attached to my organ, she said, "Yum."

We dined on two packages of Ramen Noodles each, made in the room's coffee maker. Plus some beef jerky, two cups of tea and a couple of chocolate bars from the vending machine, down the hall.

While we were eating, Shayla looked up and asked, "Wife?" That's all, but she spoke volumes. So I told her, not getting mad but not leaving anything out, either. I showed her the hole in my calf.

Then, calmly and deliberately, I told her of my new plans to divorce my wife, on the grounds of proven multiple adultery. To show up at work, accompanied by two armed privately-hired security people, to get my back pay and resign. To pack up and leave.

Shayla quirked up an eyebrow, saying, "Coming back here?"

"Yes."

"Good," she said, snuggling into my arm, still gloriously naked, "You'll come live with me. That's settled."

After some more cuddling, I said, "Can you call in late to work? I really want to get you a new outfit tomorrow ... I mean, today."

She looked up, from under my arm, pretty dark breasts swaying a little while she breathed, and asked, "You mean, to reward me for those three wonderful orgasms you had and the so-many-I-can't-count orgasms I had?"

I looked down, and grinned, and replied, "no, little innocent purveyor of steamy jungle-juice, I want to get you another outfit, so you can show up at work dressed differently from when you left. Otherwise, tongues would wag. The sex, with all the orgasms, was free. It's always gonna be free, between us. Right?"

She looked up, grinning again, and answered, "Humph! Jungle-juice, indeed. Oh, the sex is always gonna be free with us, is it? OK, right!"

Then she changed the grin to something a little more impish. "I think I'll let you take me back to my place. I share it with two other roommates. I wanna show you off."

I quirked an eyebrow.

She went on, "you'll like them, they're cool. Sexy as hell, too."

She finished, "by the way, I'm a mortgage broker, and I work on commission. I can take time off, if I want. It just means I don't earn money that day, and I'm one of their better agents."

Snuggling in delicious comfort, we fall back asleep. No dreams, this time.

In the mid-morning, we chatted for a few minutes. Then I spotted my cellphone. I asked if I could call back into my job, to let them know I'd be late coming back.

I got a surprise when, calling work, I raised Emily, the receptionist. She was flustered, which she never is, at least over the phone. My orders were usually patched straight through to my boss-cuckolder, Mr. Symulski.

Emily was nearly in a panic. It turned out the bank had sent auditors to the business. They'd been there, since a few hours after I'd left. They were turning up really bad financial and fraud-related stuff, including a set of thoroughly "cooked" books. 

Emily said that Symulski, his two salesman sons, the company lawyer and accountant were missing, and they didn't know where to look.

I sighed, loudly, and told Emily to tell the bank people the truth about where my boss and his people very likely were. "If they don't answer the door, then just go in my house. The spare key to the side door of the house is in the ceramic cat sitting on the low planter, out front. The code to the security system is 1-1-9-9."

I added, "and, Emily, go ahead and tell them why my boss, his two sons plus the lawyer and accountant would likely be at my house while I'm away. I know you know about Sylvia, and so does everybody else. Don't play games with these people."

I concluded, "I'm on my cellphone now. You have the number. Let me know when you find them."

During breakfast, Shayla phoned in to work and took a day off. She took me to her place, and I visited a largish house, built just after turn-of-the-century, about 1923 or so. She and each of her roommates had a medium-sized private bedroom on the 2nd floor, and they shared a kitchen and dining room plus a living room, on the main floor. There was a fully-paneled, dusty basement that was mostly unused, and a 3rd floor, also pretty much unused, which could have been a small apartment.

I raised an eyebrow at Shayla, as she showed me the two-room space plus bathroom, on the 3rd floor.

"I'd have to pay at least twice as much as you, to justify all this space."

"All that and jism, too."

She said they all had gone in together and bought the place, before mortgages and home loans started their astronomical climb, in recent years.

"You seem to be awfully sure that your two partners will agree to let me stay. And, if they're so sexy, how can you be sure I won't get caught with my pants down, so to speak."

She grinned up at me, leading my hand down to her suddenly uncovered right breast, and said, "because I'll be there, watching you have lovely thrusting, penetrating sex with each one, and then me, again and again. Remember, you glorious stud, when you're up, you're up for hours. Waste not, want not."

Taking me back to the 2nd floor, she showed me her room. I gave her a lewd grin, pushed her back on her own bed, pushed up her skirt and sweater, and settled down to play with her tits and lick her into orgasm. For about a quarter hour, there wasn't any sound except my slurping and her loud, shrill squeals of multiple orgasm.

No, I wasn't hard. No, I couldn't thrust into her. The bi-mix was back at the motel, with her panties and bra. But it was a pure pleasure to hear this lovely woman's voice and speech descend to the gutter, as she verbally directed me around, into and over her clit and lips, through a dozen orgasms, squirting twice, while screaming and thrashing on her bed.

The incoming-call ring-tone of my cell interrupted the proceedings. Then things began to get strange.

Pulling my head out from the vice-like grip of Shayla's thighs, and drenched in female cum, I answered.

It wasn't Emily, from work. It was from Mansfield, Ohio. The caller was a city homicide detective.

You remember the early TV drama, Dragnet, where the principal character kept asking, "the facts, just the facts." That's what I got asked. And that was what I was told. Just the facts.

These were strange enough.

The questions started immediately. Where was I? Why had I left? How long had I been away? Could I prove where I was? Could I prove how long I'd been there? How soon could I get back?

Then I demanded to know what had happened, and I was told, 'just the facts.'

Sheila was dead. So was my boss, his sons, and all the company management. They were apparently all dead together. Naked. In a pile, with Sheila on the bottom. On and around the pool table. In my house, with the security system on, and the doors locked from the inside. Nine cars were parked in the driveway and on the street. They'd been dead for a couple of days.

Over the phone, I agreed to get the first flight back to Mansfield, tomorrow, and to call the police number before I left, and again when I arrived.

I disconnected, and then, in a few terse sentences, told my lover what was going on.

I was a newly-made widower.

Making another call, I phoned the airline, and confirmed my flight out, tomorrow morning.

Looking down at my black lover, whose skirt was still bunched around her waist, and whose legs were still invitingly spread wide, I said, "I have to go back. I don't want to. But I have to."

Shayla smiled up at me, slowly and deliberately straightening her legs and pulling down her sweater and skirt.

She said, in sort of a purr-whisper, "but not until tomorrow morning. You could have flown out today, stud, but you didn't. So, let's go buy a few disposable cameras, and then go back to the hotel room. We can use up some film, letting me pose for you. I've got some really slutty things here, and I want you to see me in them. Then you can lick me some more, and play with my clit."

"Can I take you out to dinner, too?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, absolutely, just as long as I can wear that little black dress you bought—no panties and no bra—with my 'fuck-me' strappy heels. I'll flirt outrageously. I'll do 'nip-slips.' Then we go back to the room, you give yourself another injection, you'll get hard, and then you get to bang my brains out until it wears off."

"Uh, Shayla, that could be four to six hours."

"I sure hope so. I've got lots of nasty, slutty things to tell you while you suck me and feel me out and fuck me and ... you get the idea."

She started to rummage in her closet and dresser, selecting some barely-there and why-bother see-through things. Turning, she added, "And you'd better be prepared to do me standing up, in front of the open window, tonight. You know I'm a voyeur. I've got a big exhibitionistic streak in me, too. I go absolutely crazy when I think somebody is watching me have sex. I want you inside me, when I do."

"I'll drive you to the airport in the morning. I won't wear anything under my dress and I'll pull it 'way up around my waist. I'll let my tits hang out most of the way. I'll still be full of your cum. I'll let you see it leaking out, the last thing before you go into the ticket desk."

She finished, "When you've got clear of all the legal and police stuff, and you come back here to live, I'll be waiting. You better inject yourself when you're about 20 minutes away, 'cause I'll meet you at the door, strip down, and want you to FUCK ME, right there in the foyer, with your huge cock in my black cunt, your hands all over my black skin and tits, and my leg over your shoulder. I'll want everything, every one of your strokes, to show."

"I sure hope my roomies are watching."

My God, I thought.

----------

The police detectives questioned me when I got back from the East Coast, and they took a detailed, witnessed statement from me, but that was about all. All my receipts—from the flights, motel, physician's visits, etc.—checked out within hours. I was at the men's sex clinic, Cherry Hill, New Jersey, being personally examined and having blood drawn, by an MD, the technician and the staff nurse, at the approximate time of my wife's death.

Of course, it was complicated that all ten of the house inhabitants had died at about the same time. Sperm samples taken from my wife's skin and various other cavities revealed sperm for all nine men, in quantity, but none of mine.

Reconstructing events, Sheila had started things the night before, with a 'party,' and then gone to sleep with three of them. The next day, the guys had all struggled in, despite the storm, and she'd 'partied,' some more, in true slut-wife tradition. The power went out for the whole section of the suburbs in the morning, so she'd lit candles. As the house got cold, she or one of the guys had lit the stove.

Sheila took showers or baths between groups of guys, and, returning for more teasing and fucking, she always hung her damp terrycloth bathrobe on the stove damper handle. It was supposed to be safe, she said, as there was a little 'detent' groove in the handle to keep the damper in the open position. I told her not to, that it wasn't safe, which is why, I think, she kept doing it.

It was guessed that, sometime in the next few hours, the handle slipped from the open to the closed position, and was held there by the weight of the bathrobe. The muted 'clunk' sound must have been missed by all the guys, as they were intent on fucking her, or just having fucked her.

The carbon monoxide would have built up quickly, and there weren't any detectors. Apparently, all the smoke detectors in the house had been disabled, too.

Sheila and the guys had been filming the orgy with a couple of video cameras, and the camcorders ran on battery power when the plug power was lost, recording all the sex and cuming, but also the falling asleep and apparent dying of the men and woman. One of the cameras picked up the dull 'klunk' of the damper falling into the closed position, but Sheila was receiving a double-penetration cum right then, as the camcorders revealed and no one paid attention.

An hour later, the house was filled with poison gas, and everyone was dead.

It got even worse, I was told, because the power came on the next day, and the house re-heated to the mid 70's, which accelerated beginning decomposition of the bodies.

The case was closed fairly rapidly, as 'death by carbon monoxide suffocation,' and I wasn't involved or charged.

Somehow, though the camcorder disks had leaked to the media, and my wife's nine-guy orgies spread at lightening speed, all over the internet. I knew that I'd never be able to live this down if I stayed, even if I'd wanted to.

However, the house literally smelled like death, and, under police supervision, I went inside to get some thing to wear, before checking into a residence motel nearby. Sheila and her lovers had been there before me. My clothes and possessions were befouled with piss, shit, girl-squirt and ejaculated semen.

I gathered up the papers in the safe and file cabinet, and got out of there, gagging.

Shock piled on shock.

Going through the papers in the safe, I came across a life insurance policy on the both of us, for over two million dollars. I never knew that Sheila had covered me for so much, or how she'd paid for it. I found out why, when I read her secret diary, where she went into horrible detail about what the Symulski people were going to do to me, soon. I turned this material over to the police when I read it, and told them about the life insurance policy.

After the usual hassle, I collected the money, and had it deposited to a good bank in Vorhees, NJ, along with my own savings. Without telling her of the total amount, I called Shayla and my smart and my intelligent lover gave me her opinions as to how she'd invested all her monies. So, I mixed my opinions and research with hers, and immediately invested 95% of it, through a discount brokerage house in Philadelphia, in equities, municipal bonds and growth stocks, keeping the last 5% out for cash.

I had to do that, because my job was evaporated. The cryogenics company, headed by the Symulski's, was bankrupt and closed. The owners, with the collective assistance of the company lawyer and accountant, had milked the company of all that it owned, and had mortgaged everything to the hilt. Then they'd borrowed against this year's future earnings. And then they'd borrowed against their borrowings. They'd taken all the money and converted it to cash. 

They'd taken the cash, bought 'precious metals,' and apparently hidden them away somewhere. I told the auditors about a self-rental unit over in Millersburg, which was mentioned in Sheila's diary. When that was forced open, though, there was only a couple of gold Canadian Maple Leaf gold coins, apparently forgotten, kicked into one corner, and lying in the dust. The company money had vanished utterly, as precious metals aren't really traceable, when sold in small amounts, over time.

Then they'd died, after covering my murderous cum-slut conspirator with jism, all together.

None of us at work even got a severance package.

I never stayed at the house more than a quarter-hour at a time, and for as few times as possible, living at the residence motel. I got the police sign-off on the house, as potential evidence, and with their clearance, I had all the furniture thrown out and a professional cleaning crew come in to clean, sanitize & re-paint the house, inside and out.

After getting an OK from the police and insurers, I had the damn stove ripped out and sold for scrap. I suppose I'm crazy, but I also had a priest and a Fang Shui 'shaman' come in and spiritually 'cleanse' the house, too. Since the housing bubble was still soaring, I advertised the cleaned and re-painted house at a fair, not-inflated price, and the realtor had it sold in 72 hours to an out-of-town couple, for a cool half-million.

I put that money in my investment pool, too. With the insurance money, my savings and investments and the sale of the house, I had just over two and a half million, after taxes.

I called Shayla three times a week, and we had the most explicit phone sex possible, but I didn't date, and kept my jerking off to a minimum. It did—and didn't—help that she sent me big prints of all the pictures I took of her, in the hotel across from the sex clinic.

Thanks to large and mostly unused cellar in her house, she was able to store several boxes of materials that I had given her, left over from my materials analyst job.

It took just over ninety days, but I closed out my life in Mansfield, Ohio entirely. Having sold my car, I spent the last night at my residence hotel.

- - - - - - -

It's the same dream, as always, just changed in little details. I come in the side door by the garage. The power's off, and the scene is lit by many candles. There are nine guys there plus my wife. Everybody's naked and sweaty. She's on the pool table, and all nine guys are around her, standing on the floor. She's slowly and sexily dancing, wearing a open-bust bra, open-crotch G-string. She struts and grinds, as they shout obscene taunts at her. One guy jumps on the table, and jams his big, slippery cock into her ass, pounding into her from behind; a second jumps up and fucks her swollen pussy and two are standing on the table, sucking on her breasts and swollen nipples. She's screaming in continuous orgasm, "yes, yes, YES, fuck ME, like HE can't, FUCK ME." Despite the grunting and groaning, and having her mouth full of cock, I hear her obscene comments, laughing and talking with the other naked men surrounding the table. Somehow, nobody sees me. I look at the guys gang-banging my beautiful slut-wife. She has jism on her face and on her boobs. There is a pool of jism under her pussy, now. The guys scream and thrust and cum. I can see it drip down, as the guy in her unloads a huge load. The men have cum on her and in her, before I arrived. The guys standing around, waiting their turn, begin to yawn and slump down. Sylvia lays down and falls asleep. Then the men on the table start to fall asleep, drooping over her now comatose body. A new guy in her mouth jerks once, shoots his load on her face, and falls across her body. The guy in her pussy droops over, and falls to one side, his cock spurting a fountain of white goo in the air. Now nobody is moving. There's no more groaning. She isn't cuming, any more. Everyone is dead. I walk around the side of the pool table, stepping over the naked dead bodies, and look at the softly glowing wood stove. The vent is closed. Her bathrobe is hanging from the handle of the outside vent. The candles are guttering and their flames turn blue. Some go out. I hear a noise off to my left, and slowly turn. Somehow, my formerly beautiful wife has managed to face me. I can see the ropes of adulterous sperm on her face and in her hair, and her mouth drools with yet more spent liquid manhood. She's managed to prop herself up on a couple of the men, one leg cocked aside, letting me see the stuff oozing from her ravaged pussy. Jutting and thrusting her ravaged, cum-encrusted pussy in the air, thighs open, she gurgles softly, "I just had nine guys and 30 cums, but somehow you killed me anyway."

Then I snapped awake, in the morning.

- - - - - - -

I arrived at the Philadelphia airport, and rented a car there, until I could get one of my own. The sum-total of my married life was packed into a briefcase, and everything else stuffed into a medium-sized suitcase, with room to spare. I'd let the police and bank regulators know where I was going, and the name of the hotel I hoped I wouldn't be staying at, and gave them my cell-phone number.

After I crossed the Delaware river, in New Jersey, I stopped in the Pub's parking lot, at the Airport Circle, and called my lover on the phone, after injecting my bi-mix potion.




ED



"Shayla, I'll be hard and long when I get there. I haven't touched a woman in three months. You'd better be ready."

Cryptically, she giggled, and said, "we are," and hung up.

We?

The house she shared was on the border between Cherry Hill and Voorhees, New Jersey. I parked my rental car outside, on the street, gathered up my two bags, and went to the front door. Everything seem so quiet. I rang the bell.

I heard Shayla's distant voice, saying, "come in."

Opening the front storm door and then the more massive front door, I stepped into the small vestibule, and then struggled my two bags into the foyer.

Then I looked up into a dark-skinned African-American vision. A sex goddess descended the three stairs leading to the 2nd floor, and slowly glided toward me on 4-inch Lucite strappy heel slippers, tied and re-tied around her calves. I saw a white silk blouse, daringly worn in a French-cut fashion (held together with one button, about at her navel), and a dark leather mini-skirt wrap around. Her dark breasts, capped by fantastically stiff nipples swayed from side to side, alternately exposing and revealing themselves. Her hair was up in braids again.  She had open mesh fish-net stockings, ending just under the skirt.

Her mouth was open in that loose-lipped, pre-kiss droop that only girls—only very turned-on, about-to-have-sex girls—could do.

I knew, without knowing how I knew, that she was shaved glass-smooth; that she had no panties; and there was no trace of any breast support as she swayed up to me.

I was hard as a man can be, with my trousers poked out from my groin.

= = = = =

Gasping for air, I lay there on the living room sofa, naked as a jaybird, with my exhausted black girlfriend slumped bonelessly on top. She was still moaning and jerking in little after-shock orgasms, I managed to wiggle out from underneath her, and then get her turned over, to sprawl on the couch, too, legs agape, eyes rolled up and arms drooping over her head.

Her dark black pussy opening was oozing several turgid drops of my gray-white injected sperm. I thought she looked like the most beautiful, sexy, fucked-out woman in the world.

As my breathing got more under control, I looked up at our audience, my bi-mix injected penis still rigid and pointed at the ceiling.

"Uh, hi," I said, entirely inadequately, yes, but what do you say to a couple of women who've just watched you assault their roommate and fuck her into a near coma.

There was a brief silence, as my hard cock jumped and jerked from my heartbeat.

To my left was a tall blonde, with a very large 'rack', sitting with one leg crossed over the other. She had one arm holding up her chin, and other arm loosely across her thigh. The reason I could be sure about the 'rack' was that she was bare to the waist, and from there down was a set of well-worn jeans and a pair of high-heel sandals. Her breasts slowly swayed back and forth, and displayed very large brown nipples, which were fully distended.

To my right was a girl. I couldn't tell her age. She was just a girl, nothing special, brown hair, a little plump—what they call 'a few extra pounds'—wearing absolutely nothing, not even a hairpin. Well, maybe I could count the glasses sitting on her nose, but that was all.

So I lay on the couch, in the home of three naked women, with a huge erection still, amid the very obvious evidence of recent liquid fucking.

Maybe you could figure some snappy thing to say, but all I could figure was, "Hi."

The tall blonde spoke, in a broad Texan drawl, saying, "You must be David. Shayla's been talking about nothing but you and your hard penis and how good it was and how nice you were, on and on." She added, "I'm Melanie. I'm one of Shayla's roommates."

She looked over at the other girl, who was sitting to my right. Utterly self-composed, she said in a strong British accent and a little-girl-whispery voice, "I'm Chickie. My real name is Roxalanda Matilda Simms, but you'd better call me Chickie. I'm so pleased to meet you, David. You have a beautiful cock. As soon as you get over your after-fuck sensitivity and numbness, I want to suck it and then get it inside me. I wanna get laid, too."

Eyes bulging at bit, I looked to my left.

Melanie said, giggling, "Chickie does sex like you and I do breathing. It's 100% on, 24/7. Isn't that right, Chickie?"

"Damn straight it is, luv," Chickie replied, eyes fixed hungrily on my still erect, swaying manhood.

Beside me on the couch, Shayla groaned and opened her eyes. Then she stretched, and finally wrapped her arms around my waist, saying, "That was really a good 'hello' fuck. Don't ever go away again." 

Shayla looked up at her two roomies, and asked, "So, can he stay? Please?"

Melanie threw back her head and laughed, which made her generous breasts jerk and jiggle. "Shayla, your man just had you on the front-room couch, and we watched the show. Sure, he can stay."

To me, she said, more seriously, "It'll be the rooms up on the third floor. Each of us pays for our share of the mortgage, and our share of the food and unilities. It comes out to be about eight hundred a month. Can you do that?"

"Let's try doubling that," I said, "since I take up more space and have a bathroom, too."

Melanie smiled, saying, "If you can do that, then we can get the mortgage paid off faster, and maybe make some repairs around here that we've been putting off."

Shayla chimed in, though. "Yeah," she said, "but what he pays is just for the house and expenses. That's what we've agreed. The SEX is always gonna be free. Every stroke and feel; every kiss and suck; every one of these lovely hard-ons we can start. Every cum and squirt. That's always gonna be free. Right, you two?"

Melqanie and Chickie looked at each other, shared a warm look, and agreed, "Right!"

Melanie and Chickie pulled me off the couch, to stand up. Remember, I was naked, and, due to the bi-mix injection, completely erect, sticking way out. Shayla groaned to her feet, too, and started flicking my erect member so that it swung from side to side.

"Isn't it beautiful," she said.

We climbed the stairs to the 3rd floor, with my hard penis jumping and swaying. I was the center of giggling attention, and I kind of liked it. Surprise, surprise. Since I'd last seen the room, it'd been painted and cleaned. There wasn't any furniture, though.

"I'll get on the phone, and order some tomorrow. Maybe I can sleep on the couch tonight?" I asked.

Shayla said, "Hell you will."

Then—no shit—with me standing completely naked and erect, surrounded by these three nymphets, they did 'rock-paper-sissors,' to see who'd get to use me next, and who'd have me in bed overnight.

Melanie won the contest for overnight sleeping, but Chicke had 'paper-wraps-rock' for my very willing body.

It was about all we could do to get her off me, and us down to her bed on the second floor, before her mouth engulfed my drug-enhanced male organ, sucking and kissing as if it were the most natural thing in the world. In a few minutes, astride her spread-open body, I fucked into such a pool of wetness and lubrication that I thought my cock was floating, unable to touch a solid surface.

As I thrust slowly, I could hear the displaced liquid putter up around my hard cock, and then heard the slight but distinct sound of sucking as the tublar shaft withdraw. In my entire life, I've never met another woman who was as wet—and slippery—as Chickie,

Thrusting slowly, I looked to my left, and my eyes met Shayla's. She winked, as she stared intently at my penis, as it disappeared into and withdrew from her friend, "Ah, you fuck so well. I love having you in me, and now I love watching you use it. Come on, Chickie, give it all to him. He can take it."

I glanced to my right, and saw Melanie, who just said, "you're mine, all night. Don't plan on using the pillow much, 'cause you'be using these a lot more." She grasped her big breasts at the base and jiggled them at me.

I was engulfed, as a set of pale-skinned arms and legs totally enclosed my thrusting body, using her arms and legs in a rhythm to drive me deeper into the liquid depths.

Chickie was a talker, and I heard a delightful, gutter-laced set of instructions and comments, complete with unselfconscious grunting, but without using a single obscene word. Somehow, Chickie managed to cum about every minute. A complete cum, with her face red, gasping for air, body bent back in an arch, her cuntal muscles grasping and squeezing at my penetrating male probe.

After a time, I couldn't wait any longer, and I shot another stream of semen deeply into her body. When I had stopped groaning and shooting, Chickie opened her eyes, smiled up at me and said, "That was good times, luv. Shayla was right. You have a wonderful penis. You can use me harder, you can't hurt me with your cock."

"that's what Shayla told me, the night we met," I said.

While I was resting, Shayla cleaned me off, with a warm washcloth from the sink in the bathroom.

Later that evening, with a finally limp and floppy dick, I settled in bed behind Melanie, and cupped her breasts, playing with the distended nipples. That's when I discovered her secret. Well, to be truthful, when she led me to her secret.

Her breasts and nipples were orgasmic. This only happens about once in every 100,000 women. A couple of minutes of caressing, squeezing and fingering her breasts and nipples and she stiffened, growled low in her throat and had a body-shaking orgasm. She had too many to count, after I induced the first one in her. It was so easy and fun to play with her boobs, and they were so responsive. I alternated with stimulating her protrusive clit with a small Pocket Rocket vibrator.

I fell asleep with her nipple in my mouth.

It was gone, when I woke up in the morning. Instead, there was a whole body of slowly-moving African American female flesh, kind of giggling and writhing over my naked body. I was still in Melanie's bed, but Shayla was there.

I staggered a bit, but I did fix us a nice breakfast.

The next morning, I ordered a king-sized bed, a dresser, an amoire, and a couple of over-stuffed chairs, plus lap pillows, throw rugs, etc., paying a premium to have them delivered ASAP. The girls all collectively helped me buy linens, pillows, and similar stuff.

Having had my residence at the house decided by the three roommates I'd just made love to, I spent the next night in Shayla's room.

By the 3rd night, I was moved in.

I paid for two people into the mortgage/rent fund and into the food budget. Melanie, Chickie and Shayla were floored when it turned out I cooked pretty well, knew one end of a vacuum, mop and broom from the other and could do laundry (I just hated ironing).

That set the pattern to my/our life. I didn't make love to any or all of these sexy women, every day, but I made love—or fucked their brains out—very frequently. I never lacked for someone to sleep with, but I could sleep alone (I seldom did). If one of their doors was closed, that meant privacy-no-entrance. Slightly ajar meant 'knock and ask before enering.' Open more than a foot meant 'come in, kiss me and touch whatever's exposed.'

During the 2nd week, going into the basement to check on the disposal of the packages of plastic jars I'd sent several months ago, I quickly found that the water heater was on its last legs. I ordered a new one, at triple the capacity, again paying indecent bucks for rapid delivery and installation. Shortly after, I had the electrical panel upgraded to 220 amps, too, I started in patching the dings and holes in the walls of the 3-storey house, and working on the property. Nothing strenuous, but gradually things started looking neat and trim.

Shayla was utterly hopeless in the kitchen, so I took over her share of the cooking. Chickie was imaginative, and we had curries and exotic foods. With Melanie, it was, "COOK – FIRE – MEAT," which meant hamburger to steak, depending on the budget. I used a little more of my money to get a freezer, so we could buy quantities of stuff ahead.

They all hated washing and drying, so I did that, for all of them and me. In a couple of months, I got rid of the old, creaky washer and dryer, and had a basic-but-new large-capacity washer and dryer installed ... in a space on the second floor. They were shocked, until I pointed out, "that's where all the dirty clothes come from, so why should we go up and down stairs, just to be clean?"

I hated ironing, but, somehow, all my trousers and shirts were ironed, hung up and my underwear placed neatly in drawers on the third floor.

Each of us vacuumed and cleaned, pretty much when we felt like it. The house was none too clean, at times, but never really filthy.

One man, living with three women, meets some unexpected challenges. Like most other sets of very close female friends, all their periods had been synchronized with each other, so for about three to four days, once a month, I kept a low profile and these were the time I sometimes slept alone.

Sometimes, I mediated fights and disagreements between two or all three of my girls. Other times, when tempers would flare, I quickly faded from the scene, not wanting to be caught between a two- or three-way cat fight. When they were blue, I cuddled and comforted: sex might happen, later, or it might not.

Life was not dull!

I made a rule, early on, that if it wasn't sexual, whatever each girl-lover might tell me, I'd keep to myself. I didn't play favorites, beyond the dating games that Shayla and I would play. Sometimes I dated two or all three, out in public, or to a restaurant.

Each woman's emotional life was individual, and I found it not very difficult to figure when each one was having a hard day at work. Or just having a 'bad hair day,' for no apparent reason, just because they were women.

- - - - -

It's the same dream, as always. The details differ. I come in the side door by the garage. The power's off, and the scene is lit by many candles. There are nine guys there plus my wife. Everybody's naked and sweaty. She's on the pool table, and all nine guys are around her, on the floor. Totally nude, she's handcuffed to a rope running through both corner pockets. She's blindfolded. Her legs are free. She's slowly and sexily twisting her hips and thrusting her crotch. She crosses and un-crosses her legs, thrusting her chest so her boobs bounce, and grinds, as they shout obscene taunts at her. One guy jumps on the table, and starts to jack off on her body. In a few moments, his jism spurts out and splashes on her crotch. A second man is now in her mouth and two are on the table, too sucking on her breasts and swollen nipples. She's screaming in continuous orgasm, "yes, yes, YES, fuck ME, RAPE me, you bastards, FUCK ME." Despite the grunting and groaning, and having her mouth full of cock, I hear her laughing and talking with the other naked men surrounding the table. Somehow, nobody sees me. I look at the guys gang-banging my once-beautiful slut-wife. She has jism on her face and on her boobs. There is a pool of jism under her pussy, now. The guys scream and thrust and cum. I can see it drip down, as the guy in her unloads a huge load. The men have cum on her and in her, before I arrived. The guys standing around, waiting their turn, begin to yawn and slump down. Then the men on the table start to fall asleep, drooping over her now comatose body. A new guy in her mouth jerks once, shoots his load on her face, and falls across her body. The guy in her pussy droops over, and falls to one side, his cock spurting a fountain of white goo onto her cum-crusted hair. Now nobody is moving. There's no more groaning. She isn't cuming, any more. She and the guys are suffocated and dead. I walk around the side of the pool table, stepping over the naked bodies, and look at the softly glowing wood stove. Her bathrobe is hanging from the handle of the outside vent, holding it closed. The candles are guttering and their flames turn blue. Some go out. I hear a noise off to my left, and slowly turn. Somehow, my formerly beautiful wife has managed to get the blindfold off, and twist around to face me. She's still handcuffed to the table, and the effort raises her arms and chest, so her boobs bounce as they point at me. I can see the ropes of adulterous sperm on her face and in her hair, and her mouth drools with yet more spent liquid manhood. She's managed to twist herself free of dying men, lying so I could see her swollen vaginal lips, one leg cocked aside, letting me see the stuff oozing from her over-filled pussy. Jutting and thrusting her ravaged, cum-encrusted cunt in the air, thighs open, she gurgles softly, "It should have been you in these cuffs, screaming and taking my white-hot poker up your impotent, wimpy, smoking, blackened ass, but somehow you killed me anyway."

Then I snapped awake.

- - - - -

It was early in 2007. I was home, working on some exotic metals spot prices, on my laptop PC. I heard the door slam, hard, and a stream of British-accented swearing echoed up the stairs. Chickie had a way with words, far in excess of the usual American repetitive stream of 'fuck-shit-piss-damn-motherfucker.' Surprisingly, though, she didn't immediately slam into her room, but instead, she headed directly for the stairs to my third-floor rooms.

Still dressed in her waitress pink and blue uniform, she verbally castrated all her bosses at the restaurant, in great and imaginative detail, as she strode into the room and threw herself on my bed, where I was relaxing. Her hair, usually neatly done, was a mess. She was soaking wet from the light rain falling outside, so I knew she'd left her coat behind, at work. 

Wordlessly, I got her up, undressed, and into my shower bath, with plenty of hot water and the best soap. While she was bathing the rage off, I laid out the big fluffy towels I kept for this purpose (it wasn't the first time) and set out the hair dryer. I filled the electric tea kettle, turned it on, and lined up a cup for tea, plus two shot glasses of brandy and two aspirin, out in my room. When a quieter Chickie emerged from the shower, wearing one towel—around her waist—I was able to hand her the stiff shots of brandy, the pain reliever and a large cup of hot, strong tea.

She settled onto the bed, in front of me, downed the two shots of liquor, gulped the two pills, and started sipping the tea, her two small breasts bouncing and moving delightfully. Chickie, being Chickie, knew exactly what she was doing, and I expected the towel to be lost very soon.

I opened my right arm, extended it and said, "come and cuddle, and tell me about it."

Chickee slithered over to me—leaving the towel behind—and settled nudely into the crook of my arm.

"I was fired today. No job, again," she growled, pulling my arm down and across her breast, and inserting the stiff nipple between my two fingers.

"Tell me about it," I said again.

"My boss at the restaurant. He wants to fuck me. That's OK, but I know he has an STD, and he demanded that we do it bareback, and in the back kitchen, where everybody can see him humping on me. And he wants to start selling me out to his clients in the back banquet room, with him as my pimp."

Very deliberately, she wiggled against me. This was Chickie, being Chickee, and so was simply normal behavior with her trusted lover. She went on, holding her breast up for me to grasp and squeeze, and drawing up her legs, "I wouldn't go for it, so he kicked me out of the restaurant, and the bastard kept my coat, my paycheck, tips and my purse. Damn, and I'd almost saved enough for a first semester, too. Now I gotta get another job, and work out transportation, all that shit."

I said, "Chickie, I've got an acquaintance who moonlights as a security guard. How about I call him, and then he and you pay a visit to mister bully, and get your stuff, your tips and pay?"




ED



She smiled up at me, slowly spreading her legs, and idly starting to finger her expanding clit (idle, my ass ... she knew exactly what she was doing ... Chickie, being Chickie).

She said, "Get yer needle handy, stud luv. I need some hard lovin', and you're elected." Matching actions to her words, she reached into my bedside table, pulled out the loaded and cocked auto-injector I'd learned to have ready, made a quick swipe with an alcohol pad at my flaccid cock, and SNAP, I was about a quarter-hour away from a massive erection.

Thinking I'd use the time between that moment and rigidity, I asked, curiously, "You're saving for what, lover?"

Momentarily at a loss for words, she gulped, as she positioned her rounded body sort of alongside and on top of mine, saying, "Don't laugh. Don't you dare laugh, or I'll bite you on your ... your ... well, somewhere that hurts, that I'm not gonna use in a few minutes."

"Tell me," I demanded, grasping and releasing her bare butt.

Chickee started leaking tears, very unexpectedly, as she said, "I wanna go to film school."

"Film school," I echoed.

"Yeah, there's one in Philadelphia, and I can get there on the bus and the commuter train and the subway. I'd almost saved enough, this time, for the first semester, but now ..."

"Go on," I gently prodded, squeezing the other butt cheek. My cock was starting it's slow rise, as Chickie, almost absently (yeah, sure) turned her head a bit and lightly kissed the slowly rising head.

"I wanna learn to use a camera and direct and learn to shoot Indie films and make up my own stuff. I don't wanna waitress forever. I wanna make real quality videos, about stuff, you know, stuff I do and see."

She went on, for quite a while, about how she'd saved to go to school, and how she didn't know what she do about getting the equipment together, but she'd been scanning the lists of used and obsolete stuff.

She was wiggling over on top of me, my growing penis popping out from between her legs, her breasts doing a slow, tantalizing dance across my chest. For Chickie, being Chickie, this was just another way she had to communicate.  She was making it very plain that she was 'all girl,' and that her aching pussy was 'sooo empty' and needed filling by my huge hard pulsing manhood.

Thoughts of my three million dollars floated to the surface of my mind, a lot of which I really didn't need for income right now. And I thought about the plastic jars in the basement. And I thought of how much I loved her.

I was completely erect, at my fully-extended 8½" length, and thick, as she got up on her haunches, positioned my quivering, supersensitive penis at her pussy opening, and slid down on to me.

Trying not to groan in pleasure, I managed to get out, "OK, Chickie. You need an 'angel.' Someone to support your dream. That's me. Lets go tomorrow, sign you up for courses, and get the stuff you need. First class stuff. And, I'd better get you a motor scooter, so you can get around on your own" Then I did groan, and looked up.

For the first and only time, ever, I saw Chickie, fully impaled on a large, thick, erect male cock, motionless and open-mouthed in shock. I'll cherish that ten-second pause the rest of my life.

At the 11th second, she suddenly came to life, and began a jarring, slow rise and a fast, hard muscular drop, driving my cockhead deep into her body with each stroke, breasts jerking and dancing on her torso. I groaned with intense pleasure each time.

"You really mean that?" THRUST. Groan, "Yeah."

"You'll pay for my semester?" THRUST. Groan, "All your semesters.'

"All the way through school?" THRUST. Gasp, "Yeah."

"Even if it costs a lot." THRUST. Groan, "Whatever it takes."

"Cameras and lights and all the stuff. THRUST. Little shriek. "All of it."

"Even a motor scooter?" THRUST. THRUST. HIP WIGGLE. Gasp. A little male scream and the intensity of the sex. "Yeah, a motor scooter goes with the deal."

"Why?" THRUST. THRUST. HIP WIGGLE. Groan. "Because!"

"Tell me, you hard-cocked stud!" THRUST. HIP ROTATION. BREAST AND NIPPLE SHOVED INTO MOUTH. THRUST. Ah, Ah, Ah. "Because I love you, too, and want you to be happy, and succeed, and because I can."

"I'm CUMMING," she screamed, as her body went rigid in orgasm. Then my maddened penis and I were subjected to a madwoman's sex dance, with a hysterically-happy near-nymphomaniac thrusting and surging on my lubricated body. Lubricated by all the female squirting and multi-orgasms. Grunting and noises make in the back of her throat, as she sang to herself, "I don't have to waitress. No, I don't have to waitress. I don't have to waitress any more. No more dollar tippers, no more dumb butt pinches. I DON'T HAVE TO WAITRESS ANY MORE! And the sex is always free, free, free."

After a longish time, while I lay there and received Chickie's sexing, I came, squirting my loving semen into the deepest depths of her flowing womanhood.

I fell asleep, while she was still quietly and carefully playing with my still-hardened penis, using her vaginal muscles to massage and swirl my invading, penetrated cock.

No dreams, this time.

The next day, Chickie and her armed escort went to the restaurant, and got her purse, coat, back pay and tips. The manager threatened lawyers, and tried to pull out a baseball bat, so he was left with a broken arm, after being slammed up against his own hot griddle, and briefly had his buttocks cooked in the fire. I doubted if he would lawyer up—bullies threaten, but seldom carry through if they can't terrorize—but I'd made sure that the uniform shirt and name-tag my armed acquaintance wore bore the name of a security company and employee that didn't exist. That was the last we heard from him.

That afternoon, I took Chickie down to Center City in Philadelphia, and enrolled her in the first semester of film school. I outfitted her with still and video cameras, batteries, lenses, tripods, audio gear, on and on. Then we went back home, and got the small mountain of gear into the basement, where we' decided would be her studio. Finally, we went to the scooter store, and got her a 150 cc Vespa and the needed accessories, insurance, etc. It turned out that my lovely filmmaker-to-be was already an expert scooter rider, having learned in England.

And last, I went up stairs, knocked on Shayla's door and—with Chickie's permission—told her what I'd done, and what I said. My lover listened to me, looked over at Chickie, behind me, and slowly smiled. She said, "Golly, I'm sorry I missed the fun. Chickie, show me how you did that thing with your thrusts, that he likes so much. Am I gonna get to be in some of your pictures? Do I have to keep my clothes on? Can you get his big penis inside me so that it shows in a video? Can I do that leg-up thing, when David first came over? Can I talk to you, and say everything that's happening?"

She added, shyly smiling, "I love the both of you so much. Make love again for me, just the way you did, while I watch. Please?"

I will never understand women.

- - - - -

A few months later, Chickie was at her classes and gone a lot, I was trying to read, down in the living room of the house. It was early evening, and Shayla had come home a couple of hours early. I was trying to read several publications about the coming financial and mortgage bubble, and when it was supposed to burst.

I said I was 'trying' to read, because Shayla was 'modeling' her latest piece of swimwear. Perhaps you've heard of the Wicked Weasel line of exotic-erotic bikinis. Well, these were considered tame by Brazilian standards, where the new rage in beachwear was a two-piece outfit, which loosely translates from the Brazilian Portugese as 'dental floss.' What there was of it.

With Shayla's very dark black skin, the screaming, day-glo red of the three scraps of sheer cloth, connected by tiny strands of thread, left nothing to the imagination. Nothing except major, overwhelming lust, of course. She was in that 'just lounging around the house with the boyfriend' mode of slithering movement, designed with malice aforethought, to create a situation of rape and penetration.

Suddenly, her mood changed, and she snuggled in, laying across my lap, with her head on my limp penis. I looked down in surprise, but not in terror. Mood swings were her stock in trade, since she was female.

"Oh pretty provider of Brazilian-accented jungle-juice, beside your pretty nipples, what's up?"

"Humph. Jungle-juice again. My poor nipples, made all hard and sensitive by your voice. Are you STILL on that race thing, wanting Mandingo sex from this poor, down-trodden, helpless, victimized black slut sex kitten?"

"Well, since you put it that way ... yes, I am," I replied grinning, knowing that, since our first night in the motel, my dark-skinned negress lover totally loved watching my hard white cock plunging in and out of her body, talking race-sex, until she started squealing and cumming.

"Oh. OK, I'm glad that's settled, 'cause it looks like you're gonna have to wallow in a lot more jungle-juice for a while. I quit my job today."

I knew she was trying to make light of it, but, despite my Shayla being thoroughly sexual and deeply mine, she was careful with her money, investments and her work. If she quit, it was because of major, deep, cluster-fucked doo-doo.

Looking up at me, bright red cloth and thread contrasting with warm, living black flesh, she said, "You're reading about the financial bubble, particularly in sub-prime mortgages. Well, the little company I worked for was bought out a few weeks ago by one of the big lenders in the U. S., and the lending policies changed. We're all ordered to make as much money as possible, doing those NINJA mortgage deals.

"NINJA?" I asked.

"No Income, No Job or Assets. The 'liar loans.' I had two folks call and come in, looking for a mortgage to buy a house. One guy barely spoke English and did yard work and landscaping, and his wife didn't speak any English at all. I tried to find out how much money they had to put down, and what size of house they needed. My God, when I found out that they were applying for a $500,000 house, and had been advised to get an Option-ARM loan, with those really low 'teaser rates, I tried to steer them away. Suddenly, my new boss literally snatched the application papers away from me, and gave them to one of the new hires, a brash, young, 'master-of-the-universe' type, white, straight out of school and arrogant as shit."

"The woman next in line just wanted a little one bedroom cottage, with a small, 15-year conventional loan. I thought this was OK, but my new boss very pointedly insisted that I finance her in an ARM, into a 12-room McMansion. When he wouldn't, I got that snatched away from me, too, with the comments about a 'smart-assed black bitch.' You know I don't take 'bitch' from anyone."

I looked down at my Shayla, kind of knowing where this discussion was heading, and said, "I don't call you that, even when I'm screaming and filling you with a million of my potential relatives."

"I know you don't, stud. You never will," she said.

I continued, "Of course, I do remember you saying ... let me think ... oh yeah, something about 'make me your slut,' and 'bang my brains out,' and 'rape me,' and 'hurt me with your big hard penis,' and ..."

"Oh, well," she said, giggling and making her thread-held boobs bounce and sway, "that's different!"

She went, saying, "I got called on the carpet, and told exactly what the new rules were. I was ordered to make the biggest loans possible, for the largest houses possible, to anyone who said they had money. When I tried to argue, I was told that I was being demoted, and my commission was being cut, and that my new supervisor was that arrogant young white prick that got my last two contacts."

"Seething, when I got back to my sesk, there was mister white prick, sitting on my desk, legs spread open, with his feet on my chair seat. He held out an application paper for a loan, and simply ordered me to sign it, sight unseen. I took it from his hand and, sight unseen, ran it into the shredder beside my desk. Then he got all mad and red-faced, and, in the hearing of about thirty people in the office, called me his 'black nigger slave,' and ordered me to get down on my knees and suck his cock."

"I threatened him and the company with a sex-harassment suit. I heard a chuckle, and, turning around, I saw my new boss standing behind me. He said, "Nothing happened. I'll swear to that, and so will everybody here, if they want to keep their jobs. So start sucking my nephew, or get out." 

"So I snatched up my coat and purse, yelled 'I quit, your muthafuckers' and walked out. I heard them screaming at me as I left, that they'd make sure I never worked in finance again, anywhere around here."

"When I cooled down, the next day (that was when you had to go back to Mansfield, to sign off on the two depositions for the civil suits from your job), I started to call my network contacts, to land another job, only to find that they'd kept their word, and that I was, quite illegally but very effectively, blacklisted in the Delaware Valley area financial services companies.

"So, my peerless penetrator and deep-drinker of my special frothy cocktail of vodka, pina colada mix and jungle-juice, you'd better plan on seeing a lot more of me, starting with sucking on my tits now and sleeping with me tonight, 'cause I don't have a job to occupy my time."

I clutched my groin, pecker and balls, in mock-agony, crying piteously, "Oh, no, another demand that I drive a steel spike into my tender penis, just to provide liquid love to a demanding female."

Shayla grinned up at me, holding both her dark, pointed breasts at the base, stiffened aurolae and nipples pointed straight up, and said, "Damn straight, luv, as Chickie would say."

Her lovely black-skinned breast nipples fitted exactly into my mouth, and I was terribly busy for the next several minutes, as I strove to push her over into orgasm. I succeeded. She shook, squealed and spasmed strongly, legs kicking and hips thrusting. She'd been taking breast sensitivity lessons from Melanie.

The front door slammed open, and then closed, as Chickie burst through the vestibule and into the foyer. Spotting Shayla and me on the couch, as she shed her coat, and grabbed up her two camers and the digital video camcorder, saying, "call out when you two start to fuck, I wanna watch, gotta go and process this shit," and burst into the dining room, into the kitchen and down the basement stairs to her editing and filming studio.

"Hurricane Chickie, I do believe," I said.

Gasping from her nipple orgasm, Shayla just smiled lazily.

More seriously, I asked, "so you're out of loan work, and you've been blacklisted pretty effectively. Have you ever thought of doing something else, related to financial stuff?"

"You know I did, you lying bastard," she giggled, "I remembered I talked to you that 2nd night in the motel, when I was up on the table in front of the window."

"well, yeah, but you gotta remember, I was a little distracted right then, since I'd become a widower, and found a black panther love-godess girlfriend, all at the same time."

"Let's see," I said, "I remember you said you studied investment banking in school, but you didn't get to complete your MBA, and had to go to work, and never went back to it. I remember you said that you had yourself for a client, and that you'd managed your portfolio well, with a 'buy-and-hold' investment strategy, and that you didn't try to 'time the market,' 'cause only fools did that. I remember that, without telling me anything specific about money, you'd lived off about half your commission income, and banked the other half."

"How did I do?" I asked.

Shayla held her eyes wide open, in semi shock, as she said, "you remember ALL that, while still porking me within an inch of my life, shooting God know how much spunk into me, there, potentially in public, something you've never done before. Damn, man, you're GOOD!"

Surging up from my lap, she kissed me very thoroughly and wetly.

Taking all my courage in hand, I looked down at my sexy lover and said, "So, can I offer you a paid position as my financial advisor? One of several to come, I'm sure. You charge by the hour, to manage my money for me. That includes my sponsorship of Chickie, her film school, her scooter and her share of the house expenses. What do you say?"

Very quietly and carefully, my coal-black lover looked up at me, wide-eyed, and said, "I'd have to know exactly what all monies and investments you had. That's everything. No financial privacy. I'd know just about everything about you."

Just as quietly and carefully, I said, "I think you do right now, lover. You know all about my penis and how to harden it. You know how long I can last inside you. You know that I'm an old softie inside. You know that I love you, and through you, I love Chickie and Melanie. You've watched and orgasmed as my hips drove my cock into your two best friends. You know I want to make love to you, and care for you and watch you succeed."

"So," I concluded, "what's your answer?"

There was a short space of time, about three long breaths long, and I heard a tiny, very feminine, "yes."

"Good," I added, starting to get up, pulling my barely-clad lover with me. "Let's go upstairs, and get started. Turn your 'professional clock' on, this instant. You can bill me at the end of the month. We'll work out what you charge, later. I'll take care of, say, half of the household expenses, until you get on your small-business feet."

I hauled her upstairs, chattering and objecting. To save time, I just slung her over my shoulder to climb the stairs to the 3rd floor, and plopped her down at my computer. I made a quick list of what folders my financial stuff was in, gave her the passwords, and then ... walked out of my own room. Leaving behind an utterly lovely, barely-dressed, sexy, African-American financial advisor, already absorbed in the details of my money's present and future.

And I spent the night in her bed, too. Mostly, in her.

-- - - -

It was sort of the same dream, but with differences. I'm dressed in dress shoes, slacks, a white shirt and a leather jacket, open at the front. I come inside. There are a lot of candles around, but half are out and some of the rest are blue and guttering. The air is foul with the smells of sweat and spilled semen, and it might have poisoned me, if I'd been breathing it. I stepped over human forms littering the day room and glanced over the pile of humanity on the pool table. I knew Sylvia was underneath the pile, but I also knew there wasn't anything I could do, then, 'cause they were all dead. The stove was giving out blasts of heat, and I saw the vent was closed, with her robe hanging on the handle, just like I'd told her not to do, so many times. I carefully inspected the the handle, to see if the small 'detent' was there, to hold the handle open, but I couldn't find it. Then, stooping and groping under the pool table, careful not to get the drools of jism on my gloved hands, I lifted out several sturdy plastic jars, full of a dense, dark material. One-by-one, I carried these out to my waiting car. Hefting the last one, I noticed that my fly was open and that I had an erection. I said to no-body, "fuck you and the night-mare you rode on, here." 

Then I snapped awake.

- - - - -



By 2007, it was clear that the mortgage bubble (to be followed by the secured-debt and unsecured credit-card debt bubbles) had burst, and that it was also clear to anyone with a lick of sense that the economy was going into the toilet. I called all the girls together in a serious meeting (that is, they were all dressed from the waist down, and I wasn't made to be hard ... just yet). I suggested that I used my money to buy out what was left of the mortgage on the house. They argued some, but not hard, as we all agreed that we were a family, and that all our sex was entirely separate from financial matters. Beside, I'd made a chunk of money, after my portfolio of investments was 're-balanced' by my new financial advisor (Shayla).