****** Stingray by The Lake Angel ******
===============================================================================

Stingray


From Ulyssa Kincaid's Journal

I've said that Stingray Norton made me a fan of boxing, when what I really mean
is that Stingray Norton has made me a fan of Stingray Norton. First, he has all
those incredible muscles, so in those live or televised moments when he
alternates his fluid motions with those staccato, jabbing movements, he is
visually hypnotizing to watch. Indeed the whole sports world has been virtually
spellbound by his style. On a personal level, nearly everyone at my work has
been dying to ask me if I fucked the up and coming heavyweight champion of the
world when he was in town a few months back. I guess that's why I've written
all this down.

I'd been calling all over the city on Monday and Tuesday trying to tie up the
loose ends of Stingray Norton's impending visit to promote the Symphony
Orchestra for our advertising agency. We'd hoped that we could persuade
minority concert goers to attend the symphony by using a non-traditional
approach to make our appeal to the city's African American populace, and
Stingray was a great choice. However that meant that I'd be tied up all day
making Wednesday reservations for Ray, his wife, his managers, trainers,
accountants, army buddies and all the rest of his entourage. Except that Ray
threw all of my plans out the window by arriving in all by himself a day early,
renting a car at the airport, and checking into a small hotel just to the south
of town.

Mr. Ray Norton stood at the agency reception desk Tuesday afternoon, scary,
battle scarred, the most solid hunk of gristle and bone ever to arrive in an
expensive, perfectly tailored suit, and he wanted to know about his lines for
the next day's shoot.

Well, as you can guess, everyone panicked. My boss ushered Stingray into my
office, said five or six totally unintelligible words, and ducked out. There I
stood wearing yesterday's pantyhose, which I'd already hitched up two or three
times that day. My hair was shapelessly frizzled and my skin slightly flushed
from my noon-hour stopover at the health club. To top it all off, I'd been
debating about getting my hair colored for over a week to hide some of the new
gray hairs that have been sneaking in daily since I passed the age of thirty.
The only thing I did right that day as to wear a bright orange, yellow, and
brown scarf with a stylish print, which I thought, looked rather African.

I was appalled, chagrined, and totally flabbergasted. I must have said about
sixty-five dumb things in a row, until Ray calmed me down. Yes, you read
correctly. The man may be the up and coming heavyweight champ of the world, but
he's a charismatic charmer as well. He managed to put me at ease and make me
stop feeling like a complete idiot by inviting me to an early dinner.

"A little food to nourish the body, and some companionship to nourish the
soul."

I swear to you that those were his exact words. I agreed to the suggestion, of
course, since his words formed an erotic image in my mind. Anyone else would
have known that it was the wrong image, but at that moment, it felt so right to
me that I clung to his every word. In fact, when he suggested that we ask a few
more people, I felt so possessive--so jealous--that I made up a story tying the
rest of the office to a deadline for another client. That was that. Stingray
was mine for the evening. Deciding to stay in the city, we chose a really ritzy
place just off the river. As I accompanied him down the aisle of one of
downtown's exclusive restaurants, we attracted a lot of attention. Sharp,
impeccably dressed in his expensive cream colored suit, and Gucci shoes,
Stingray Norton was the center of attention both good and bad. The subject of a
number of veiled glances and stares increased, as he took my arm. Reactions in
the restaurant ran from the heady allure of recognizing a sports celebrity, to
the mild discomfort that most people substitute for the old tried and true
racial hostilities. Of course, those reactions included the fact that Stingray
was a large African American black, while I, his companion for the evening, was
most distinctly not.

Attempting to deal with my own discomfort, I loosened my scarf. If I'd really
wanted to remain aloof and demure in this touchy situation, my actions back at
the office caused me to blow it. For a few seconds an illogical dread over
dining out in public with a twenty-three year old black man knotted my stomach.
I found myself crossing and uncrossing my legs waiting for my nerves to settle.
I couldn't help wishing that I looked younger than my thirty-one years. Thank
goodness that even beyond his six foot four inch frame, Ray was an emotional
tower of pure strength for his young age.

In spite of his faultless manners and wonderful company, our dinner date seemed
to creep by. Thank God they had my favorite Sangria, I must have downed three
glasses of it by the time dinner was served. Then I swilled another glass to
accompany each course throughout the evening. Without warning Stingray leaned
over and asked me, "Would you care to dance?"

"Dance--really?" Then I giggled and let several glasses of wine answer.

"Sure, Ray! Why not?"

I know my mind was affected by the Sangria, because moments later I as out on
the dance floor with a twenty-something African American professional prize
fighter as my partner. Funny thing I discovered later--people act as though
when you dance in public, it's assumed that you must have been dancing in
private as well. My, my! The stares we got for the next fifteen minutes. Indeed
looking up at his full height from my five foot four, I was thankful that I'd
worn pumps today. I needed the extra three inches of heel just to feel secure
in the fact that he continued to notice me.

Here I was a thirty-one year old adult Caucasian woman left to my own impulses,
and yet, I too wondered if I would find myself yearning for some other ritual
dance later. What would I do in such a case? Why was I even thinking about it?
My God, was there some special chemistry between us? In this day and age he
might be some kind of walking time bomb of a deadly infection or even some
potentially threatening mental aberration. Still I'd made up my mind that maybe
someday I wanted to experience that final rite of passage with this particular
man.

I walked very closely to Stingray Norton as we left the dance floor. Later, in
a secluded section of his hotel lobby, Stingray stopped me. "Well, guess I'd
better let you get home to your significant other."

"What! Without a good night kiss?"

Ray placed his lips down to confront mine. Surprisingly there was no taste of
the exotic. His kiss was merely a man's kiss, but my response was remarkably
eager.

"Hey," Ray murmured. "That kind of thing is liable to start something!" I
shrugged. "Guess I thought you wanted to start something."

"I just thought I'd take you to dinner and go dancing."

Saying nothing more, I held tightly to him. Finally a voice inside of me
admitted, "Maybe I'm the one who wanted more." I didn't realize that the voice
inside had spoken aloud, until he queried softly.

"You really mean that, Ulyssa? We just go back to my room and fuck?"
Embarrassed, I lowered my eyes from his. "Well, no," I replied. My eyes
focussed below his belt line, subconsciously checking on his non-verbals. His
reply was so obvious by this time that I nearly blushed. "But I'd be willing to
make love." Hanging around him in the hallway made me giddy, so I was relieved
when we finally arrived at his hotel room. Inside the door, he opened his
strong mahogany arms once again, and this time, I walked directly into them.
Falling into his grasp, my breasts seemed larger and softer pressed against his
chest. Nuzzling my neck, he continued to kiss me all over my cheeks, my
forehead, even the corners of my eyes.

I felt his heart beating and his breath catching. Stingray, himself, was
shaking. Backing off slightly, I looked up into his liquid black eyes, and
then, opening my mouth slightly, we moved instinctively gently into yet another
kiss and I collapsed into his arms.

Moments later my hands clumsily undid button after button of his shirt.
Excitedly I ripped at the leather and brass buckle of his belt, and eventually,
at the zipper of his slacks.

"Whoa, slow down," he laughed "I'm not going anywhere."

"I have to go to the bathroom," I said suddenly, and moving swiftly I dashed
for the toilet. The release of that stream of urine helped to jolt me back to
reality. What in God's name was I doing there? How could I be here with him?
Still, after I relieved myself, I knew that I'd march right back into the hotel
bedroom and into Stingray's mahogany arms. So I left my shoes, panties, and
pantyhose in a crumpled heap upon the bathroom floor. He was waiting outside
the bathroom door--totally nude.

I gasped as my eyes fixed upon Ray's masculinity. "Y... you... you're so big!"
Most men are endowed with a penis which is about the same length as the
dominant hand. Though Ray's hands were sizable, even massive, the length of his
thick, blunt cock was longer than his hands.

He leaned down to kiss me again, brushing my throat with his lips when I let my
head fall back. His long, large fingers were surprisingly nimble as he peeled
away the layers of clothing that surrounded me. I loved the feel of the warm
room air against my skin as my clothes fell away. I also liked the yearning
look on Ray's face as he stripped me down.

Then, without any strain on his part, he picked me up off the floor and carried
me across the room to the bed. We tumbled down into the commercial queen-size
bed, and my breasts jiggled enticingly as I squirmed around the bed. It must
have stimulated him as well, because I found myself twisting helplessly under
the touch of his tongue as it oscillated from breast to breast, nipple to
nipple, dancing around the dark circle of my areola as well.

Lifting my breasts with his supple fingers, gathering the white flesh
feverishly with his black hands, He began to suck my nipples hard--one after
another. Then kissing the hot curve of my full-figured breasts from underneath,
Ray slipped my skirt down past my thighs and away from my skin. His surprise at
my naked hips and loins made him smirk. He backed off and started to say
something, but stopped before he uttered one word. After the pause, Stingray
sighed, "I'd better put that raincoat on, eh?"

My hand discovered Ray was so hard that he was just about to drip--in fact, my
fingers wiped away a droplet of natural lubrication from the very aperture that
tipped his dark masculine organ. If it wasn't for the pending desensitivity
from the condom wrap, there would be absolutely no stopping him now.

"Let me put it on you," I suggested.

"Sure," Ray replied. "That's probably wise. Anyway, at least we can make love
now."

"Oh, what the hell," I responded, stroking his latex covered penis lightly with
my fingers. "Let's fuck!"

In a fit of impatience, he brought me close. I could feel the heat of his hands
clutching the smooth flesh of my back and then kneading my buttocks longingly.
Soon he was up atop of my prone torso, and nestling his long blunt organ
against my abdomen. Then Stingray did a curiously pleasant thing to my naked
loins with his erection. He spanked the tip of his penis a few times eagerly
into the prickly, curling thatch of pubic hair at the vertex of my thighs. As
shocking as it might seem now, it's rather tantalizing when it happens. Pushing
avidly up against the swelling lips between my legs once, twice, three times,
five times, and then we both moaned in unison as his sixth movement gained
purchase of an inch or so into the interior warmth of my supple, accommodating
vagina. My face and breasts flushed red as I rose from the pillow to pull him
closer to me, my mouth stretching up to reach his.

"Take me," I whispered, as I opened under him.

"Ahh," Stingray said as he pushed his impatient erection inward. "At last...
the birth canal."

"What!" I said breathlessly, as I engulfed his hard and all too solid flesh
deeply inside me. His words caused me to shudder beneath him. "I always give my
partner a heavy dose of reality. I find that it makes my own fantasies even
stronger." Plunging his provocative presence into my vagina again and again,
his powerful pelvis slammed down against mine. Beginning to softly moan under
his plunging ministrations, I whispered, "Tell me about your fantasy."

His murmur was almost hypnotic as his phrases matched the rhythm of our bodies.
"I meet a strange woman in a strange city, usually someone white, although she
might be oriental or maybe a light skinned Hispanic; and, anyway, we end up
fuhh... well, making love." He paused. "Hey, are you married?"

Involuntarily, I moaned. "Funny time to ask that question."

"C'mon, tell me."

I nodded. "Six years."

"Any kids?"

"No," I replied. "We're a career couple. Fast money--separate vacations--Hell,
we hardly see each other during the week."

"Good," he chuckled. "Anyway, she tells me that she and her husband or
boyfriend have been trying to have children for years, but they haven't been
successful, or the husband blames the wife. You know, something like that."
Yes, I knew all about that, but I didn't say anything.

Meanwhile, we're both breathing hard and enjoying our ardent coupling, and he
continued to tell me about his fantasy:

"We spend a few days and nights together, and then I go back to my wife and she
goes back to her husband, and that appears to be that. Later she discovers that
she's finally gotten pregnant after all that time, so she carries the baby all
the way through term and delivery."

"I think I see," I expressed as the nerves lining my inner sheath began to zing
out of control. "So what happens when the baby comes?"

"I get a call from her. She's frantic. She's in tears because her husband just
walked out on her. To everyone's shock and surprise, the baby's black..."

"And it's yours," I added.

"Right, we both have to acknowledge our affair and I have to publicly declare
the baby's paternity."

"You're serious, aren't you?" I asked breathlessly. "Is that really your
fantasy?"

When he grunted and nodded, I immediately pushed against his abdomen.

"Pull out, Ray."

"What?" He stopped moving. "What do you mean?"

"Pull out!" What I said next astonished even me. "You're only living part of
your fantasy."

When he withdrew from my cunt, I lunged over him and quickly peeled away the
condom which was working its way up and off his blunt erection on its own.

"There," I said. "Now this'll make your little fantasy a bit more dangerous."

This time when I let him probe deeply into my loins, it was a feeling close to
that fear I first felt when I lost my virginity. Though Ray felt hungrier, even
rougher, he also felt warmer and gentler too, since he didn't have to be as
aggressive now that the latex sheath didn't hold back the sensation. This time
we were not only lying naked together, but he was probing naked within me. As I
lay exposed beneath him, my pale skinned body was totally vulnerable to his
extraordinary potency.

I flung my arms out onto the bed, as he got to his knees, pulled my hips up off
the bed, and held my loins up perpendicular to his intimidating organ. Very
carefully Stingray took total control of our rhythm, driving himself deep into
my underbelly and then easing himself slowly back and away. This slow paced
sexual torment lasted for what seemed like hours. Then, clinging like some
strong gnarled ivy onto my fleshy trellis, Ray planted me against his bed and
straddled me close once again, forcing all his weight and strength down on me.

We were both too far gone to stop. Ray rode me--hard! All that tension and
ferocity that some men keep pent up within themselves boiled up to the surface
as Stingray Norton's face twisted into an intriguing grimace. Closing his eyes
and voicing a grunt, oblivious now, to anything but his own need, Ray gave up
all control of his body.

With a gut wrenching shudder, Stingray Norton, the African American
prizefighter destined to be middleweight champion of the world, exploded inside
of me in a heady burst of heat and sticky liquid.

"Gotcha," he panted as he collapsed over me.

Like a pool of rich, thick gravy simmering in a heated dish the color of
porcelain flesh, I could feel Ray's semen pouring into me. Finally it was over.
He and I lay conjoined, soaking in each other's wetness, exhausted and spent,
and very, very sticky.

Gotcha? My God, he's so black, and I had removed our only contraceptive.
Imagine having a child by Stingray Norton. What could I have been thinking?
Well, it was great fun while it lasted, but it was done now, wasn't it?

Well, not quite yet.

I suppose I shouldn't have, but I encouraged Ray to relive his fantasy again
early Wednesday morning--and Wednesday night and Thursday morning as well. His
body and mine continued to play his fantasy game; the one Stingray called
Gotcha!

So now months later, when anyone asks, I tell them that Stingray Norton turned
me on to prize fighting, but, in reality he's a prize who is as much of a lover
as he is a fighter. I find I still admire his incredible muscles, his precise
staccato jabs, and the fluidity of his style. Let's face it, memories of my
nights with Stingray Norton still turn me on--period.

I still dream about Ray and his little fantasy. Especially now that one of the
agency photographers has asked me to model for a client's new line of maternity
fashions.

"Gotcha!"

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