Chapter 3
The big proposition, it is not as impassioned, as dramatic as he had imagined.
But then, these are not girls; they are women.
Very straightforward, very matter-of-fact.
They could have been ordering stuff out of the warehouse, for all the desire, all the hunger for him their tone implied.
"We'd like to treat you to an afternoon in a morel somewhere, unless you have other plans."
He looks from one to the other, smiling (he hopes) suavely. Other plans?
How about going home to my room and jerking myself off?
Of course, I will consider this an entirely viable alternative.
Aloud, "Nothing that can't wait."
And they are pleased, but not ecstatic, at his acceptance.
Naturally.
They are women of the world, talking to a man of the world.
Which appears now to be adjusting itself to the proper channel, at long last.
You know what they say-screw a white chick and change your luck.
They walk back to their stuff and gather it up, the women putting on' shorts and halters, James shorts and a tank top, and proceed to the parking lot.
"We're in the white Continental. "You can follow us."
They paid for the room!
They did not mention it, did not hesitate.
No sooner were the cars next to each other at the motel than Cynthia was in and out of the office, key in hand.
And now, they are in the room, a double.
Cynthia checks out the bathroom, returning to say, "Shower stall. We can all take one together."
They strip.
And he notices how much bigger they are, now that they are in close quarters rather than the great outdoors.
And he hopes that their perception of him is likewise enhanced.
The big black stud and his two big blonde nymphs, about to go at it.
With a vengeance! he tells himself.
He will make up for lost time.
Already he is off to a good start, with two rather than one.
Nature paying him back for past omissions, with interest.
And now, they are in the shower stall, passing each other the soap, scrubbing everywhere, but concentrating on the parts that count most.
And James scrubs the crack of his ass carefully and in depth.
In case-in case.
And he grins to himself at the thought. Maybe-
He will see.
Because luck is that way.
It resembles tragedy, in that it never rains but what it pours.
Let it be, he prays.
And now, they are drying off.
And Cynthia helps herself to two handfuls of his protruding buttocks.
"I couldn't resist," she says.
"Why try?" he asks.
They chuckle.
And Helen strips one of the beds, down to the bottom sheet. She looks at Cynthia.
"You two go right ahead," Cynthia says. "I'll think of something."
Helen does not hesitate.
She centers herself on the bed, head on the pillow, legs raised and spread, bent at the knees, breasts billowing to either side of her chest.
James does not hesitate.
He crouches before her and wallows his face into her crotch.
His tongue finds her clit and he begins rolling it round and round with the tip.
Cynthia does not hesitate.
She gets onto the foot of the bed, spreads the cheeks of his ass apart, and begins to rim him, just as he has dared to imagine.
Magic! he thinks. I make a wish and immediately it comes true.
He has but one pessimistic thought: If this is a 'ream and I wake up, I will definitely and mmediately kill myself.
But it is not a dream.
That, or life has become one big, continuous dream for him.
Because the taste, the texture, the response of the large, writhing, voluptuous, white body-they are all real.
As is the feel of the tongue on his ass hole as Cynthia pursues her fascination with his exquisitely molded ass in intimate detail.
And now, he is fucking Helen with his tongue.
In and out it goes, its contact with the rubbery, erect clit constant at all times.
Because, for all his excitement and wonder, James is determined that he shall acquit himself with expertise as well as verve and enthusiasm.
He will show them technique as though this is but standard fare for him.
Shit yes!
I go to the beach every day and pick up white women who rake me to a motel and pay for the room and rim me before! Fuck.
All us black studs do that, didn't you know?
Shee-it, ain' nuthin' but par' fa' de course, man!
Really!
Let it be so, he thinks.
And now. he feels his prong throb to full, vibrant life.
He is up.
His mighty baton is prepared to do its thing. He moves slowly, smoothly. Because Cynthia's expert tongue is still doing its thing.
And the tip is beginning to probe the center of his large, mauve star of an ass hole.
And he does not wish to interfere with that action in any way.
On the other hand, there is this other beauty, whose hot, clear pussy drool tells him that she is ripe for the fucking.
"Aaah!"
As he shafts into her, long, thick, heavy.
And the feeling in his ass hole is exquisite, but the warm, smooth, wet, even pressure that makes every millimeter of his cock tingle with lascivious arousal is irresistible.
It seems to him as though his hips move under their own power.
So that he is, quite literally, merely along for the ride.
Because, if the insertion has yielded an irresistible impact, then motion is rendered an absolute compulsion.
The motion is reflexive, automatic.
It has been practiced, it has been done so long in his mind that the body is programmed.
And the big black cock rakes Helen back.
And she is young again.
And enthusiastic, vibrant, alive!
And she thrills to her rejuvenation.
Which continues.
So that, with each thrust of the mighty monolith, she is energized.
As Cynthia, behind them, explores the action in detail.
She spreads the cheeks of his ass so that she has a clear view of his ass hole, as he pistons in and out of Helen's drooling pussy. , And she runs her fingers over his big balls, locked tightly against the base of his heavy equipment.
And she crouches down so that she can check the insertion.
And sees Helen's juicy pussy lips stretched into a rounded mouth as the thick, long shaft plunges up and down, up and down, disappearing and reappearing with great regularity.
And now, the pace picks up.
As James warms to his task.
And Helen, in response, also becomes hotter and hotter.
So that now the two of them are in internal communication.
And they trade sensations back and forth, back and forth.
As the sexual electricity surges through the two of rhem in an unbroken circuit.
Faster and faster the waves of lascivious sensation undulate within them in a never-ending circle.
Stronger and stronger the impulses become.
And she and he, the two of them, are climbing the rainbow of their shared pleasure.
As vista after vista of sexual pleasure open up before them.
Ever novel, ever familiar, and always sought, the intimate flow, sensation after sensation in ever-strengthening, ever-quickening progression reaffirms its inner truth within them.
And now, Cynthia gets off the bed and stands beside it.
So that she can get the broader view of the action.
And see Helen's face and body, flushed with her sexual excitement.
And she knows that the action cannot continue very much longer.
They are both too far gone.
Because the action may seem effortless to James, but his body is panting and sweating and working very hard.
And he is not alone.
Because Helen's chest is heaving, the heavy mammaries rolling rhythmically round and round, responding radically to the rapid, rapacious ramrodding.
And, as she expects, they come.
Spurt after spurt of hot, thick jism inject themselves deep inside Helen's reflexively spasming vagina.
As her multiple orgasms milk the black baton of its load.
Cynthia watches, fascinated, as Helen's coming cunt coaxes creamy clots from the colossal, corded, climaxing column.
And now, they are finished, both of them.
And they get up off the bed, rolling from opposite sides.
And Helen avoids Cynthia's inquiring glance as she goes to the shower with James.
Thinking, What's the use of mere words?
Because it must be experienced to be believed.
And besides, in Cynthia's case, it just might not work.
Perhaps it is because she has missed her youth, her college days more than she thought that this, this ... rejuvenation has transpired.
Nigger fucking.
It was good then, but now it was nothing short of magic.
Unless this is a one time deal, a temporary aberration, the reaction to a protracted case of idle boredom.
Which, she considers, is not beyond the realm of possibility. Will you listen to me, she tells herself. Looking a gift horse in the mouth.
Miss Psychoanalysis here.
Knows all, sees all, understands all.
All this from one healthy boff from a very healthy black stud.
And James is thrilled.
One down, one to go.
And he has no qualms, no doubts, but that he will impress Cynthia as much as he evidently has Helen.
He has had women before.
And they have climaxed, big some of them, but nothing like this.
And he knows white women are not hotter than black.
If anything, according to the experts at the pool hall, it is the other way around.
But not today, he reflects. At least, not this first one.
"If you'd like a rest, I'll understand," Cynthia says, when they emerge from the bathroom.
"Well now," he replies, "there's rest an' then there's rest.
"Now, if I was to get onto the bed like this-"
And he flops onto the bed, hands behind his head, long cock flopping heavily onto his flat stomach, legs spread flat before him.
And Cynthia takes the cue.
"And if I were to get between your legs like this-"
And she crouches between his legs.
And takes the head of his cock into her mouth.
"Ah thuck yur khak wa thl'-"
And she begins sucking his cock.
And does not speak further.
Because all present get the picture quite explicitly.
As Cynthia crouches there, concentrating on sucking his cock.
Which very soon begins to respond.
So that Cynthia feels the large, firm head swell and tighten.
Even as the organ beneath it throbs to vibrant life.
And James casually (he can afford to be casual now; it has become his world) reaches down and weighs a heavy breast with one hand as he watches the top of her head bobbing up and down.
And he is pleased that she is so devoted to his mighty cock.
Which would have come up on its own, simply because he willed it.
But let her do her thing.
He is confident.
And ready for what comes next. Cynthia takes her time.
She has not sucked black cock since her college days.
This takes her back.
James is even the correct age.
And certainly in the correct condition.
As his huge cock is held straight up in one hand so that she can move her head at exactly the right angle to give him- Deep throat!
Even in his wildest imaginings, James has not foreseen this.
But now he squirms with pleasure, reveling in it.
All of it, not just the deep throat, not just Cynthia's ample breasts, not just Helen, whom he has just fucked, standing there watching, but the whole thing.
From the beginning.
How it happened.
It was no big deal.
Naturally.
He was as naturally entitled to this, all of it, as he was to breathe air.
It was his world, as it was meant to be.
It was the beginning of things as they should be.
And had not been, until now.
But all that was changing.
Or perhaps had already changed.
And now, he comes to a decision.
Why not push his luck."
Because, if it was as it should be, if the world had suddenly changed in his favor, there would be no such thing as pushing his luck.
His luck was boundless, infinite, a trampoline off which he could bounce as high and as often as he wished.
So he gently extracts himself from Cynthia's working head.
And gets behind her.
And spreads the cheeks of her ass.
And rims her as she rimmed him before.
Except that he does not stop with merely chewing her ass hole and sticking the tip of his tongue into the center of her anal star.
Rather, he inserts it and pushes it in, in, into her.
As her large ass hole yields to the lingual onslaught.
And she realizes what he is about to do.
And welcomes it.
And he is thorough, as he stretches her ass hole, relaxing her anal sphincter, until he is sure he will fit.
And now, he is on his knees behind her. And polishing his knob with saliva. And resting it against her slackened, waiting ass hole.
And keeping the big cheeks of her ass spread between the thumb and fingers of one hand as, with the other, he buttons the head of his engorged monster into her ass hole.
And now, he grasps the flare of her hips in both hands:
"Unnh!"
She moans with pleasure as he pushes steadily into her.
And feels the warm, smooth, wet, yielding tissues of her rectum part before the battering ram of his knob.
And embrace his long, thick, black shaft in a circular, even caress.
As Helen watches the juncture of cock and ass hole, which has become a large, round, smooth mouth surrounding the inserted cylinder of hard, hot, live meat.
And now, as she continues to watch, the meat piston begins to move.
In and out, in and out, in slow, short strokes, at first.
But now, the stroke lengthens.
Disappearing and reappearing, the long, thick shaft moves in and out of Cynthia's ass hole.
And now, he pulls back until only the head remains inside her.
And now, he shoves forward all the way, until his abdominal muscles bump against the rounded masses of her buttocks.
And James debates with himself.
Should he ride it all the way home like this?
Or should he pull out and reinsert between the lips just below?
But this feels great to him, just as it is.
As her bowels exquisitely massage his lunging, plunging cock.
And now, he continues to hold onto one hip, as he reaches forward and beneath her.
To where her heavy breasts hang hugely down.
And he weighs and fondles them.
And feels their nipples go firm and rubbery with arousal.
And continues to play with the big boobs, as though somehow memorizing them.
And now, he releases the one he was playing with.
And lets his hand travel down the center line of her body.
To where her bush begins.
And he finds her c lit.
And now, his finger rolls it, round and round. And he feels it too engorge and turn firm and rubbery.
And slippery, as her hot, clear pussy juices begin to flow.
And now, he is finger fucking her, even as he continues to plow her ass with his rampant intruder.
As the both of them grow hotter and hotter And the flush of sexual arousal turns her face and body ruddy.
And his own dark skin shows rosy beneath the dusky surface.
And he says to himself, fuck it!
Enough of technique, of control, of holding back. of proving his point.
He has proved his fucking point!
And now, the time has come to leave go, to let it happen.
And he does.
He is floating free, he and Cynthia, now become a single entity.
And Cynthia also rises, transported in time and space back to her college days.
Nigger fucking.
There is nothing like it, for losing oneself in lascivious, carefree, raw sex.
And she knows why Helen avoided eye contact when her turn was over.
It was because she was, however temporarily, not here in time and space.
She was in the thrilling yesteryear of her vanished youth.
As is Cynthia right now. Yes, this takes her back.
To the deliciousness of sensation is added that of memory.
And she revels in both.
Because she knows that he has let himself go.
So that now his fucking of her, his fingering of her, are unrestrained.
And if he is unrestrained, then she is no less so.
So that the two of them, bodies overheating, charged by the ever-increasing intensity of the sexual electricity that races through them in a closed loop, soar upward, dizzy, disoriented, crashing through level after level of sexual pleasure, racing toward the summit.
And now, they linger there, hovering, quivering.
As the pressure of the pleasure beyond pleasure bursts their safety valves.
And they are coming and coming, the two of them.
And they jerk and writhe, this way and that.
But always the contact remains firm, complete.
And it is only after they have finished completely, the spasms of her multiple orgasms and those of his spurting climax, that they pull apart, with Cynthia dropping forward and down, unplugging herself from his still tumescent cock.
And now, they shower, with Cynthia paying meticulous attention to her invaded orifices.
So that he knows, understands that this was their last act, at least for this time.
And this is confirmed when, coming out of the bathroom, he sees that Helen is already fully dressed.
And they dress in silence, James and Cynthia.
And in silence, they take their leave of each other, he and the two women.
And it is only after they have pulled out, driving a car such as only pimps and major drug suppliers would possess in his part of town, that he realizes that nobody in the real world, his world, knows what has just happened, other than himself.
So that he slumps over his steering wheel, rubbing his forehead on his wrists.
It was real, and yet, it was not.
If it was real, then his recounting of it would have credibility.
It does not.
Not even to himself, and he was there. The sound of it, in the recounting, is that of fantasy.
He would gain no points at the pool hall for this one.
They would call him a liar. And he would have to defend his honor. And they would have to defend themselves. And he would end up with teeth or nose broken. Or worse, cut or shot.
And that would be reality, his reality, the reality he had grown up with, and with which he had lived all his life.
Violence and the threat of violence.
Poverty and the threat of more poverty.
The temptations of the criminal life and the fear of apprehension and punishment.
Those things were reality.
So that they would he right and he would he wrong.
He had just lived a lascivious, beautiful lie.