A gay sex story: Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 01 Big black cock.
Big black dick.
Big black penis.
Big black phallus.
BBC.
You have an addiction.
A black cock addiction.
It wasn’t your intention …
*
Bullshit. It was always his intention, and he knew it. He was addicted. He wanted to get addicted, and now he was. He couldn’t get enough. He was changed. Sex for him would never, ever be the same again.
The words pounded relentlessly into his ears. Images of big black cocks flashed across the laptop screen, but his eyes were closed. He’d seen the clip so many times he’d almost memorised the imagery. All he needed right now was his imagination.
He lay on his back on the mattress, gooning, his laptop next to him. His left hand was at the base of a black dildo, wedged up his tight, novice ass. His right hand teased his balls.
The dildo wasn’t big, but he imagined he was being ploughed by a ten-inch monster cock. He imagined a tall, muscular black man lay on top of him. He imagined the weight of another body bearing down upon his torso. “Fuck me,” he whimpered to himself, submitting to his imaginary black alpha god.
He stroked his cock and his breath caught. His orgasm began to accumulate. His ass pulsed and spasmed around the dildo as he exploded, drenching his stomach with cum.
He moaned deliriously, writhing on the bed. For a few brief seconds, he was a planet among the stars. He felt the contractions of his orgasm spasming.
His breathing slowly returned to normal. He gingerly extracted the plastic from his ass and rested it on a nearby towel. His ass felt like someone had driven a truck through it. He reached for the box of tissues on his bedside table and mopped up.
He stood up and cleaned his dildo in the bathroom. His head was still spinning from the power of his orgasm.
For a few hours tonight, he had their upper east side apartment to himself. His wife was out at dinner with some friends from work.
He still loved her, but their sex life had dissolved. He didn’t want to fuck her anymore. Only one thing could get him off now.
Big black cock.
He couldn’t quite recall how it all first started. One day, not so long ago, he tried to remember. He was in the office. He sat at his desk and stared out the window. Overdue documents were piled up in front of him, but as he gazed into the distance, his mind whirred back in time, trying to remember what the first trigger might’ve been.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter anymore. His curiosity had turned into an obsession, and his obsession had now become an addiction.
He couldn’t tell his wife. He couldn’t tell her any of this.
An admission would destroy everything.
He showered, taking extra special care to clean his tender butthole. He cleaned and dried his dildo, burying it at the back of his sock drawer where it would never be found.
*
His wife came home an hour later, in a happy mood, and just a little drunk. “Hey babe,” she called out, closing the apartment door behind her.
“Hey, Trina,” yelled Mitch. “How was dinner?”
Trina entered the room. She saw Mitch lying on the couch in front of the television. A half-full bottle of beer sat on a coffee table within his easy reach. Everything looked completely unremarkable. Mitch was enjoying a quiet Saturday night at home.
She’d taken her heels off and was now in the process of removing her earrings – the expensive ones Mitch bought for her last birthday.
“Babe, it was good. We went to that new Korean place on 52nd street, and all the girls from the office were there. Stacey, Ellen, Amanda, Sophie, we had a few drinks…”
Mitch’s eyes drifted back to the TV screen. He wasn’t even sure what he was watching.
“…oh, and before I forget, I need to tell you what we were talking about at dinner. You know that new work project I mentioned to you the other night?” Trina didn’t wait for a response before continuing. “So, Amanda doesn’t think we can do it with the budget we’ve been given, and I think she’s probably right, so we’ve got a few tough decisions to make next week. We could cut some corners in production and hope the client doesn’t notice, but I never feel comfortable when we do that, I always feel guilty when we pitch. We could review some of the creative touchpoints, or we could ask for a slightly bigger budget, or we could…”
Through years of practice, Mitch nodded at all the right points, giving the impression he was listening to every word she said. She never tested his recall; she never asked him any questions.
He wasn’t listening. He was miles away, dreaming about a big black cock. He imagined it was buried deep in his throat, making him gag. He imagined what it would feel like in his mouth. He imagined how warm it’d be, and how delicious it’d taste. He wondered what it’d feel like to make it spew thick ropes of creamy semen onto his tongue.
Trina droned on. Mitch couldn’t give a fuck about her friends or her work project. He still loved her as a soul, but not as a physical presence anymore. Her body was amazing for her age, but he found it difficult to get hard for her these days. He never initiated sex anymore, and thankfully, she rarely did either. Fucking his wife was far too much effort, especially considering how much of a slut his handpussy was.
He’d never told her, but he couldn’t care less if she cheated. It didn’t matter to him what she wanted. All that mattered was what *he* wanted, and it wasn’t her anymore.
*
Mitch was born into a wealthy family. He went to all the right schools, joined all the right clubs and made all the right connections before studying law at Harvard. He looked and dressed like a corporate professional. He wore a suit and tie to the office during the week, and on weekends, he regularly dressed in expensive polo shirts, casual slacks and smart loafers.
He was a lawyer for a major multinational company. He travelled regularly for work, but he rarely explored his destinations. Most of his trips were blurs of offices, hotels and airports, with very little time left over for pleasure. His wife worked in advertising. They were both well paid, which is why they could afford a two-bedroom apartment in a good building on the upper east side without going into unnecessary debt.
His wealth was meagre compensation for having been born with a small penis. He might’ve inherited cash, but he didn’t inherit genes.
Over a pot of Sunday morning coffee, he thought about the city he lived in and the people that occupied it. Millions of people were packed onto this tiny island, but the communities that inhabited it were anything but homogenous. The slice of Manhattan he lived in had a history of opulence, power and ‘old money’, but the sense of privilege that came with that endowment was slowly beginning to fragment and dissolve.
In terms of wealth and opportunity, the upper east side felt a million miles away from Harlem, but geographically, they were adjoined neighbourhoods.
“I’m heading out for a walk, Trina,” he said, finishing the rest of his coffee. “I need some fresh air.”
“OK, babe,” she replied. “Whatever you like.” She assumed he wouldn’t stray too far from home.