A gay sex stories: Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 04 Mitch woke up on Saturday morning feeling like someone had crashed a truck sideways into his asshole at high speed, and his throat felt like someone had force-fed him a concrete pipe.
He felt used and abused. He’d always wanted to know what it’d feel like to wake up after being destroyed by a pair of big black cocks. He knew exactly what it felt like now. He was sore, but it felt fucking unbelievable.
He lay in bed, tingling with the afterglow of last night’s sex. And then he tried to get up.
His asshole screamed, his thighs refused to obey his command, and his knees began to buckle. He walked unsteadily and bowlegged, like he was recovering from invasive bowel surgery. And in a sense, he was — he’d just had his guts rearranged.
Whenever he fucked himself, he knew how hard to push, and when to slow down, back off or stop. He knew his limits. But last night was the first time he’d given his pussy to another man. Not only did he surrender to Leroy’s thick dick and firm grip, he told him to leave it all out on the park. He wanted to be pounded into submission, and that’s exactly what he got.
He made it to the bathroom and did what he needed to do, then desperately crawled back into bed. Trina was lying next to him, and she woke up briefly as he pulled the sheets back up over his body.
“Morning, babe,” she said. Her eyelids fluttered as she went back to sleep. She didn’t get a response from her husband. Mitch wasn’t thinking about her. He was still thinking about last night.
He’d made it back to bed without his wife noticing his physical discomfort, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to hide it from her all day. He needed a credible, believable answer for when the interrogation inevitably began. He dreamed up a response and mentally filed it away before drifting back to sleep.
He couldn’t tell her the truth about last night. Not ever. He couldn’t tell her that he’d just had the wildest sex of his life, being systematically wrecked by two fit, muscly black men. And that moment when Leroy kissed him after ruining his asshole … when he felt his fat gangster tongue in his mouth … the tongue that moments earlier had been eating his pussy … that feeling of total submission … looking up dreamily into Leroy’s sexy, dark, penetrating eyes, and that beautiful fucking nose ring … he remembered that kiss, the best kiss he’d ever experienced in his life.
He remembered what Leroy’s deep kiss did to him. He remembered feeling his weak load dribbling uncontrollably down the inside of his leg. How many times did they make him cum last night? He’d lost count.
Trina woke about an hour later. She padded to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. Mitch couldn’t resist the aroma, and his nose dragged him out of bed towards his morning fix.
She noticed Mitch was moving strangely, like every step was an effort. “Are you OK, babe?”
Mitch played dumb. “Huh?”
“You’re walking really weird, Mitch. Like, it looks like you’re in pain.”
“Oh, *this*?” He gestured innocently towards the lower half of his body, trying not to wince in agony. “I’m fine,” he replied.
“But … you look … uncomfortable. You look hurt. Do you need to see a doctor?”
“No, there’s no need for that.” It was time for Mitch to roll out his alibi. “Maybe I should explain, babe. While you were out last night, I went for a run.”
Trina nearly laughed out of sheer disbelief. “You? You went for a run? Like, what? You took some exercise? Last night?”
Mitch puffed his chest out. “Yeah. I mean, come on. Gimme a break. I’m not getting any younger, am I?”
For the moment, she was prepared to take her husband’s claim at face value. “Where did you run?”
“In the park.”
“You ran in Central Park? In the darkness?”
“Yeah, babe, it’s totally safe. Haven’t you ever been there at night? It’s all a myth. Besides, it wasn’t completely dark while I was out.”
“OK, so tell me why you’re walking like I need to buy you a coffin on ebay? Don’t tell me you got mugged again?”
“No, babe. Maybe I just didn’t stretch enough beforehand. Simple explanation.”
Trina couldn’t decide whether she bought his story or not. She thought back to last night. Sure, she was a little drunk when she got home, but Mitch gave her every impression he’d spent the entire evening in the apartment doing absolutely nothing, like he usually did when she was out. And she didn’t smell any sweaty sports clothes when she came home, either. But on the other hand, maybe he was telling the truth. He spent a lot of his daytime sitting at a desk, so maybe he was worried about getting fat. He wasn’t a prime physical specimen, but he wasn’t out of shape either — maybe he just wanted to maintain what he had. He was only about thirty years old, but Trina wondered if these were the early warning signs of a midlife crisis.
After their morning coffee, they headed out to their favourite café for breakfast. This was their regular Saturday morning routine. Usually, they’d take a brisk stroll, but today, their progress was slow. Trina felt like she was walking with a fossil.
They reached the coffee shop and were led to a table. Mitch sat down very gently and carefully. His wife ordered a plain croissant, some toast and another coffee, but he ordered a full breakfast — eggs, sausages, bacon and hash browns. A heart attack on a plate.
Their food arrived, and Trina tried to reconcile Mitch’s apparent sudden health-kick with the plateful of hot cholesterol sitting under his nose. She said nothing.
That afternoon, Trina put on a load of washing. She opened the hamper and discovered Mitch’s pants from last night. They were wet, and she noticed a prominent discolouration at the crotch. She wasn’t sure what it was, and she wasn’t sure how to treat it. “Hey, Mitch,” she called. There was a tone of uncertainty in her voice.
Mitch was sitting uncomfortably on the couch, thumbing through a magazine, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his ass. “Yeah?”
“Can you come here for a second?”
‘Oh, fuck,’ Mitch thought to himself — ‘she’s in the laundry hamper.’ He slowly made his way to their small laundry nook. It was barely big enough to accommodate a washing machine, a small clothes dryer, and a sink.
“I’m just curious, babe, but what happened to your pants? You were wearing these ones yesterday, right? For some reason, they’re all wet.” She held them up to show her husband.
Like an arrow, Mitch’s mind shot back to last night. He remembered touching Leroy’s huge BBC under the table at a bar in Harlem, and how it made him cum in his pants. No way could he tell her. “Yeah. I know, babe. Sorry, I should’ve told you what happened.”
Trina impatiently placed her hands on her hips. “Told me *what*?” she sighed.
“When I was out running last night, I took a bottle of water with me, and I spilled it.”
“Wait a second. Let me get this straight. You spilled water … on your pants … while you were running? Like, how the hell does that even happen? Were you rehydrating through your dick?”
“I wish I could clearly remember exactly the exact sequence of events,” he bullshitted, “but I can’t. Must’ve been all the endorphins flowing through my system from the run.”
Trina wasn’t done. “And these aren’t the type of pants people usually go running in, either. Most people run in sports shorts or track pants. These are chinos. You wear these pants to the office. Nobody goes running in a pair of tailored fucking chinos.” She didn’t wait for an answer before continuing her line of inquiry. “And what’s this stain on the front? Looks a little like cum to me. Were you so horny while you were jogging that you stopped to jerk off in the park? Or did a pigeon shit on your dick while you doing crunches?”
Mitch felt cornered. His wife was acting like a total bitch. He felt like he was being cross-examined in the witness box. He felt anger beginning to rise, but he checked it. He took a deep breath; the last thing he needed right now was an argument. “Come on, babe, that sounds crazy.”
She stared at him defiantly, and he gazed back. She fucking knew he wasn’t being straight with her. She felt exasperated. She knew he was hiding something. “Fuck, Mitch … sometimes … fuck, whatever, don’t worry about it.” She sighed and threw the pants into the washing machine, along with the rest of the laundry, and started the cycle.
Mitch walked slowly back to the couch and very carefully sat down again. He felt pissed at his wife. She was all up in his face for some reason, and he needed her to back off. He was more than capable of washing his own clothes, and he would’ve gotten around to doing it in his own time. He was grateful that Trina offered to take care of his laundry, but she didn’t need to, and he resented her line of questioning.
It was a quiet Saturday night in their apartment on the upper east side. They ordered in some dinner, but conversation was strained. Trina put the washing in the dryer and folded it, leaving Mitch’s clothes in a neat and tidy pile on his side of the bed. She checked his pants; whatever the hell that stain was, it was gone now.
*
Trina was required to work on Sunday, and she was mentally exhausted before she even got out of bed. Her current project was way behind schedule and seriously over-budget. The client had called a crisis meeting, threatening to take their business to a competitor if their concerns weren’t addressed. She tersely explained the situation to Mitch last night. It was one of the few things they’d said to each other all evening.
Mitch didn’t mind. Yesterday’s post-sex aches and pains had dissolved. He visited the mega-mall at Columbus Circle and grabbed a strong coffee and a bite to eat before he went shopping.
Trina arrived home from work around 5pm. She was tired to the bone, yet knew she had five more days of heavy grind ahead of her before next weekend. She’d been working too hard, but she’d also been partying too hard. She needed to slow down, though right now, work seemed all-encompassing.
She hadn’t spent enough quality time with her husband lately, and she was looking forward to a quiet night in. Perhaps they could order in some ubereats before curling up on the couch to watch a movie with a bottle of wine.
She felt stressed as she opened the apartment door, but she hoped to unwind.
She found her husband sitting on the couch wearing a Chicago Bulls basketball singlet, an expensive pair of track pants, and a pair of high-dollar gym shoes. He looked up as she walked into the room. It took her a few seconds to notice his radically unusual wardrobe.
“Hey, Mitch,” she started, “sorry I took so long at work, but … fuck … umm … sorry, but what the fucking hell are you wearing?” She blinked in disbelief, noticing the shopping bags and packaging. This was a significant change from the Ivy League look Mitch regularly rocked, and she was mystified as to why he was wearing shoes inside.
“I went shopping and bought some new clothes, babe.”
For a moment, she was stunned into silence. “But why? You’ve got a wardrobe full of clothes. We just bought you six new polo shirts and three new pairs of slacks.” She stopped for a moment to take in *exactly* what her husband was wearing. “And since when are you into basketball?” she spluttered. “I’ve never seen you watch sports in your life.”
“I’ve been watching some basketball lately, on TV, like, while you’ve been out at night. I’m learning about it. I thought we might go to a game together one night.” Any excuse to watch some heavy balls bounce.
She shook her head, unsure how to respond. “But … you’re wearing a Bulls singlet. You’re aware we don’t live in Chicago, aren’t you? Did you buy the wrong team? Or were the Chicago singlets reduced?”
Mitch knew Trina was stressed about work, but there was an insulting undertone to her question. He chose not to dignify it with a response.
She noticed something else. Something different. Something unusual about Mitch’s face. His nose. It looked … red. She moved a little closer. “Oh my fucking god, Mitch. Is that what I think it is?”
He pointed innocently towards his right nostril. “You mean this? Yeah. I got my nose pierced today.”
Trina was apoplectic, nearly screaming. “What the fuck? You got your fucking nose pierced? What the hell for?”
Mitch shrugged. “I just wanted to see what it’d look like.”
“I’ll fucking tell you what it looks like,” she spat. “It looks *fucking* ridiculous. Take it out.”
“Why?”
She was beside herself. She couldn’t find the words. “Because … because … because it makes *you* look ridiculous. Like I said, fucking take it out. Please.”
Mitch was defiant. “No, babe. I’m not taking it out. It hurt like fuck when they did it, and it *still* hurts like fuck, so I’m not touching it. Besides, I think I like it, and I’m gonna let it heal. Maybe you just need to get used to it.”
This was all so out of character for Mitch. A basketball singlet was strange enough, but … a fucking nose ring? She couldn’t make the pieces fit. Words flew out. “But what about work? What are your colleagues gonna think when you show up at work tomorrow with a piece of steel stuck through your bright red nose, Rudolph? Are you gonna tell them you were in some kind of artistic industrial accident? You’re a corporate lawyer who went to fucking Harvard, why are you trying to look like a hustler? Don’t you care about your professional reputation?”
Mitch choked down anger. “It’s the 21st century.”
Trina had reached the end of the line. “I can’t fucking look at you right now.” The quiet Sunday night she’d hoped for was shot to pieces. She stormed away. Her work project was in the toilet and her career might not be too far behind it, and now she comes home to find her sensible, preppy husband has pierced his fucking nose? This was batshit insane.
She texted Ellen and Stacey from work. She needed a serious drink and a serious vent. She arranged to meet them at a bar near Times Square. She knew she needed a good night’s sleep, but she knew she wouldn’t get one tonight. Her stress levels were through the roof.
Mitch heard the door slam behind her as she left. He booted his laptop, lay down on the bed, and turned off the lights. He was so totally addicted. He knew he was too far gone. He knew there was no escape.
He closed his eyes, surrendered his soul, and fell down the BBC rabbit hole.
He found a clip where a mistress counted down her top ten male black pornstars. As if she was delivering a cold, dry college lecture, she outlined their backgrounds and articulated their measurements as she described where they grew up and how they each first got into porn. She showed grainy closeups of their cocks. Mitch’s favourites weren’t on the list, but it didn’t matter — he impregnated his handpussy by the time she got to number 4.
He wasn’t done yet. He hadn’t fucked himself.
He found a clip where a girl-scout with big natural tits knocked on a door, selling cookies. (Don’t fucking pretend ignorance, you know the scene I mean.) Five well-endowed black dudes answered the door, sizing her up. Yeah, they wanted her cookies.
Mitch crossed the threshold. He pushed the dildo in and sighed, wishing he was her. He wished he was on his knees, surrounded by five heavy, massive black cocks. He wanted two in his face, one in each hand, and one — the biggest, thickest one — pounding his sissy pussy.
He fucked himself, moaning so loud the neighbours probably heard. Thick ropes of cum splashed down upon his stomach.
And then the front door opened.
Fuck. Trina was home.
He pulled the dildo out of his ass, but he wasn’t sure where to put it. He needed to clean it. But how? He couldn’t sneak into the bathroom. He heard his wife throwing her shoes off. He hid it under his pillow. It was a gamble.
She’d left in a huff earlier this afternoon, confused at her husband’s new wardrobe and repelled by his new nose piercing, but he knew she’d been out on the town with friends. Maybe she’d calmed down a little.
His torso was covered in cum. He reached for the box of tissues on his bedside table, but it was empty. He pulled a dirty t-shirt over his shoulders to hide the incriminating mess, and the fabric began soaking up his load. He found his underpants. He violently pulled them on and willed his dick to go soft. He closed the lid of his laptop, turned on his reading lamp, and grabbed a book.
He tried to project an image of calmness, but he was breathing like he’d just run a marathon.
She came into the bedroom and looked at him with disgust. “Fuck, you’ve still got that piece of metal buried in your face.”
Mitch owned his truth. “I like it. I think it suits me.”
She sighed in exasperation. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” she said. “You know what? Fuck this shit. I’m so fucking tired right now. I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight.” She closed the bedroom door.
Mitch waited a few minutes. He tiptoed out and listened at the guest room door. He heard his wife snoring.
He washed and dried his fat black dildo and put it back into his sock drawer, he threw his cumrag t-shirt into the hamper, and he went back to bed.
He wasn’t tired. Neither was his laptop. He found his headphones and plugged them in.
He found a clip where a femdom mistress teased him about his whiteboi inadequacy. She told him he’d never get pussy again. He didn’t deserve it. The only men who deserved pussy were fit, muscled black dudes with big dicks. She teased him about his tiny white dick. She talked at length about the pleasure she felt whenever she got railed by a thick BBC, and Mitch whimpered at her words. She teased the camera with her ass. “You can’t ever have this, whiteboi. You don’t deserve it. The best sex for you is whiteboi sex.”
Mitch nodded in submissive agreement. He loved having whiteboi sex.
“Black is better,” said the mistress.
Black is better.
She stroked her pinky finger in front of the pussy whitebois like Mitch could never have.
He was hypnotised. If his wife walked into the room right now, he wouldn’t have even noticed her.
Black is better.
She opened her mouth, teasing the camera with her pierced tongue.
Black is better.
She stroked her pinky finger again. “Black is better,” she said.
“Black is better,” whispered Mitch. “Black is better.”
He closed his eyes as he felt his orgasm approach. He stroked himself as slowly as possible, wanting to prolong the buildup for as long as he could.
“Black is better,” he whispered.
He opened his eyes for a split second. He saw the femdom mistress stroking her little pinky finger in front of her pussy and he came, his warm load dribbling all over his hungry handpussy.
“Black is better,” he said.
“Black is better,” said the mistress.
“Black is better,” Mitch replied. His mind was gone. “Black is better.”
He ate the cum off his hand before cleaning himself up and shutting his laptop down. He turned his reading lamp off.
He lay on his left side so he wouldn’t disturb his nose piercing. It still felt raw and tender, and he expected it to feel that way for a week or two.
He went to sleep knowing he never wanted pussy again.
All he wanted were those two Harlem thugs. Their muscled, athletic bodies, covered in tattoos. Their strong, masculine pecs and shoulders, and their sexy, delicious, insanely kissable thighs.
Their superior attitudes, that confident, cocky swagger, their juicy, kissable lips, and their beautiful smiles.
And their glistening pieces of thick, dark meat, hidden away from view.
*
Mitch was in the office on Friday afternoon, concentrating hard. It had been a long week. He was working on a task he wanted to finish before the weekend. He’d told his supervisor he’d be able to get the job done by close of business, and he was looking forward to a couple of days of downtime.
He rubbed his nose tentatively — the piercing still felt tender. His wife still hated it.
The text message that changed the course of his day arrived around 4.30pm. It was from Tyrone.
‘Hey whiteboi get your ass up to harlem meet me and my boy leroy at the bar at 6pm. Be on time, don’t keep us waitin.’
It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a demand.
Mitch checked the time. He had ninety minutes to finish his task, get home, change clothes, and travel to Harlem.
Fuck work. He had no idea what Tyrone had in mind, but the possibility of getting another hit of BBC pulled Mitch like a magnet. He made a note of where he was up to and shut his computer down. He stood to leave. His colleagues noticed the clock hadn’t yet hit five.
He knocked on his supervisor’s door. “Family emergency. I need to leave a little early today. I’ll log on tomorrow morning and finish what I was working on. It’ll be on your desk first thing Monday morning, I promise.”
His boss didn’t care — just so long as he got what he needed by Monday morning.
Mitch collected his laptop and backpack and raced out into the street to hail a cab. He was lucky to find one. It was a hot afternoon, and he was dripping beads of sweat as he waited on the street. Stepping into the air-conditioned taxi was like stepping into an icebox. Traffic was slow this time of day, and he checked his watch nervously.
He texted Trina from the back seat. ‘hey babe sorry had to go out unexpectedly after work will be home a little later.’
As soon as he hit send, he knew she’d have a million questions. He’d have to answer them all, but that was a concern for tomorrow. He’d probably weave a lie around having an after-hours work meeting with a client.
He sat in the backseat, willing the traffic lights to change.
He made it home by 5.15pm; he dropped his laptop and went to the bathroom. He changed into street gear — or what he thought was passable for street gear — and raced to the subway station. The train screeched, metal grinding on metal, as it pulled into the 125th street elevated station at 5.50pm.
Mitch scampered down the stairs and ran west. He slowed to a brisk walk for the final half a block, but he was still sweating heavily and breathing hard as he stepped into the cool of the bar.
He saw them immediately. They were waiting for him at the same booth, but he was reluctant to approach until he was invited. He knew he wasn’t their equal.
“Hey! Whiteboi!” yelled Leroy.
Mitch stepped across. “Hello,” he said.
“Yo, what’s good, whiteboi?” Tyrone asked.
“Ummm … I don’t know … what do you mean?”
Leroy translated. “He’s welcoming you. Sit yo’ ass down. You out of breath?”
“I ran most of the way from the subway,” admitted Mitch. “You said not to be late.”
Tyrone smiled. “For real.”
A waitress came over and asked Mitch if he’d like to order anything. He noticed Leroy and Tyrone were both drinking beers. “Can I get what they’re having, please?”
The waitress raised an eyebrow. It was already obvious what her two dark-skinned customers were having tonight, and it wasn’t just gonna be beer.
Mitch sat down next to Tyrone. Leroy noticed Mitch had pierced his nose, but he didn’t comment.
The waitress plonked a cold beer down in front of Mitch, who took a deep gulp. She walked away without a word. Mitch swallowed his mouthful of beer before glancing up at Leroy. “Hot out today,” he said.
“Sho’ nuff,” Leroy agreed. Mitch watched as Leroy’s thick, tattooed fingers brought his drink to his fat, wet lips.
“How’s your day been?” inquired Tyrone.
“Uhh … been at work.”
“Sorting that mail, hey?”
Mitch remembered his lie about working for the postal service. “Neither rain nor snow nor heat nor gloom of night … I forget how the rest goes.”
They knew he was lying, but they didn’t care.
“Hey,” said Tyrone, “we’ gon’ head back to my crib soon. Kick back, listen to some beats.” He paused, looking at Mitch intensely. “Come with?”
Mitch tried to look cool. He tried to shrug his shoulders nonchalantly, but it looked like he’d had a seizure. “Guess so.” He’d do anything to hang out with these bulls.
Leroy visited the bar to settle the check. He returned to the table. “We’ good. Let’s go.”
Mitch drained the rest of his beer and followed the two urban gangsters out the door. They arrived at Tyrone’s building and rode up to the 16th floor. Tyrone opened his apartment door and Mitch followed them in.
Mitch noticed a solid metal pole in the corner of the room. It was thick and shiny, and extended from the ceiling to the floor. It looked like the kind of pole strippers danced around. “I noticed your pole,” said Mitch, feeling slightly embarrassed at his poor choice of words.
Tyrone laughed. “I just got it installed this week. Come take a look?” He loped casually across to the corner and Mitch followed. Mitch saw a hot flash of bling in front of his eyes as Leroy grabbed his wrists, pulling each wrist either side of the pole. Mitch tried to resist, but Leroy was far too strong. And as Leroy held Mitch’s wrists in place, Tyrone laid a heavy pair of handcuffs on him.
Mitch struggled to free himself, but he was manacled to the pole. “What are you doing? I thought we were going to listen to some music?”
“You’re right, we are,” said Tyrone. He picked up the remote, pointed it at his system, and thick, slow beats pounded out. “That’s better, ain’t it?”
Mitch was too stunned to respond. Tyrone stood behind him, intimidating him. “Let’s see what whiteboi’s got in his pockets.”
Mitch tried to twist his hips away from Tyrone’s inquiring fingers, but there was nowhere to hide. He was helplessly bound to the pole, and there was no escape. “No! Wait … you’re mugging me? Again? In your own apartment?”
“Nah, nah, nothin’ like that,” Leroy replied. “Just chill. Besides, we didn’t drag you here, you came here all by yourself. And let me remind you, we didn’t mug you that night at the diner either. We *found* your wallet for you that night. You remember?”
Mitch didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure exactly what happened that night anymore, and right now, it didn’t matter either. He felt powerless as Tyrone’s thick, heavy hand slid into the right pocket of his pants. He strained at the cuffs, trying with all his might to break away, but they held firm. All he managed to achieve was to hurt his wrists.
Mitch felt Tyrone’s hot breath on his neck, but he couldn’t turn around.
Tyrone held Mitch’s wallet aloft like it was a prize. “Leroy, take a look at this.”
Leroy stroked his chin, pretending to think. “That wallet looks familiar. I seem to recall finding it before.”
“Me too,” Tyrone confirmed. He opened it and extracted the bills, counting them off. “Twenty, forty, sixty … fuck, there’s two hundred dollars here.”
Leroy shook his head in mock disappointment. “Ain’t no whiteboi smart enough to bring two hundred dollars in cash to Harlem.”
“For real,” Tyrone agreed. “We best make sure we hold onto this cash, so whiteboi don’t lose it.” He put the bills into his own wallet before lobbing Mitch’s empty leather onto a nearby table. He returned to Mitch’s pocket. “What else we’ got in here?” He pulled out a set of keys.
As Mitch felt Tyrone’s hand in his pocket again, his dick began to swell. Even though he was panicking, and even though he felt completely helpless, he couldn’t deny how hot this was. He loved the feeling of Tyrone standing behind him, completely dominating him as he inspected his possessions, but he couldn’t afford to lose his apartment keys. “Wait! No! Don’t! I need those!”
“We’ ain’t takin’ ’em from you, whiteboi,” Tyrone soothed, “we’ jus’ checkin’ what you brought. I’m jus’ gon’ leave yo’ keys right here on the table, next to your wallet, where you can see ’em. Chill.”
There was nothing left in Mitch’s right pocket, so Tyrone started on the left. He found Mitch’s phone. “What’s yo’ code, whiteboi?”
“I … I can’t tell you that. Please don’t play with my phone. I need it.”
Tyrone was insistent. “What’s the code?”
Mitch pleaded. “No … no … please don’t.”
“You’ll just have to try to guess it,” Leroy helpfully suggested.
“Yeah.” Tyrone swiped the screen. “Let’s try 1-2-3-4.” He looked at the screen, puzzled. “It says ‘incorrect code’.”
“Try again,” Leroy said.
“2-3-4-5.” A pause. “Incorrect again.”
Leroy thought for a second. “You know, I heard this model of phone only lets a user try ten times before it locks itself permanently.”
“Shit, for real?” asked Tyrone. “We’ already had two attempts. Let’s try again. 5-6-7-8. Hmm. Denied again.” He looked at Mitch. “You gon’ tell me the code, whiteboi?”
Mitch had two options. Either to give the code to Tyrone, granting the thugs access to his emails, accounts, apps and personal secrets, or to watch helplessly as his phone began a new life as an expensive paperweight.
Tyrone placed the phone on the table next to Mitch’s wallet keys and stood behind him again. Slowly, he placed his left hand inside Mitch’s left pocket, and his right hand inside the right. Tyrone’s warm, heavy hands were either side of Mitch’s dicklet, separated only by a thin layer of fabric.
Mitch could barely breathe. He felt frightened, yet unbelievably horny. His tiny dick was straining against his pants. He felt Tyrone’s warm breath on his right ear. “You like that, whiteboi? You like feelin’ me standin’ behind you with my hands in yo’ pants?”
Mitch had never felt so vulnerable in his entire life. Blood pulsed through his cock so violently he felt lightheaded. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Nothin’,” whispered Tyrone. “We’ jus’ gon’ stand here, like this, with my hands in your pockets, until you tell me your code. I be patient.”
Leroy moved around to stand next to the pole, right in front of Mitch.
Mitch whimpered. His cock was stiff as a fucking board. He could feel Tyrone’s massive BBC poking into his back as his eyes drank in Leroy’s beautiful face.
Tyrone licked Mitch’s ear, which sent a jolt of electricity directly to his dicklet. “You feel my hands in your pockets?” he whispered. “You feel my hands restin’ either side of your useless whiteboi clitty? You feel my big black dick pressin’ into you? It ain’t even hard, but I know you feelin’ it. Whatchu gon’ do?”
Mitch tried to concentrate on breathing, but it was difficult.
Leroy leaned closer to Mitch’s face. “My boy talkin’ to you,” he whispered. “Whatchu gon’ do, whiteboi?”
As he gazed at Leroy’s fat, juicy lips, wishing he could kiss them again, Mitch felt the thick fingers of Tyrone’s right hand tickling his dicklet through the fabric.
Mitch’s face melted. He couldn’t hold it back anymore. “Fuck,” he sighed as his cock twitched, drenching the inside of his pants with a watery load of whiteboi cummies.
“Whiteboi can’t come to Harlem without nuttin’ in his pants,” Leroy laughed.
Tyrone extracted his hands from Mitch’s pockets and stepped away. Mitch was still cuffed up. He felt his load running down the inside of his leg. “Can you uncuff me now please?” he pleaded. “Can please you let me go? I’m fucking begging you.”
Leroy looked at Tyrone, who pretended to consider Mitch’s plea. “Hmm. What do you think? Should we uncuff him?”
“We’ jus’ gettin’ started, ain’t we?” They high-fived each other.
“Fuck … I need to sit down,” Mitch cried.
“Not yet you can’t,” Leroy responded. “But you can get on your knees.”
Mitch whimpered again. He felt humiliated, yet at the same time, was delirious with lust.
“We’ best get whiteboi’s pants off,” suggested Tyrone. “He can’t fucking control himself.”
They unlaced one of Mitch’s shoes each, but they left his socks on. Leroy unbuckled Mitch’s pants, being careful not to come into direct contact with his watery discharge, while Tyrone pulled them down from behind. They each pulled a leg, and after a short struggle, Mitch’s pants eventually came off. His boxers came off, too — they were glued to the inside of his pants.
The thugs helped Mitch manoeuvre his way down to the floor. He was now on all-fours, with his wrists still chained at the base of the thick metal pole. His naked ass was on full display. He felt even more vulnerable now than he did when he was on his feet.
Tyrone picked up Mitch’s phone. “Back to business. We got seven attempts left, whiteboi.”
“No … please.”
“6-7-8-9,” said Tyrone. “Still no luck. Six more attempts left.”
Mitch bowed his head and submitted. He gave them his code. He’d already lost two hundred bucks tonight, but it was possible these thugs were about to empty his bank account. He shook with fear. Tyrone tapped the digits in, and Mitch’s email, social media accounts and apps were instantly unlocked.
“Whiteboi’s got a Grindr account,” Tyrone disclosed.
Leroy chuckled. He was hardly surprised. “Hey, maybe we should scroll through his photos.”
“No … please don’t look through my stuff, that’s private.” At least they weren’t trying to access his bank account.
Tyrone’s eyes lit up at the idea, completely ignoring Mitch’s concerns. Photos of Trina appeared. “Take a look at this bitch,” whistled Leroy. “She’s got a nice pair of titties. I’d stick my dick in between those tits any day of the week.”
The thought of Leroy spitting on his wife’s cleavage before titty-fucking her made Mitch’s dick begin to grow again.
Tyrone had a question. “Yo’ bitch suck good dick, whiteboi?”
“I guess.” Mitch couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a blowjob from her.
“She do anal?” asked Leroy
Mitch shook his head.
“Can’t hear you, whiteboi. She do anal or not?”
“No,” Mitch replied. “At least, she doesn’t for me.” He had no idea what she got up to when she stayed out drinking with colleagues after work, and he didn’t really care either.
“She wouldn’t fuckin’ say no to my fat dick,” Leroy declared. “I’d fuckin’ split her ass in half, fo’ real.”
Mitch knew exactly what it felt like to be split in half by Leroy’s BBC, and he desperately craved feeling it again. This was all so fucking humiliating, but there was no denying it — his whiteboi dicklet was hard again.
Tyrone scrolled through Mitch’s gallery, trying to find a pic of Mitch’s wife’s ass for Leroy to appraise, but they found something else first — the dick pics they’d sent to Mitch a few weeks ago. “Hey,” Leroy said. “He’s still got those pics we sent him the night we found his wallet in the diner.”
“You were supposed to delete those,” said Tyrone. Mitch couldn’t remember ever receiving this instruction. He nervously shook his head. His naked ass was on full display.
“I think we’ gon’ need to punish him for that,” Leroy said.
Tyrone nodded. His open palm connected with Mitch’s bare white ass so hard the room nearly shook. It stung like fuck. Mitch yelped in pain, but he couldn’t move.
“Take a pic of his slapped ass so he can upload it to Grindr,” Leroy suggested. He looked closer. “Fuck, man, you hit him so fuckin’ hard. I can see your palm-print coming up on his ass.”
Tyrone laughed. He took some pics of Mitch’s rapidly reddening ass. “You think that’s enough punishment for not deleting our dick pics like we told him to?”
Mitch racked his brain. He seriously could not remember being instructed to delete the pics. He’d know for sure if he could quickly check his phone, but his device was well out of reach.
“One more, I think,” Leroy replied. “Need to even him up a little. Not fair that only one of his ass cheeks is burning.”
“Fo’ sure.”
Leroy wound up and slapped the fuck out of Mitch’s other ass cheek. The pain was immense. He squealed like a stuck pig.
Tyrone took some more lurid close-ups of Mitch’s puffy, red ass.
“OK, OK, that’s enough,” Tyrone declared.
Leroy leaned in close to Mitch’s face. Mitch could smell his sweet breath. “We gon’ fuck the shit out of you now.”
Mitch gasped in total submission. He nodded. A big, black dick buried deep in his ass would take the pain away. “Yes,” he panted. “Please fuck me.”
Tyrone undid the cuffs and removed them. Mitch shook blood back into his hands, and the relief he felt momentarily took his mind away from his stinging ass. He lay on his back for a moment, recovering, while Tyrone gave him back his keys, phone and empty wallet. He knew he’d never see that cash again. He breathed deep.
“Come with us,” Tyrone commanded.
Mitch obediently followed.
“Get on my bed.”
Tyrone turned the lights down low as Mitch climbed onto the mattress, feeling like he was dreaming. His ass was still stinging like a bitch, but he knew there was more pain to come.
He couldn’t fucking wait.
*
“Bend over,” said Tyrone. “All-fours. Show me yo’ pussy.”
Mitch complied.
Tyrone spat on his middle finger and began teasing Mitch’s pussy with it. He drew circles around Mitch’s hungry hole. “You like that, whiteboi?”
“Please,” Mitch begged. “Please.”
Tyrone forced his thick digit in as far as the second knuckle.
Mitch pushed back, moaning like a bitch in heat as Tyrone slowly pistoned his fat finger in and out of his pussy. He looked across at Leroy who was standing beside the mattress. He watched Leroy touching his python through his pants. He could see it beginning to grow.
“Feed me,” Mitch pleaded.
Leroy pulled his pants down and began to stroke himself. “You want this dick in yo’ mouth, whiteboi?”
Mitch gasped. It looked so fucking delicious. “Please … please, fuck my face. I need it so fucking bad.” He needed a big black dick in his mouth like he needed air in his lungs. His ass cheeks were still stinging like a motherfucker.
Through the semi-darkness, Mitch gazed at nine inches of thick, dark, delicious meat as it waved in front of his face. It was hypnotising. He felt Tyrone’s finger fucking his pussy.
“Suck it,” said Leroy. Mitch opened wide — as wide as he possibly could — as Leroy fed him. “Fuck yeah, that’s some good shit right there,” he exhaled, feeling Mitch’s tongue and fingers all over his thick, black shaft.
Mitch couldn’t get enough, and he needed to feel more than Tyrone’s finger in his ass. He took Leroy’s huge, growing cock out of his mouth just long enough to beg Tyrone to fuck him.
“You sure you can take this, whiteboi?” Tyrone asked. He pulled his pants down, exposing his tool. “I got ten fat inches of BBC right here.”
Mitch nodded. Leroy’s nine-inch dick was only a little smaller than Tyrone’s, and he’d taken that before. “I need your cock in my whiteboi pussy. Please give it to me.”
“Get on the floor.”
Mitch climbed down off the mattress and assumed the position, arching his back. Tyrone spat on his cock. “You ready for this?”
Mitch’s ass was spasming in hunger. “I can’t fucking wait any longer.”
Tyrone jammed half of his shaft into Mitch’s cunt and he screamed. Tyrone couldn’t work out whether Mitch’s scream came from pleasure or pain, but sometimes, there’s only a fine line in between. He withdrew slightly and thrust forward again, building up a rhythm.
Mitch’s pussy stretched like elastic. “Fuck yeah,” he moaned. “Fuck me like a good little whiteboi bitch.”
Tyrone gritted his teeth as he began pounding Mitch’s asshole into the middle of next week. Mitch saw stars dancing around in front of his eyes. He arched his back, feeling lightheaded with lust.
Leroy slapped Mitch’s face with his heavy dick. “Suck it.” Mitch moaned as he sucked Leroy’s enormous viper back into his throat, feeling it take his jaw to the threshold of pain.
Ten inches of hot black dick pounded his ass, and nine more choked his throat. He climaxed, again completely hands-free, as the feeling of Tyrone’s dick pressing up against his prostate set his brain on fire. His load sprayed across Tyrone’s bedroom floor.
He glimpsed back over his shoulder at Tyrone. He’d taken his singlet off. Mitch saw his long dreads flail behind him as his fat cock ground hard into Mitch’s tight pussy. He drooled over Tyrone’s huge, glistening pecs and his pierced nipples. He felt his hips being gripped by Tyrone’s strong, tattooed arms as he lost what was left of his mind.
Then he looked up at the muscled bull towering over him, fucking his face. He gazed at Leroy’s firm biceps, his juicy lips and that sexy fucking nose ring. Leroy took his dick out of Mitch’s throat for a second. “Open yo’ mouth,” Leroy boomed, and Mitch complied. Leroy flopped out his tongue, and a thick string of spit drooled down from his juicy lips into Mitch’s waiting, submissive mouth. Mitch swallowed Leroy’s saliva before sucking his dick back into his face.
This was BBC heaven.
“Not gonna lie, whiteboi got a nice pussy,” breathed Tyrone.
“He got a nice mouth, too,” Leroy agreed.
“His asshole gon’ make me fucking nut.” Tyrone roared as he gripped Mitch’s hips, thrusting as far into his hole as he could get. Mitch moaned in total ecstasy as he felt Tyrone’s thick load filling him up, impregnating him, owning him.
As Leroy watched his homeboy wrecking their whiteboi’s cunt, his own balls began to boil. Mitch could tell. He pulled Leroy’s fat cock out of his mouth and began to stroke it furiously. He licked Leroy’s heavy balls, knowing they were bloated with thick, delicious sperm. “Paint my face,” Mitch whispered as he tugged on Leroy’s fat shaft. “Mark your territory.”
He felt Leroy’s dick begin to swell and his balls begin to tighten. He braced for the dam to burst. He was hungry for a huge load of hot, black semen.
Leroy threw his head back as Mitch’s hands stroked a fat load of alpha cum out of his dick. The first shot streaked across Mitch’s nose, drenching his piercing. He opened his mouth wide and tried to catch as much of Leroy’s delicious milk as he could.
Leroy’s orgasm subsided, but it wasn’t enough for Mitch. He sucked Leroy’s deflating shaft back into his mouth. He wanted every single drop. “You taste so fucking good,” he said.
Mitch lay on his back on Tyrone’s floor, completely spent. His ass was leaking and his stomach was full.
“Now come to bed, whiteboi,” invited Tyrone.
Mitch looked at him with puppydog eyes. “Really?”
“Fo’ sure,” he smiled. He gave him a towel to wipe his face.
Leroy helped Mitch to his feet before lifting him onto the mattress. Tyrone lay down behind him, spooning him. Mitch felt a pair of heavy, muscular, tattooed arms drape around his frame, holding him close. He felt Tyrone’s flaccid cock nestling into the small of his back and he felt his warm breath on his neck. Leroy lay on the other side, facing him, stroking Mitch’s hair.
Leroy knew what their whiteboi wanted. He leaned forward and forced his tongue deep, way deep into Mitch’s mouth. He could taste the remnants of his own sweet load. Mitch opened wide, accepting Leroy’s deep kiss with a satisfied moan.
Mitch’s entire body melted into water as he felt Leroy’s fat, juicy tongue dancing around inside his mouth.
Leroy’s heavy hand travelled south to touch Mitch’s dick. Mitch gasped — he’d never felt another man’s hand on his penis until this moment. He jumped a little.
Leroy broke the kiss. “It’s really small, ain’t it?”
Mitch nodded. He bit his bottom lip. “Yeah. It is.”
“My fist is way bigger than your whole dick.”
“I know,” Mitch submissively replied.
The feeling of Leroy’s thick fingers tickling and teasing his tiny white cock was overwhelming. His dicklet twitched under Leroy’s touch and he fired another load, dribbling all over Leroy’s strong, beautiful hand.
Silently, Leroy placed his hand in front of Mitch’s face. He watched as Mitch sucked and tongued his fingers, eagerly eating his own load.
“I like your nose ring,” said Leroy.
Mitch couldn’t believe what he’d just heard — a compliment, and from the unlikeliest of sources. He couldn’t remember the last time his own wife had said something nice about him, and he was so surprised at Leroy’s words he didn’t quite know how to respond to them. He gazed deeply into Leroy’s dark brown eyes. “Thanks.”
“Did you do that for me?”
“Yes,” Mitch admitted. It was true.
Mitch closed his eyes and took a deep, relaxing, satisfied breath. An hour ago, these two black bulls were terrorising the living shit out of him; now, he was lying in bed, being spooned by one thug while kissing the other. His pussy pulsed and his mouth tasted of sweet, black cum.
He felt so relaxed that, for a few brief moments, he actually fell asleep between them.
He was their toy. He was their plaything. He was their bitch.
And he fucking loved it.