A gay story: Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 07 Leroy saw Mitch as he was walking out of the building. He was very surprised to see the Upper East Side whiteboi at this time of the day, especially on a Monday. He wondered why Mitch was in Harlem, instead of getting ready for work. “Wassup,” he said, waving a hand.
Mitch felt just as surprised to see Leroy as Leroy felt to see him. “Hey.”
“Whatchu doin’ here?”
Mitch didn’t answer. He’d had a coffee and was buzzing a little, but even so, he wasn’t thinking clearly. Surely Leroy must’ve been able to guess where he’d just come from, but he’d only learned just last night that Leroy lived in his own apartment. Until last night, he thought Leroy and Tyrone lived together, and when he came back up to Harlem at Tyrone’s invitation yesterday, he thought he’d be hanging out with both. He looked sheepish as he tried to avoid the question.
“I’ just been out grabbin’ a cup of mornin’ joe.” Leroy continued, pointing to the takeout coffee he’d bought from the street. “This’ my usual mornin’ thang. Can’t get my shit started without some strong beans.” He looked at Mitch and frowned in confusion. Why was he here? “It’s Monday mornin’, whiteboi. Ain’t you got mail to sort?”
Leroy didn’t know that Mitch was taking the day off work. He also didn’t know anything about what happened yesterday afternoon, when Mitch went back home after staring down that insane gunman. Fuck, that was just yesterday? Leroy stroked his chin in disbelief. It felt like longer ago than that.
They stood in the lobby, facing each other. Mitch looked uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“You OK?” asked Leroy.
“Not really. Married to a hellbeast. Had to get out of the apartment last night.”
Leroy looked concerned. He already knew there was trouble in whiteboi paradise, and after what he just heard, it couldn’t have been any clearer where Mitch spent last night. “Fo’ real? Shit, what happened, dude?”
“It’s a long story.” He wasn’t sure if he had the emotional energy right now to tell it again, especially not in the lobby of an apartment building. “Tell you later.”
“Sho’ ’nuff.” Leroy nodded before leaning in a little closer. “Have you checked yo’self in a mirror lately?” he asked.
“Why?”
“There’s a … there’s a mark on your neck. Like … a bruise.”
“Oh, this?” Mitch pointed to the place on his neck where Tyrone nearly sucked an artery out of him last night. “Yeah. I know. Is it noticeable?”
Leroy laughed. “Fuck, whiteboi, I’d be able to see that from space.”
“I think I got bitten by something yesterday,” said Mitch.
“Yeah, vampires are pretty bad in Harlem,” Leroy joked. “Gots to watch out for them Blaculas.” He leaned in for a closer inspection, and Mitch could feel Leroy’s warm breath on his neck. “Unless it was yo’ hellbitch who did this to you?” Leroy looked a little closer. “Looks tender, whiteboi. Does it hurt?”
“A little,” Mitch replied.
“Then you best come upstairs so we can treat it. Come wit’ me. Fuck yo’ mail duties.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your morning coffee, Leroy …”
“You ain’t interrupting shit,” Leroy replied. “Not ‘less you count me watchin’ some nasty ass porn while I jack my shit off.”
Mitch would’ve loved to watch that. His mind drifted. He imagined Leroy, kicking back on his bed, fully naked, his laptop to one side of him, porn rolling (he wondered what kind of porn he was into?), his huge, wet cock growing slowly in one hand, with his other hand squeezing a nipple … his juicy, kissable lips … his thick, muscled thighs … fuck … his delicious BBC just kept getting bigger and bigger … Leroy moaning as semen slowly oozed out of the head of his beautiful black python, spilling down the side of his fat shaft … that thick, delicious black cum going to waste …
“Come wit’ me, whiteboi,” Leroy continued. “You’ in safe hands.”
Mitch snapped back to reality and they walked toward the elevators. A car opened and they stepped in. Leroy pressed the button for the 10th floor and the doors closed slowly.
Mitch felt nervous. Five minutes earlier, he was leaving Harlem to head back to his apartment; but now, he was in the elevator on the way back upstairs. “You ain’t been up to my crib before, have you, whiteboi?”
The elevator doors opened on the 10th floor. Mitch shook his head in response to Leroy’s question and walked silently behind him, still wondering what porn was stored on Leroy’s hard drive.
Leroy turned the key and invited Mitch into his apartment. “You want something to drink?” he inquired, sipping his coffee.
“I’m good,” said Mitch, “but thanks.” He’d consumed a strong brew before leaving Tyrone’s apartment, and he felt wide awake.
Leroy left his coffee in the kitchen. “Coo’. OK, come wit’ me to the bathroom. Let’s see if we can get that nasty bite on yo’ neck fixed up.” Leroy flicked the light switch, and they heard the quiet hum of the ceiling extractor fan as it sprang to life. He rummaged around in his medicine cabinet. “Got some topical cream in here,” he reported, “jus’ lookin’ for it.” He eventually found the tube he was looking for and examined the date. He glanced at Mitch apologetically. “Shit. Expired.”
“That’s OK. Thank you for trying, I appreciate it. Maybe I should go now. You’ve got stuff to do.”
“Wait a second, whiteboi. Don’t be so hasty. Sometimes, home remedies can work. Sit yo’ ass down on the edge of the toilet seat. My momma always tol’ me there ain’t nothin’ that can cure skin problems better than saliva. It’s good for bug bites, so it might work for … whatever the hell this is.”
By now, Leroy thought he knew where the mark on Mitch’s neck came from. He didn’t have it yesterday, and it was obvious he was leaving Tyrone’s crib when they bumped into each other in the lobby earlier. Unless Mitch knew someone else who happened to live in the same building? Unlikely.
Leroy spat onto his fingers and began to lightly smear his thick spit across Mitch’s hickey. “That feel a lil’ better?”
They heard the extractor fan whirring. Mitch’s tiny cock was growing fast under Leroy’s wet, sexual touch. “Uhh … yeah. I think so.”
Leroy continued methodically rubbing his saliva into Mitch’s neck for a few more moments. “Wait a second, whiteboi. I’m so stupid. Here I am, rubbin’ my saliva into your neck with my fingers tryna make yo’ swellin’ go down when I could just lick yo’ bruise instead.”
Mitch knew that if Leroy licked his neck, the swelling in another part of his body would only increase, possibly to the point of eruption. “Well, OK,” he trembled. “I mean, if you think it’s best.”
“Stand up, whiteboi. Imma fix you up.”
They faced each other, and Mitch felt Leroy’s hands wrap around his waist. He felt a thick, fat tongue licking his neck for a few seconds before he felt Leroy’s entire mouth on his throat, sucking hard. His knees nearly buckled. “Ohh … fuuuuck, Leroy …”
“Like I said, you’ in good hands right now. Imma suck that nasty fuckin’ bruise right off yo’ neck.”
Mitch knew Leroy was only going to make his hickey look twice as bad, but he couldn’t give a fuck. It felt so fucking good feeling his heavy, fat tongue sucking on his neck.
Mitch whimpered as he tried not to cum in his pants.
Leroy took his mouth away from Mitch’s neck. Mitch gazed up into Leroy’s sexy brown eyes and his plump, juicy, kissable mouth.
“My clitty is so fucking hard for you right now,” Mitch confessed.
“Come wit’ me,” whispered Leroy. The rest of his takeout coffee was forgotten, cooling on the kitchen counter. He led Mitch by the hand into his bedroom and laid him down on his bed. They lay on Leroy’s mattress, kissing deeply. Mitch closed his eyes as he felt Leroy’s dominating hands on his jaw and neck, pulling him in. He felt Leroy’s tongue exploring his mouth, and he felt his dicklet leak.
How the fuck did Mitch end up in this situation? He didn’t know, and in this moment, he didn’t care either. He’d mulled the situation over in his mind many times by now without ever reaching a logical conclusion, and right now, his brain was way too fried to think. The only thought that pulsed through his mind was how badly he wanted to feel Leroy’s BBC in his hands, in his mouth, and in his ass.
He took the initiative, reaching down to grab Leroy’s crotch.
Leroy broke the kiss. “You want my big black dick?”
“Yes,” whispered Mitch.
“Go ‘head,” said Leroy. “Take it out. Play wit’ it.”
Mitch’s hands fumbled with Leroy’s zip, and after a few seconds, he gripped Leroy’s huge dark meat and he fished it out. He held it in his tiny white hands, feeling its warmth and potency.
“Can I … can I suck it?”
“Sure you can, whiteboi.” Leroy pulled his pants down and lay on his back, anticipating being serviced. This was way better than his regular morning porn routine — a live, wet mouth always felt better than his own hand. He relaxed, placing his hands behind his head in a repose of superiority. Mitch barely noticed; all he wanted was a fat black cock to choke on. His wet mouth bobbed up and down on Leroy’s dick, his fist stroking it to full length. Leroy would’ve been happy enough to pop a load down Mitch’s throat before moving on with the rest of his morning, but Mitch wanted something else. He wanted Leroy to fuck him.
Mitch took his pants off and wiggled his ass at Leroy. “You want some of this?”
Leroy knew Mitch would’ve sucked a load out of him if he insisted, but Mitch’s pussy looked good. “Yeah, whiteboi,” he seethed, sitting up, gripping his cock in his hand. “You gon’ get some of this fat black pipe up in you right now. Imma get my mornin’ nut inside yo’ whiteboi pussy.”
Leroy’s fingers and tongue began exploring Mitch’s hole, and he couldn’t help noticing something was different. His ass was slightly looser than he remembered, and perhaps a little pinker than he expected. Either Mitch had been practicing with his toys, or he’d been penetrated very recently. Leroy put two and two together. “You hung with my boy Tyrone las’ night, right?”
Mitch nodded, admitting this was true. “How can you tell?”
“Well, firs’ of all, I see you in the fuckin’ lobby of our building at dawn o’clock on a Monday morning, but secondly, yo’ pussy looks like it’s been in an accident.”
Mitch couldn’t lie. “Tyrone fucked me last night.”
“And he’s the reason you’ got this fat hickey on yo’ neck?”
Mitch nodded. “Does that matter?”
Leroy had suspected this was what happened, but hearing it confirmed hurt just a little, and he was surprised at how he felt. He couldn’t explain to himself what he was feeling. Was it jealousy? Wordlessly, he manhandled Mitch up onto all-fours, gripped his hips, and fucked him hard. He slid in a little more easily than usual, and as he ran his dark, heavy, tattooed hands up and down Mitch’s back, he heard him moan.
“Fuck, Leroy, your fat, beautiful cock feels so good in my pussy.”
Leroy wasn’t in the mood for a slow, long fuck, he just wanted to get his nut and move on with his day. “Gon’ shoot up in you.”
Mitch looked back over his right shoulder. He wanted to watch Leroy’s face as he unloaded inside him. He felt the big black dick in his ass began to thicken, stretching his anal walls, and he knew what was about to happen. He reached back to cup Leroy’s balls, and he felt them begin to tighten in his palm. “I’m so addicted to your dick, Leroy.”
Mitch’s words failed to register. Leroy roared as he fired millions of ghetto babies into Mitch’s hungry pussy.
As Mitch felt Leroy’s dick flood his guts, he touched his clitty, whimpered like a girl, and delicately sprinkled the bedsheets.
Leroy pulled out, and they lay still on Leroy’s mattress for just a few moments. Mitch tried to catch his breath. There was no conversation or intimacy.
The carnival was over. “You’ bes’ be goin’ soon now, whiteboi,” Leroy announced.
Mitch knew he’d served his purpose. “Yeah … OK … can I use the bathroom first?” he asked.
Leroy knew why. “Sure you can. Then, like I said, you’ bes’ be goin’. I got shit to do.”
Mitch’s head was spinning. He’d been warmly invited up to Leroy’s crib, but now, after being this morning’s receptacle for Leroy’s load, he felt unwelcome in his day. He climbed off the mattress and stood up, feeling a thick, warm liquid dribbling down his thighs. What had changed? He headed to the bathroom, locked the door, and forcibly shat as much of Leroy’s load out of his ass as he could. He sat on the bowl for a second or two, recovering, trying to work out whether Leroy’s attitude toward him had changed after he said he spent last night with Tyrone.
It had, but Mitch didn’t know why.
After wiping his puffy, gaped ass, he stood up and looked at his reflection in the mirror. There was no way to hide the vicious bruise on his neck. After Leroy’s intervention, it looked twice as nasty as before. He knew people would notice it on the subway, and while he was prepared to be the subject of stares, at least he knew he wouldn’t get questions. But he knew he’d cross paths with his wife sooner or later, and he knew she’d have questions of her own.
He dressed and prepared to leave Leroy’s crib. His host leaned in for a quick, friendly hug, but there was no further discussion of any significance. Leroy gave the impression of having things to do and people to meet, and that even though he’d invited Mitch up to his crib, he’d served his purpose, and was now a minor inconvenience to be swept aside.
Mitch closed the door behind him, feeling a little numb. Something had changed, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He wondered if things might’ve been different if he and Leroy didn’t cross paths this morning. He shrugged, knowing that hypothetical questions only ever led to hypothetical answers.
He called the elevator and rode down to the ground floor. Stepping out onto the street, he heard the bustle of Harlem surround him. He stopped at a nearby café and ordered a coffee and a bagel, sitting down a little gingerly. His freshly-fucked pussy still felt tender. He wasn’t working today, so he had nowhere to be and nothing to do. He took his time. He ate his breakfast while flipping through yesterday’s copy of the Times, occasionally looking up from the printed page and out into the street, watching the people and the traffic.
He finished his bagel and drained his coffee, preparing to head back to his apartment. He didn’t think of it as ‘home’ anymore. His apartment no longer felt permanent, and neither did the person he coinhabited with. Something needed to change. He still loved his wife as a friend, but he didn’t think of her as his partner anymore. In Mitch’s mind, they were housemates now; friends who happened to share the same bed out of necessity. Their days of cohabitation were numbered. Either Trina needed to move out, or he did.
As he walked down 125th street towards the station, he passed a tattoo parlour. He stopped for a moment outside, thinking. He looked up at the awning and read the name of the business.
‘Black Ink.’
Fucking perfect.
He thought about the tattoos Leroy and Tyrone wore on their skins. How sexy their permanent markings looked; how they glistened in the sweaty heat of a warm day; how much they made him stare at them, wanting to feel their fat, juicy black dicks inside his BBC-obsessed holes.
He’d never considered getting a tattoo before, but then again, he’d never considered getting a nose piercing either. Trina still hated that, but he didn’t care about her opinion anymore.
He went inside. He already knew what he wanted. A Jack of Spades tattoo, in the middle of his right ass-cheek.
He knew exactly what it meant: a marking that would forever identify him as a submissive male who was devoted to serving superior, black alpha men with big black cocks.
This was his life now. He was owned.
He picked out the design he wanted from a booklet before discussing the size and position of his tattoo with the artist. He explained that this was his first ever tattoo, and he asked a few innocent questions about what he could expect. Twenty minutes later, he was lying face down on a cot, his ass cheek shaved and disinfected. A stencil of the design he wanted was overlaid on his ass, and his pants were pulled down to just below the bottom of his cheeks. He thought again about how many tatts Leroy and Tyrone wore, and how sexy they looked. He’d heard tattoos hurt, but surely they couldn’t hurt *that* much. In any case, he thought the pain would be worth it.
The tattoo artist asked if Mitch was ready. He thought a Jack of Spades was an unusual choice for anyone on a sober Monday morning, especially for someone’s first ever inking, but he shrugged, remembering that the customer is always right. The man with the needle was straight as a gunbarrel; he had no interest in examining Mitch’s ass any more than what was required to get the task done.
All Mitch could smell right now was heavy chemicals.
The tattoo artist asked Mitch to try to hold still, knowing that as soon as his needle his Mitch’s tender, sensitive skin, there’d be recoil.
The last thing Mitch remembered before the onslaught of pain began was hearing Rage Against The Machine.
It felt like someone was slowly and methodically scraping the top layers of Mitch’s skin away. It hurt so fucking much, but he tried hard to feel calm and to lie still. This was the most intense pain Mitch had ever felt in his life — those searing spanks Tyrone and Leroy delivered to his ass a few weeks ago were nothing on this. But the process had started, the first few lines of black ink were underneath his skin now, and he knew he had to see it though. Ain’t nothin’ more shameful than an incomplete tattoo, especially following a weak tap-out. He needed to be brave.
Fifteen excruciating minutes later, the needle was taken away. “Phew!” exclaimed Mitch. “You’re finished?”
The tattoo artist casually explained that all he’d done so far was the outline. Fuck. Mitch braced for more pain. ‘If that was just the outline,’ he thought to himself, ‘imagine what it’s gonna feel like when …’
The tattoo artist went back to work and the searing pain recommenced. Mitch breathed deeply, trying to think about something else. He tried thinking about work, he tried thinking about where he grew up, he tried thinking about his most recent vacation, he tried thinking about all the math he learned at school but had since forgotten, but it was impossible to think about anything but the sensation of a million tiny needles visiting his flesh with perpetual agony.
The tattoo artist took a short break to refocus. “Could I have some water, please?” asked Mitch. He wasn’t particularly thirsty, even though his mouth was dry; the motivation for his request was to seek a short reprieve from the pain. A staff member brought him a plastic cup of water. He looked up at her, 10 o’clock on a Monday morning, the chemical smell of the studio invading his nostrils. She was young; she couldn’t have been any older than nineteen. Maybe she was learning the craft. He counted ten facial piercings and six or seven tattoos on her, but he suspected there were more of each covered by her clothing. He wondered if her clit was pierced, and he wondered if he’d feel more inclined to fuck Trina if she was … pierced … down there … but no, this was fucking insane … he’d gladly give this nineteen year old chick the most disappointingly anonymous semi-flaccid fuck of her life, but he knew she had no interest in him, and that’s exactly how he felt about Trina: he didn’t want her anymore either.
But he couldn’t get the fantasy out of his mind — he wanted to fuck this nineteen-year-old chick so badly, even though he knew it’d never happen. He knew she wouldn’t be into thirty-year-old men, especially not ones who were getting the Jack of Spades tattooed on their ass. But as the skin of his ass cheek was battered into submission, he looked up at her. Something about his ass cheek being hammered relentlessly into bloody submission made him feel horny as fuck. She locked eyes with him and licked her lips, as if she wanted to suck his dick.
Face down on the cot, inky needles drawing blood, Mitch boned up hard.
He wanted to grind his tiny dick into the hard surface underneath his frame and make himself cum. He wanted to ask this sexy nineteen-year-old chick out. He wanted to take her to a bar, get her drunk, take her up to his room, and …
Fuck, he was so confused.
Mitch’s mind couldn’t form the question he wanted to frame — how could this nineteen-year-old have willingly endured so much pain? He was beginning to realise that while tattoos looked cool, they were painful as hell.
His tiny cock was still hard.
The nineteen-year-old assistant left the room, and Mitch’s attention was sucked back into the vortex of pain. “How much longer?” he asked the artist. He didn’t get a response. He assumed the artist had been asked this question hundreds of times from tattoo virgins and was tired of answering it.
The needle drilled in again, scraping his flesh.
Mitch gritted his teeth and tried to remember how to breathe.
About twenty minutes later, the tattoo artist was finally done. He departed without a word; his next client was waiting for him in the adjacent studio. The nineteen-year-old girl who brought him water came back to begin aftercare, explaining to Mitch that he now had an open wound on his ass, and to be careful sitting down. She explained how to wash the area gently in the shower and how to keep it clean, as well as providing some additional advice around bathroom hygiene. She advised him to use an old towel for the first day or two, in case the tattoo bled some ink. She applied some clingwrap around the wound, took his money and sent him on his way.
Mitch smiled, but the girl was gone.
Mitch made extremely slow progress to the subway. His ass cheek felt puffy and raw. He climbed the stairs and waited a few moments on the platform for his train to arrive. Peak hour had passed, and there were an abundance of vacant seats in his carriage, but he preferred to stand.
Other than his stinging ass cheek, the only thing that bothered him right now was how Leroy hustled him out onto the street after he fucked him. Monday morning does strange things to people, and Mitch knew that for sure, given what he’d just done.
He arrived at his building, rode the elevator to his apartment, and turned the key. It was empty. He assumed Trina was at work, though he really had no idea what she was doing, where she was, or who she was with.
He made himself a quick sandwich before showering. He washed and dried himself very gently, noticing light spatterings of black ink on the towel. He smeared antiseptic cream across his tender, savaged cheek, and climbed into bed.
It had been an extraordinary couple of days. He heard the daytime noise of the Upper East Side bubbling up beneath him, but he pulled the blinds closed, plunging the room into semi-darkness. He ignored everything.
His hole felt nicely stretched, having recently accommodated two thick, beautiful BBCs.
His right ass cheek felt excruciatingly tender, and he made sure to lie on his left side.
As sleep arrived, the last thought that passed through his mind was that his nose piercing was temporary — he could take it out whenever he wanted, and the hole would eventually close over, leaving no sign of having ever existed — but a tattoo was very different. It was permanent.
He was marked for life now.
He was a Jack of Spades.
He was subservient to BBC.
He was owned.
Forever.
There was no point denying it. An initial curiosity about big black dick had become something much more substantial. At some point earlier in his life, Mitch’s sexual inquisitiveness began to grow into an ever-present nagging at the base of his brain, a scratching that never went away.
His initial curiosity had slowly developed into an all-encompassing obsession, and then, eventually, addiction took hold. Those months and years of sissy hypno had flicked a switch deep in Mitch’s consciousness. He remembered not being able to fuck his wife without thinking about sexy, dark, alpha men with enormous penises, overlaid with feelings of his own inferiority. And now, he didn’t want to fuck her anymore at all.
He was addicted. He was totally consumed.
If he never fucked another pussy in his life, not even the slutty pierced nineteen-year-old at Black Ink, he didn’t care.
All he wanted was BBC.
In his hands, in his mouth, and in his gaping pussy.
He thought about his tattoo. He had no regrets.
He eventually drifted away into a lazy Monday afternoon snooze.
He focused on the distant, muffled noise of the busy, crowded street beneath him. He let it lullaby him into beautiful daytime sleep.
*
An hour later, Mitch awoke as he heard a key turn in the apartment door. It was his wife, Trina; unless he was being robbed, it couldn’t be anyone else. He heard the door close and a pair of heels fall to the floor. She assumed Mitch would be at the office and was surprised to find him lying in bed.
“Hey babe,” she cooed.
Mitch felt the need to be civil. “Hey,” he said, rolling onto his back. Immediately, his ass stung, but he tried to hide the pain.
She didn’t notice. “Thought you’d be at work. Are you sick?”
“Just needed a day off,” replied Mitch, trying to ignore the pain emanating up from his ass. “Could ask you the same thing, shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Same, babe,” she smiled. “Mental health day.”
Mitch bristled at being called ‘babe’ for a second time, but he let it go.
“A Monday afternoon nap looks good,” she continued. “I’m exhausted. Mind if I join you?” she asked, pulling back the covers and climbing in.
Mitch didn’t feel he had the moral authority to stop her. They were both paying rent, and on paper, they were still married.
She draped a tired arm over his chest. “What are you doing?” he asked.
Trina had hoped that yesterday, and all of the yesterdays before, might somehow be forgotten. She giggled, but it sounded anxious and forced. “I’m hugging you, silly. What do you think I’m doing?” She was hoping she could coax him into fucking her ass again. It was all she’d been thinking about.
Mitch removed her arm from his body. “I don’t want you to.”
“But babe,” she cooed.
Mitch sighed. He had no idea what was going on in her head. She’d done nothing but tease and belittle him over the past few weeks. She’d spent long nights out on the town with her slutty colleagues while Mitch sat at home on his own. She’d ridiculed him repeatedly. She’d laughed at his new clothes and his nose ring; she’d called him a sissy to his face. And she was horrified when she learned her husband liked to fuck himself in the ass. Sure, he’d been lying through his teeth repeatedly in response to her never-ending questions, but that was only because he felt intimidated by her.
In a perfect world with perfect trust, he’d have felt comfortable talking with her about his cravings and his obsessions, knowing that she’d listen to him with maturity and compassion. But having seen her reaction when she discovered his fat black dildo in his sock drawer, a calm conversation was impossible.
Trina knew she’d overreacted, but she didn’t know what to say to bridge the gap. She was trying hard to apologise to her husband with actions and gestures, and to communicate to him that she was willing to listen and to understand.
Mitch couldn’t begin to imagine her reaction when she learned about his new tattoo. He still felt the tender sting of the needle. In a strange, malicious way, he looked forward to her discovery.
She tried to put her arm around his chest again; and again, he discarded it.
“Babe,” she began.
“Fuck off,” Mitch interrupted. “Don’t touch me. You can sleep next to me if you genuinely want to take a nap, but don’t touch me. I’m tired. Please leave me alone.”
Seeking more sleep, he rolled over, and the bedsheets wafted.
Her nostrils flared. She smelled chemicals, though she didn’t know why.
Mitch went back to sleep, snoring peacefully.
She stared at the ceiling, desperately wanting to feel a cock in her ass. But not just any cock — she wanted her husband’s.
She wasn’t going to get it.
The sun began to set.
*
Mitch’s empty stomach woke him up just before seven. Manhattan was on the cusp of summer, and it was a warm evening out. He stretched, feeling pity for anyone who didn’t have access to an air conditioner. The sun was setting outside, but for Mitch, it felt like dawn.
Trina lay next to him, sleeping. He wished she wasn’t there, but fuck, lives don’t change overnight.
His phone charged on his bedside table while he slept. He unplugged it, and the screen screamed 100% at him. If only that was how he felt.
He messaged Tyrone.
Mitch: hey
The classic start to any conversation.
Mitch waited ten minutes for a response. It felt like a decade.
Tyrone: hey
Mitch wasn’t sure what to say next.
Mitch: what u doin
His message was followed by a pause that lasted longer than way too long.
Tyrone: she still bein a bitch aint she
Mitch couldn’t answer that question truthfully. He hadn’t tried to talk with her properly, but he didn’t really want to either. At least not now.
Mitch: yeah
A few more moments passed.
Mitch: can I sleep on ur couch 2nite
Tyrone: sure u can
Mitch got up, and Trina stirred. Quietly, he threw tomorrow’s work clothes into a bag, and packed a toothbrush. He knew he was due back at his desk tomorrow morning. He’d slept most of the afternoon, and while he felt hungry, he wasn’t feeling sleepy.
He dressed, pulled his shoes on, grabbed his keys and phone. His ass cheek still felt tender as fuck. He reached out to turn the handle on the apartment door when he heard her voice.
“…Mitch?”
He felt like he’d been cut in half. She was awake; he couldn’t just leave her like this.
“Yeah?” he replied.
“Where are you going?”
Mitch’s hand fell by his side. The apartment door remained unopened. He walked back towards the bedroom. She was laying on her back, propped up by two pillows.
“I’m going out,” Mitch said.
“Where?” It wasn’t a demand to know, but a plea.
Mitch didn’t answer.
Trina sat up in bed. “I’m really sorry, Mitch, about how I’ve been behaving. I’m so sorry. I’ve been such a bitch lately. I’ve just been so stressed at work, and …”
“Please stop,” whispered Mitch.
“… and my project is running late and it’s way over-budget, and I’m worried about my career and my reputation, and …”
“Please stop,” Mitch said. He dropped his bag, closed his eyes and reached up to touch his temples. He didn’t need this right now.
“… and I know I went out the other night and ended up in hospital where I got my stomach pumped, I must’ve sucked too many dicks, and …”
“PLEASE STOP!” Mitch screamed. “Just shut the fuck up for a second!” The dam burst, and the thoughts that had pooled in Mitch’s mind earlier today spilled out. “I know I’m far from perfect, but if you’ve deliberately set out to make me feel like a worthless piece of shit lately, you’ve excelled. You’ve done nothing but belittle me lately, at every single fucking turn. You stay out at night after work and get drunk with your slutty friends, and the amount of anonymous dick you sucked the other night landed you in hospital. You laughed at my new clothes, and you ridiculed my nose ring. I’m trying to grow as a person, but I feel stifled by you. You aren’t happy unless I’m the same, reliable, dependable, boring-as-fuck Ivy League Mitch. But at the same time, you think I’m a sissy femboy faggot, and it sounds like your friends agree with you. But you know what? The thing that really takes the cake is the way you made me feel when you found my dildo. Yes, Trina, I like to fuck myself. So what? Is that a fucking crime? If you and I trusted each other, we could talk about this shit, but I know you won’t ever be able to listen to me like a mature, compassionate adult, so it’s impossible for me to even try to have a conversation about this with you. Right now, you’re adding nothing to my life, I don’t enjoy being around you, and I meant what I said yesterday. I want a separation.”
It wasn’t intended as a final ‘we’re done and I’ll see you in court’ goodbye, but Mitch desperately needed a break from her.
“You made me cum so hard yesterday, Mitch.” Trina whispered. “I mean, when you fucked my ass, that is.”
Mitch didn’t respond. He didn’t want to be here right now.
Trina looked at her husband like a rabbit caught in headlights, knowing this was an important moment. She tried so hard to get the next sentence right, but it was a train wreck.
“I forgive you for hiding a big black dildo in your sock drawer.”
As soon as she heard the words leave her mouth, she knew it was over.
Her words were intended to come across as compassionate and empathetic, but she knew she’d been the total opposite recently.
Her words were intended to convey a series of interconnected thoughts: ‘I think I can understand why you like playing with your ass, because I didn’t know how good it felt until yesterday’; ‘I guess I can see why you hid it from me, because you were probably embarrassed and knew I wouldn’t understand’; ‘I know I overreacted, but I’ve been thinking about it, and I want you to know I’m OK with it’; and ‘you’re my husband and I’m your wife, and while I know we’re in a bad place right now, I’m willing to work it through if you are, because I still love you’.
Mitch heard her words as ‘my husband might be gay, but I’ll live with it’.
He saw red. “Fuck you, bitch,” he screamed. “I don’t need your fucking forgiveness.” He grabbed his overnight bag, slammed the door shut behind him, and headed to the subway station.
His ass cheek still felt puffy and inflamed, though the stinging sensation from the tattooist’s needle had faded.
It was darkening outside, but it was still warm. Peak hour had passed, but the subway was still crowded. He felt perspiration building up on his forehead and under his arms as he waited for the train, but he couldn’t tell how much of it was caused by the heat in the air, or how much came from a sweet yet uncomfortable combination of anxiousness and relief.
As his train arrived, he reflected on the confrontation he’d just had, and what it meant for his marriage. He hadn’t changed his mind about wanting to change his life. His wife was a straitjacket for his personality, but he also knew that conversations that occurred in a heightened emotional environment were ripe for misinterpretation. If Trina’s words were truly the ones she wanted to use, she could fuck herself skyhigh for all Mitch cared; but he knew his wife better than that. As the train carriage shunted north, he wondered if she might’ve chosen a different set of words if she had a second chance under less emotional pressure and with more time to think.
Mitch heard ‘you’re gay, but I’ll live with it’. What if, instead, she meant to say ‘you be you and I’ll be me, and together we’ll be us’? Or ‘I get why you like anal play now, and I loved it when you fucked my ass yesterday, so maybe can we play together?’ Or ‘I know you won’t believe me, but yesterday afternoon when you took my ass was the best sex I’ve ever had in my entire life, and please oh please oh please Mitch bury your dick deep in my poopchute and make me cum hard again because you’ve flicked the switch and now I can’t live without my husband’s cock in my ass …’
Mitch’s train jerked to an unexpected standstill, somewhere underground between 103rd street and 110th street. The transport limbo gave him time to think. He needed to be honest with himself. Trina had been an insufferable bitch lately, but he hadn’t been perfect either. He’d accumulated some heavy secrets lately. Sure, Trina had found his dildo, but she knew nothing about the hours upon hours of sissy hypno porn Mitch watched whenever she was out, she knew nothing about how her husband’s hungry holes were getting split open on the regular by a pair of BBCs, and she knew nothing about the Jack of Spades tattoo on his ass.
Maybe Trina’s invasive, probing attitude came from a genuine sense of insecurity. And if it did, he knew he wasn’t blameless. He sighed. He imagined his wife out at a bar, slowly getting hammered on a quiet Monday night. He imagined her bent over in a men’s bathroom, her ass on display, her near-virgin cheeks spread wide, cock after cock after cock thrusting and penetrating and unloading …
He knew one thing for certain — he needed to be at his desk by 9am tomorrow morning.
He texted his wife: hey trina i won’t be home tonight i just think its best if we take a short break from each other, i will find a hotel for the week and we can meet for coffee to talk in a few days
Trina’s response arrived like lightning: ok babe, whatever you need babe, i love u
Mitch didn’t reply. He imagined Trina sitting up in bed, impatiently waiting for the next message from him that wouldn’t come.
His train remained motionless, but his mind was travelling at lightspeed.
The train remained stalled in the tunnel for another twenty minutes before finally shunting back to life. Mitch disembarked at 125th street and greedily inhaled a six-inch sandwich from a nearby Subway while he walked west. He thought about ordering a footlong, but if things went well tonight, he’d get to taste Tyrone’s ten inches soon enough.
He arrived at Tyrone’s building and was buzzed in. He rode the elevator up to the 16th floor. The door was open, waiting for him.
“Hey, whiteboi,” boomed Tyrone. He smelled chemicals in the air as Mitch walked in.
Mitch leaned in for a tight hug. He smelled Tyrone’s masculinity as he buried his face in his sexy pecs. “Hey,” he whispered. He felt a bulge press into him.
Tyrone’s crib felt more like home these days than his own apartment.
Tyrone invited Mitch to sit next to him on the couch. He picked up the remote and pressed play. The porn scene he was in the middle of watching rolled on.
“You don’ mind if I get my nut, do you, whiteboi?” said Tyrone, fishing his semi-erect python out of his pants.
All the thoughts that had been bouncing around Mitch’s head froze in time. He looked at the screen — it was a scene he’d fapped to dozens of times before. Mitch glanced across at Tyrone’s beautiful cock and watched his thick, heavy hand stroke lazily up and down.
“I know you got shit on your mind, whiteboi, and we’ gon’ talk, but you caught me in the middle of something,” Tyrone explained.
Mitch could hardly breathe right now. His mouth was gaping as he forced himself to look at the television. “I love this scene,” he whispered. “That chick is so fucking hot, but I’ve got such a crush on Mandingo’s BBC.”
Tyrone chuckled. “That Mandingo dude makes me feel small.” He smiled at Mitch.
Mitch pulled his gaze from the TV screen back down to Tyrone’s cock. “You ain’t small,” he gasped. His mind was on fire. He wanted to suck it so bad.
“You gon’ get yo’ own dick out, whiteboi,” Tyrone invited, “or you just gon’ watch me?”
Mitch would’ve been happy enough just to watch Tyrone, but he extracted his tiny penis through his zip. He couldn’t pull his pants down because his ass cheek was still tender. He clamped his index finger and thumb around his clitty and began stroking himself. He watched Mandingo’s ginormous BBC ploughing the pornstar’s ass on the screen, but his attention was fixated on the sexy ass thug sitting next to him. He watched Tyrone’s face as he concentrated on the porn, his hand silently stroking his thick black shaft, and it was the hottest, most intense thing Mitch had ever seen. He whimpered as he drenched his hand and the front of his pants in a small pool of watery semen. “I’m sorry I came on your couch, Tyrone,” he apologised.
Tyrone looked down at Mitch’s crotch. “You best eat that shit up, whiteboi.”
Obediently, Mitch licked his hand clean.
On screen, Mandingo ploughed his porn partner into next week. Her moans morphed into gasps, then screams. For a second, Mitch wondered what it’d be like to be fucked by Mandingo’s footlong, but as he glanced across at the giant black cock being stroked next to him, he knew that Tyrone’s ten inches was more than enough.
Having eaten his own load, he wanted more. “Can I suck your cock, Tyrone?”
He nodded, and wordlessly, Mitch sank to his knees.
On the screen, the porn rolled on. The chick was losing her mind at the sensation of twelve inches of big black cock buried in her ass, and if Mitch was watching this scene at home while his wife was out, his dildo would be buried deep inside him right now as he wished he was the girl.
He didn’t need to feel that way anymore — at least not right now.
He sucked one of Tyrone’s sweaty testicles into his mouth, then the other. He watched Tyrone’s heavy fist stroking his shaft at close range.
On the television, he heard the pornstar moan.
“You gonna nut when Mandingo does?” Mitch asked.
Tyrone didn’t answer with words, but Mitch noticed him pick up the pace.
Mitch sucked Tyrone’s nutsack while the scene rolled towards its climax, and a few minutes later, he felt his balls begin to tighten. Mitch looked up at him. Tyrone’s face was fixated on the screen, and Mitch wondered who he was focusing on — the chick, or Mandingo?
Tyrone took his hand off his shaft. Mitch licked it from base to tip before plunging his face onto Tyrone’s thick, engorged head.
Mitch braced for impact. As Mandingo drenched the pornslut’s face on the screen, Tyrone’s hips lifted off the couch as he waterboarded Mitch with a thick, seemingly never-ending torrent of sperm.
It felt like Tyrone was pissing streams of cum into Mitch’s mouth.
Mitch swallowed hard, making sure he got it all. The porn scene ended, and the scene on the TV faded to black. The room fell silent — all they could hear was the noise of the street beneath them. Mitch gave the head of Tyrone’s cock a tender kiss before sitting back down on the couch.
Mitch took a breath, sitting back down on the couch next to his host. His mouth tasted of Tyrone’s sweet semen, but he still felt nervous, and looked down at his hands. “Thanks for letting me sleep on your couch tonight, Tyrone. I really appreciate it.”
He looked down at Tyrone’s cock. It was still hard.
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch if you don’t want to,” said Tyrone.
Mitch looked up into Tyrone’s face, and before he knew it, Tyrone was all over him, pawing him, dominating him, possessing him. Tyrone’s tongue was deep in his mouth, and Mitch noticed that his ballcap had been turned back to front, with the peak facing away.
Tyrone meant serious business.
“I want yo’ sexy fuckin’ pussy so fuckin’ bad, whiteboi…”
“No!” screamed Mitch. “You can’t!”
Tyrone paused, confused by the way Mitch recoiled. “What the fuck, whiteboi?”
“I got a tattoo,” Mitch admitted.
“Oh, fo’ real? When?”
“Just this morning. At ‘Black Ink’, two blocks away.”
“Yeah, whiteboi, they coo’, they did most o’ my ink. Where is it?”
Mitch gulped nervously. “It’s … umm … it’s on my ass.”