A gay story: Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 08 Tyrone shook his head in disbelief at what he just heard. “Wait a second, whiteboi… you’ tellin’ me you got yo’ fuckin’ ass inked just this mornin’?”
Mitch nodded.
“You didn’t plan this shit in advance?”
Mitch shook his head.
“But you ain’t got no tattoos befo’,” Tyrone said. “I already checked yo’ shit out. You’ a cleanskin.”
“Yeah… but I’m not anymore. This was my first,” Mitch said confidently, puffing himself up for some unknown reason.
Tyrone was intrigued. “So of all the places you could get yo’ very first imprint, why’d you get it on yo’ ass?”
Mitch didn’t feel comfortable answering that question. It was still too soon.
“You’ washed it already, right?” Doctor Tyrone was concerned about infection. “You gotta keep that shit clean, you know. Ain’t nobody wants that shit to turn red.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Mitch replied. “The girl who works there put some cream on it before wrapping it in clingfilm plastic to keep it protected. She told me what to do. She said to be especially careful with it, probably because it’s so close to my asshole. Nobody wants to accidentally wipe shit into a wound, right? I went home straight after and had a shower, and it stung like fuck when the water ran over it.”
Tyrone stroked his chin and cracked half a smile, imagining the whiteboi jumping around the shower cubicle in agony. “Yeah, that sounds ’bout right. By the way, who was the chick?”
“Don’t know her name,” Mitch replied, “but she couldn’t have been any older than about nineteen. I’ve never seen so many tatts and piercings on someone so young.”
Tyrone felt confident he knew who Mitch was describing. “Yeah, dude, I know that bitch. She offer to suck yo’ dick?”
Mitch’s brain froze. “Huh? What? She looked at me and licked her lips, but maybe I imagined it.”
“Nah, dude, you prolly didn’t imagine it. I know exactly who you’ talkin’ ’bout. She’ a fuckin’ beast for the cock. She drinks nut like water. She give you head? Her mouf is amazin’.”
Mitch must’ve lucked out. “No. I mean, I saw her looking at me, and I got hard, but then I got distracted… and… I just… I don’t know… and then I looked up and she was gone.”
“Fuck, dude,” Tyrone commiserated, “She knows how to suck it good.”
“Yeah, OK,” Mitch replied defensively. “I’ll have to take your word for that, but dude, you’re you and I’m me. I mean, fuck’s sake, dude. Look at the difference between us. Look at the tatts you’ve accumulated. Your ink fucking screams ‘fuckin’ suck my dick bitch’, and you’ve got the inches and the swagger to back it up. Do you really think a nineteen-year-old nympho working in a tattoo parlour is gonna suck some puny white dude who’s getting his very first tattoo on his butt of all places, when she’s got so many other cocks to choose from?”
Tyrone nodded in understanding. “You might need to go back fo’ some mo’ ink jus’ to find out”. He waited for a second. “Does it hurt when you sit yo’ ass down?”
“Yeah, it still stings. I caught the train home from Harlem this morning after I got it done, and there were spare seats, but I stood up the whole way. It felt a little better after I cleaned it up in the shower and put some topical cream on it, but yeah, it stung when I sat down on your couch before.”
“Damn, son, it must’ve stung like a mo’fucker! I gots lots of tatts myself, but there’s three places that are off-limits for me. One’s my face, and the other two places are my ass and my dick.”
Mitch nearly drooled hearing Tyrone talking about his sexy collection of ink, though he wondered why Tyrone was opposed to facial ink. He filed it away as a question for another day.
Tyrone was still naked from the waist down, his flaccid dick resting on the couch beneath him, but he was still wearing a basketball singlet.
“Oh, an’ the other thing is, all these tatts I got were done late at night when I was hella drunk. I ain’t never had ink while I was sober, but being smashed just delays the pain. Nex’ mornin’, you fin’ yo’self dealin’ wit’ a hangover *and* a new tatt.”
“Please… can you take it off?” Mitch whispered.
“What you say jus’ now, whiteboi?” Tyrone boomed. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Can you please take your basketball singlet off?”
“Fo’ sho’,” Tyrone replied, throwing the fabric up over his shoulders and onto the floor. His cap stayed firmly in place, as did the gold bling around his neck.
“Fuck,” Mitch breathed, unable to tear his eyes away from Tyrone’s sculpted, inked chest. “You’re so fucking hot, dude.” He nearly lost his mind.
“I showed you mine, so now you show me yours,” Tyrone said, confidently pumping his pecs.
“Oh my fucking god,” Mitch seethed, staring at Tyrone’s plump, pierced nipples. He wanted to roll them around on his tongue and feel them grow stiff inside his mouth.
Tyrone couldn’t hide his curiosity. “So, can I see? I’m showin’ you my ink, whiteboi, so leas’ you can do is show me yours.”
Mitch felt sheepish. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
Tyrone threw his head back. “Why would I laugh?”
“You don’t know what it is yet.”
“I won’t laugh,” promised a straight-faced Tyrone. “I’m jus’ curious to see what you got.”
“OK,” said Mitch, “but promise me one other thing.”
“Huh?”
“Please don’t touch it. I’ve wrapped clingwrap around it to keep it clean and protected.”
“Coo’,” Tyrone agreed. “Jus’ show me.”
Mitch delicately pulled his pants down and showed Tyrone the sweet, pink whiteboi pussy he wouldn’t be getting tonight.
Tyrone looked closely, trying to see the design through the clingwrap. His jaw dropped. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yeah,” Mitch admitted, “probably.”
“You got yo’self a Jack o’ Spades tattoo on yo’ ass?”
Mitch gulped, knowing his life would never be the same after this moment. “Yeah.”
“Yo’ bitch ass wife know ’bout this?”
“No… she doesn’t.”
“Maaaan,” whistled Tyrone, “she gon’ smack you up when she sees what you gone done.”
“No, she won’t. Anyway, I don’t care what she thinks.”
Tyrone tried to be the voice of reason. “You sho’ ’bout that? I mean, I ain’t never been married, but I’m assuming you can’t just walk away. There’s legal shit, ain’t there? And you got mutual friends? Have you thought about what she gon’ say to yo’ set ’bout this?”
A tear fell from Mitch’s eye. “Fuck,” he whispered.
“Hey, hey, whiteboi, don’t get me wrong, I think your ink is a beautiful gesture. Is it for me?”
“Yeah, kinda,” Mitch admitted, wiping his eyes. “And for Leroy, too. But he doesn’t know about it yet.”
“Yeah… so… like I was sayin’, if you truly don’t want to be wit’ yo’ bitch no more, it ain’t gon’ be as easy as…”
“I still want to be friends with her,” Mitch interrupted.
Tyrone nearly lost his mind. “How the fuck you think you still gon’ be tight wit’ her after you got ink that tells the world ‘I’m addicted to big black dick’? You thought that shit through?”
Mitch shook his head. “I’m always so rational. Before I ever do anything, I think it all through from a million different perspectives, which usually means I end up not doing anything at all. It’s like I paralyse myself with overthought and indecision. It felt so fucking exhilarating to do something just on instinct for once. I can only think of two times recently where I’ve decided to do something in the moment, rather than thinking about it endlessly before talking myself out of it. The first one was getting my nose pierced, and the second one was this.” He pointed to his right ass cheek. “If I’d walked past ‘Black Ink’ this morning and said to myself ‘I’ve been thinking about getting a Jack of Spades tattoo on my ass, and now’s a good time to get it done, but I’ll wait and think about it some more’, I know exactly what would’ve happened: I’d have eventually convinced myself not to do it, and in time, I’d come to regret it. I do this to myself all the fucking time, and I’m tired of it. I don’t regret getting this, and I guess I’ll just have to deal with the fallout in my own way.”
Tyrone leaned back on the couch and held his palms up in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, whiteboi, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t tryna talk you out of nothin’ or get involved in shit I ain’t got no business in…”
“Good,” Mitch interrupted defiantly, “because it’s done. I was thinking earlier that I could take my nose piercing out right now and throw it into the Harlem River. The hole in my nose would soon close over, and after a few weeks, or maybe a month or two, nobody would ever have known it was there. But ink is different. Once it’s done, it’s done.”
“Hey, you don’t fuckin’ need to tell *me* that,” Tyrone replied. “Look at this shit,” he said, pointing to his chest and abs.
Mitch gazed at Tyrone’s sexy body. “Fuck, dude… I want you inside me so bad right now… but I got this open would on my ass…”
“Yeah, whiteboi, I get it. But jus’ you wait til’ you’ good an’ healed up. Imma pound the shit out of you. Imma nut all over your tatt, and you’ gon’ scoop it up and eat it.” He paused for a moment, before looking deep into Mitch’s eyes. “You belong now, whiteboi. You’ our possession. You un’stand?”
Mitch smiled; this was exactly what he wanted to hear. “Fuck yeah, dude.” He began thinking about looking for an apartment in Harlem. “But it’s getting late,” he pleaded as reality hit, “and I need to be at work tomorrow by nine. I brought my work clothes up with me in a bag so I don’t need to swing by my apartment in the morning on the way. Cool if I sleep soon?” He yawned.
“Yeah, dude,” Tyrone answered. “I’d recommend you take another shower, just to keep yo’ shit clean. Lemme get you an ol’ cumrag first. It’s clean, but I don’t want you inkin’ up my good cotton and ruinin’ it.”
Mitch undressed and stepped under the shower, yelping again as the warm water ran across his ass. He washed and dried it gently, wondering if he was really drying himself off with one of Tyrone’s old cumrags. His tiny dicklet twitched as he wondered about Tyrone’s colourful sexual past. As he left the bathroom, he noticed Tyrone had left some topical cream and a roll of clingwrap for him on the kitchen counter.
Tyrone heard noises in the bathroom and kitchen come to a stop, and he noticed the living light go off. He waited for Mitch to come to bed, but…
Five impatient minutes later, he got up and padded to the living room to find Mitch lying on the couch, using a brace of Tyrone’s cushions as a blanket. It had been an intense day for Mitch, and he was nearly asleep.
“What the fuck, whiteboi?” boomed Tyrone. “Why you sleepin’ on my couch when there’s room fo’ you in my bed?”
Mitch’s bleary eyes snapped open with a start. “Fuck, dude, I didn’t know…”
“Get yo’ ass in here, whiteboi,” Tyrone interrupted. “Ain’t havin’ no fuckin’ guest o’ mine sleepin’ on the fuckin’ sofa when there’s room in my bed,” he mumbled to himself.
Mitch followed his host and lay down on his bed. “I’ve got my alarm set for 7.30am. I didn’t want to wake you in the morning.” He pulled the covers up and made himself as comfortable as possible.
“It’s coo’.”
All Mitch could hear was Tyrone breathing.
Tyrone rolled over. “So, this shit on yo’ ass,” he began, before accidentally landing a hand on Mitch’s cheek…
Mitch’s breath caught in pain.
“Oh, fuck, whiteboi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Mitch’s breathing slowly returned to normal, but his ass still stung.
“So I was just gonna say you can’t keep yo’ ass wrapped up and moisturised forever. Skin wounds heal by bein’ exposed to the air, and by bein’ allowed to dry out.”
Mitch rolled over to face Tyrone, burying his head in his pecs. “I’m glad I’ve got an experienced guide.” His hand reached up to find Tyrone’s beautiful dreadlocks. He thought of Leroy. “Actually, *two* experienced guides.”
“Yeah, we’ got you,” Tyrone reassured, hugging his whiteboi tight. “You an’ yo’ Jack o’ Spades bullshit.”
Tyrone reached down and found Mitch’s clitty. His thick, heavy hand cupped Mitch’s small balls, and he felt his whiteboi’s dicklet begin to grow. With a thumb and forefinger, he jerked Mitch off. He heard Mitch moan soundlessly before trickles of weak whiteboi liquid oozed over his knuckles.
In the darkness, Tyrone held his hand up to Mitch’s face. Mitch licked his thick fingers clean.
They drifted off to sleep. Neither of them moved until Mitch’s alarm summoned them back to life in the morning.
*
The alarm on Mitch’s cell sounded bright and early on Tuesday morning, bringing him back to consciousness at exactly half past seven. He blinked. He needed to be in the office by nine. The last few days of Mitch’s life had been extraordinary — it was only two short days ago when he stared down a gunman in the bar on the next block, and then later that day, he told his wife to go fuck herself — but reality had since cleared its throat, coughed gently, and quietly reasserted itself.
Tyrone rolled over and went back to sleep.
He changed into the work clothes he brought with him last night — a collared shirt, which was now no longer crisply ironed, a pair of slacks, and a change of undies. He checked the health status of his tattoo, brushed his teeth, and prepared to leave.
Tyrone was still sleeping when he softly closed the door behind him. He thought about leaving a note on the kitchen counter but decided against it. He waited in the corridor for the elevator to take him back down to street level. He grabbed a takeout coffee and a bagel from a nearby café, consuming both as he walked east towards the 125th street subway station. It was a warm morning in Harlem, and it was only going to get warmer as summer slowly swung into gear. He sweated a little as he waited for his train. He couldn’t tell whether his perspiration was caused by the heat, the coffee, or the uncertainty looming in his life. It was probably all three. At least the train was air-conditioned. Mitch was gonna need it: he was about to travel the entire length of Manhattan during peak hour.
He noticed a sexy black dude standing next to him on the platform, waiting for the train. This dude was wearing a hoodie, which made no sense at this time of the year, though the hood itself was swept back. Mitch’s eyes glanced downward. Yeah, this dude was packing a serious BBC. He tried to catch his eye but failed.
The train was crowded, which suited Mitch fine. His right ass cheek still felt tender and warm, and he was quite content to stand. He held a strap to stop him being thrown back and forth as the carriage shuddered and screeched. The train arrived on time, and Mitch climbed the stairs up to the Financial District. He walked two blocks southeast along Wall Street to his building and grabbed an Americano from a street vendor. He carried the warm takeout cup up to the 30th floor. He sat down at his desk with a silent ouch before logging on.
His boss came over to ask politely whether Mitch’s next recent ‘family emergency’ had been resolved. His smile, intended to convey concern, looked more like a grimace.
“Yes,” Mitch lied. It didn’t matter what his answer was. He knew his boss didn’t care whether his personal problems were resolved or not. The boss was just glad his absent employee was back at his desk. There was money to be made.
His boss sounded pleased, and wished Mitch a productive day, pointing out that he had a lot to catch up on from yesterday before turning on his heel back to his office and closing the door.
Mitch stared out of the 30th floor window of his Wall Street building, thinking about the ways in which his current surroundings differed from the ones he’d left less than an hour ago. He was now in a world of money, finance, power, wealth and greed. True, Harlem was about those things too, but Wall Street embodied them on an international scale. He watched boats on the East River as he listened to his colleagues desperately tapping away at their computer keyboards.
Manhattan was geographically small, but culturally immense. Thirty floors up at the epicentre of global capitalism felt a million miles away from the gritty streets of Harlem.
He heard phones ring. He saw colleagues fumble for their headsets as they dialled into yet another urgent Teams call. He heard papers rustle, distant conversations falter, and footsteps land. He smelled coffee and sweat, and he felt a toxic mixture of ego, opportunity, anxiety and disappointment in the air.
Despite the weak, transparent lie he’d been telling Leroy and Tyrone, this definitely wasn’t the postal service.
He snapped out of it and began scrolling through his emails and newsfeed.
The first hour of his Tuesday morning was spent triaging his emails from yesterday and the weekend. He weeded out the obvious spam before putting the remaining messages into some kind of order of priority. He shook his head, amazed at how much e-crap his account had accumulated in a single absent day. He checked in with his team about tasks that had probably been dealt with while he was away. Most of them had been, so he categorised those messages and moved on. He was about to deal with the top priority emails — the ones that only he could deal with, and those that couldn’t wait — when his boss left his office, walked briskly over to Mitch’s desk, and called his employee into a meeting.
Shit; fuck.
Mitch sat in the meeting room, staring out the window at the boats on the East River, barely even listening. He suddenly became conscious of the hickey on his neck. He hoped his shirt collar was tall enough to hide it.
Eleven miles north, Tyrone woke up in his Harlem penthouse apartment. He blinked his eyes open and rolled over. His huge flaccid cock slapped down on the mattress. There was no sign that Mitch had even been here last night. He threw the covers off and walked slowly towards the kitchen, expecting to see a note on the counter. There was nothing. He shrugged and went back to bed, but he’d slept enough.
Tyrone felt horny. He was still thinking about the juicy whiteboi ass he didn’t get last night. He scratched his sweaty, swollen balls.
His laptop lay on the floor at the side of the bed, collecting sunrays. He scooped it up and placed it on his mattress, on the side where Mitch had slept. He booted it up before propping himself up on some spare pillows.
He went looking for porn.
He started with a favourite scene of his. A pornstar with Botoxed lips and huge, fake titties rang a doorbell. She was a real estate agent, who’d been commissioned by the owner of the house to put it on the market. The owner was another pornstar with juicy lips and a pair of equally large plastic breasts. The two women talked about real estate for a few short minutes before they began complimenting each other on their massive racks. Bras flew off as they groped and sucked each other’s tits.
Tyrone lay back on his pillows. He spat on his hand and began slowly stroking his ten inches. He wished someone was here to jerk his dick for him, so he could just relax and watch.
Mitch’s morning meeting ran forever. He wasn’t even sure what was being discussed. He glanced at his boss with raised eyebrows as if to say ‘I’ve got other important stuff to do right now, do you really need me in this meeting?’, but his boss either didn’t pick up on his implied message or he ignored it.
Mitch’s shoulders slumped. He wondered what Leroy might be doing. He was still worried about the awkward way they parted company yesterday morning.
Thick streaks of warm blood began to flow into Tyrone’s BBC as he watched the pornstars eating each other out. A series of sex toys appeared (did the real estate agent carry them around with her on regular business?) and they began fucking each other. He exhaled as his cock began to reach full mast. Even as he wrapped both of his thick hands around his fat shaft, one above the other, the head of his enormous cock still poked out the top. He looked down and noticed a thick pearl of clear liquid pooling at the tip of his dick. He smeared it around with his thumb, imagining it was someone’s warm, wet tongue. Fuck, that felt good.
Someone, somewhere eventually called mercy, and Mitch’s agonisingly pointless meeting finally ended. He had no idea what the outcomes were, and he didn’t know if any action items had been assigned to him. All he wanted to do right now was to escape from the meeting room. He walked back to his desk and continued where he’d left off, addressing the top priority emails from yesterday. He sat down again, wincing.
Mitch philosophised for a brief second, wondering if any email was ever so preciously urgent that it was indispensable. He shook the blasphemous thought out of his head immediately. That’s the kind of unholy shit that could get a corporate unbeliever fired. Every email was important and precious in its own way, and he should’ve known better than to think otherwise.
He went back to his inbox, concentrating hard, eyebrows purposefully frowned down.
Tyrone placed his thumb on his tongue, tasting his pre-cum for the first time. He wasn’t sure what it’d taste like, but he wasn’t completely sure what he was expecting either. He’d fed billions, maybe trillions of unborn ghetto babies to hundreds of chicks, plus one whiteboi, and they’d all told him his pre-nut tasted sweet. He frowned. It didn’t taste like candy to him.
He turned back to his laptop screen. The real estate agent was fucking her client in the ass with a massive strap-on. The client’s mouth gaped wide open in anal bliss. Slowly, he stroked his massive black shaft. Another puddle of pre-nut emerged. He collected it with his index finger and licked it off again.
Mitch headed downstairs for lunch. It was a hot day in May, and summer was on the way. He ordered a burger, fries and soda, which he carried to the small park across the street. He was amazed that the Financial District had any parks left at all; surely this was trees, grass and land that could’ve hosted yet another office block. Money forgone.
The city moved around him as he quietly ate his lunch, thinking about his life. His ass cheek still stung a little, and he wasn’t sure what to expect after work tonight. He knew he needed to go back to his apartment, but he hadn’t heard anything from Trina. He wondered whether she’d come ‘home’ tonight, or whether she’d stay with a friend. He wasn’t even sure if she’d gone to work today. Maybe she was at ‘home’ right now, waiting patiently for him, but he desperately hoped she wasn’t. He checked his phone in case he’d missed a message from her, but there weren’t any.
Tyrone held his fat, black shaft in one hand while his other reached for the mouse. He paused the real estate scene and went looking for something else. He came across a thumbnail of a black dude and a whiteboi walking down an alley. It looked interesting. He clicked on the thumbnail and the scene began.
The whiteboi invited the black dude into his apartment and they sat on the couch. The black dude was meant to be studying for a math exam, and the whiteboi was his tutor, trying to help him pass. The black dude couldn’t give a fuck about the exam, all he wanted right now was to get his dick sucked. The whiteboi disclosed that he was bi, but that he was only into dudes with big dicks.
The black dude pulled his pants down, and the camera zoomed in as the whiteboi knelt down, his mouth open wide in admiration of the black dude’s lengthy penis.
Tyrone boned up hard as the whiteboi took the black dude’s long cock into his mouth. He bookmarked the page. He knew he’d be coming back to this scene again.
The black dude sat on the couch as his tutor knelt in front of him. He watched as the whiteboi sucked and stroked. Fuck, the way the whiteboi dragged his hungry tongue across the head of the giant BBC nearly made the black dude lose his shit.
“Fuck,” Tyrone whispered, tugging his huge shaft. “This is good.”
The black dude pushed the whiteboi’s mouth off his cock, desperate not to nut too soon. He wanted something else.
Tyrone watched as the whiteboi pulled his jeans down to his ankles before bending over and spreading his cheeks to display his fat, juicy pussy. Fuck, this whiteboi reminded him of Mitch. He watched as the whiteboi showed his pale, chubby assets off.
Tyrone teased his erect nipples, tugging on his piercings. Fuck, this was one of the hottest porn scenes he’d ever watched in his life, and there wasn’t a single pussy in sight. Unless you counted the whiteboi’s fat pussy, that is.
Mitch finished his lunch and was in an elevator bound for the 30th floor.
Tyrone spat on his hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off the whiteboi’s fat ass. He knew he was gonna nut soon.
He watched as the black dude spread his tutor’s fat whiteboi ass wide open, slowly teasing it with a thick, black, tattooed finger, slapping his cheeks. The whiteboi was seriously in heat. Nothing was gonna satiate him except for a BBC in his pussy, and a load of cum on his face. Fuck the math exam.
The whiteboi whimpered, desperately needing to get his student’s black cock inside him. He told the black dude how much he liked big black dicks, and Tyrone nearly nutted.
The black dude jiggled the whiteboi’s chunky, pink ass cheeks. He rolled a condom onto his shaft before inserting himself. The whiteboi moaned in pleasure and winced in pain as he felt his student’s BBC penetrate him.
Tyrone lay back on his pillows and stroked himself as the whiteboi tutor moaned, feeling his student’s thick black dick buried deep inside him. He wondered if Mitch had ever watched this scene before.
The whiteboi’s pussy needed a short break. The tutor sucked his student’s fat cock back into his throat for a moment, before mounting him in reverse cowboi. Tyrone watched the whiteboi’s shrivelled dicklet bounce up and down as he impaled himself on his student’s fat black cock. Soon enough, the whiteboi couldn’t take it anymore.
Tyrone watched as the tutor sat on the couch next to the black dude and began stroking himself, illustrating the massive difference between his puny whiteboi dicklet and his student’s huge black python. He watched the whiteboi sink to his knees, desperately needing a thick load of black cum. The whiteboi sucked and stroked, tonguing his student’s thick, sensitive foreskin.
As Tyrone watched the black dude’s load raining down upon the whiteboi’s eager, upturned face and outstretched tongue, he grunted as his own thick, creamy nut spilled over his knuckles. His warmth dribbled and oozed down onto the mattress between his thighs as he imagined himself cumming all over Mitch’s desperate face.
He lifted a hand up to his mouth and tasted his own nut for the first time. It tasted sweet. Not sweet like candy, but just a little.
He had nothing else to do today, so he wiped his hand clean, fired up the air conditioner, and went back to sleep. As he drifted off, he wondered why he wiped the rest of his nut off his hand when he could’ve eaten it.
He rolled over onto his side, feeling the cool, artificial breeze from the air conditioner waft across his torso. He heard Harlem rumbling beneath him as he enjoyed some light post-nut shuteye.
*
Down in the Financial District, Mitch finished lunch and went back to work. He ploughed his way through yesterday’s workload and caught up on everything, as if yesterday never happened.
Eventually, 5 o’clock arrived. He logged off, taking a few important documents with him to read overnight, and left the building, heading back to his Upper East Side apartment.
He caught the subway back to the 77th street station, and trudged upstairs to the surface of the city. It was still warm. He walked three blocks north to his building, and hoped his apartment was empty. As he walked, he remembered with a pang of panic that he’d offered to find a hotel for the week, implying that Trina could have their apartment to herself. Fuck. That had totally slipped his mind.
Heading upstairs now felt like a gamble. He really wasn’t in the mood for dealing with Trina, and he desperately hoped she wasn’t there. If she was, he’d quickly pack some fresh clothes and leave again. He needed to be on his own, at least just for tonight.
He swiped his building access key, rode the elevator, walked down the corridor and turned his key in the door. His breath was shallow. Seconds felt stretched like elastic.
She wasn’t here.
The apartment felt stuffy from the heat. He closed the curtains to block out the sunset before flipping the air conditioner on. Walking to the bathroom to take a long-awaited piss, he breathed a sigh of relief. Returning to the kitchen, he saw a note, written with a blue pen in Trina’s beautifully large artistic handwriting, with every second line on the page left vacant:
‘Hey Mitchell. If you happen to read this, you really don’t need to stay at a hotel this week. I’m staying at Amanda’s place in Chelsea. She’s got a spare room. I won’t be back here all week. I’ve taken what I need with me, and I won’t bother you. So if you get this message, please stay here, and save yourself some money. I guess you need some space, and maybe I do too. I’m looking forward to talking with Amanda this week. I know you don’t like her very much, but you don’t see the side of her that I see. She’s an awesome listener. I know I’ve been a bitch to live with lately, and I’m really hoping she’ll give me a fresh perspective on some stuff. Anyway, I’ll text you at the end of the week, and you can respond if you want to. I really hope you’re OK. These past few days and weeks have been unsettling. I’m not sure where I am as a person right now, and I’m not sure where we are as a relationship either. I guess you’re going through something similar? Hey, it’s a good thing we don’t have a cat to feed, right? Anyway, I’d like to talk with you soon, but only when you’re ready. I’ve said some stuff I regret lately, but I’d hate for yesterday to have been a final goodbye. I hope, in your heart, you feel the same way too, even if we end up living in separate places. I just want you to know that I still love you, despite everything. Trina xxx’
The dot over the ‘i’ was drawn in red ink, as a love-heart. Mitch couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen his wife sign her name like that before.
“Fuck,” he sighed. “This is too hard.” He wondered if she’d feel the same way about him once she learned what he’d done.
He undressed and took a shower. The sting on his ass was fading; his tattoo must be beginning to heal. The Jack of Spades was slowly becoming a part of him. His addiction to BBC was already embedded in his mind, and now his tattoo was embroidered onto his skin.
He gently ran a soapy hand across his ink, cleansing it. He washed his hair and the rest of his body, enjoying the feeling of warm water washing everything away.
He dried himself off, using an old towel to dry his ass cheeks, just in case. He checked; the ink was no longer bleeding. Naked, he walked back to the kitchen and reread his wife’s note. Again, he noticed the red ink love heart above Trina’s name.
“This is too hard,” he repeated to himself.
Mentally, he needed to get away. An escape. He knew what would switch his mind off.
Porn.
He rummaged around in the depths of his sock drawer and found his big black dildo. He lay down on the bed, with an old towel placed under his ass cheeks just in case. He reached for his laptop and retrieved his bottle of lube. After drenching the dildo in lubricant (he was glad he put the towel down), he slowly wedged it in. He sighed lightly in submissive pleasure as he felt the thick plastic begin to press into him, then moaned in bliss as it filled him up.
He closed his eyes as he felt his pussy dilate and relax. He thrust it in and out a few times, and as the sensation swamped his senses, his eyes rolled back in his head.
Fuck yeah.
He was ready to fuck himself, but first, he needed something to fuck himself to. He navigated to one of his favourite clips. A whiteboi was helping a black dude to prepare for a math exam, but all the black dude wanted to do was get his dick sucked.
Mitch fucked himself, imagining he was the whiteboi in this scene. He wasn’t sure whether to imagine if the black dude was Tyrone or Leroy. In his BBC-addicted mind, maybe it didn’t even matter.
Twenty minutes later, he watched as the whiteboi sank to his knees in front of the big black dick. He watched as the black dude’s load rained down upon the whiteboi’s eager, upturned face and outstretched tongue, and he moaned the desperate, high-pitched moan of a submissive femboy as his weak, watery load wet his dainty fingers. He licked his hand, imagining he was eating the sexy black dude’s thick, heavy nut.
He wondered whether Tyrone was familiar with this scene, but he doubted it. Surely Tyrone would never jack off to a male-only scene.
Feeling satisfied, he let the dildo pop out of his ass. He went to the bathroom and cleaned up, including sanitising his tattoo again. He felt a little hungry, so he went down to street level and grabbed a bowl of salmon ramen and a Japanese beer for dinner.
As he ate, he thought about how different it felt between when he fucked himself, and when someone else fucked him. He was in control of the pace and intensity when he fucked himself with his plastic BBC, but it was something else entirely to feel submissive, and to relinquish control to Leroy or Tyrone.
His ass still felt tender, and he didn’t know how much longer it’d feel like this. He thought it best to take a few days to let his cheek recover, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d feel the craving for a real BBC again.
He remembered the documents he’d brought home from the office. He knew he had some reading to catch up on before work tomorrow.
While he wanted to be alone tonight, he couldn’t help wondering what Leroy was up to.
He finished his meal, paid the check, left a healthy tip and went back upstairs. He opened the liquor cabinet and poured himself a triple of straight bourbon. He donned his reading glasses and got to work.
Wall Street never slept.