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Moving In
He called late, from some club, and told me he was going to come by and see me.
Of course I said "OK." What choice did I have? I take him when I can get him, and his pals would not understand us being together. He is a big masculine man, and I am slight of stature. They say I look like an academic, which is not far from the truth, at least when I am working.
It is when I am not working that I get to be what I am, really.
I am white, and he is black. I am out, though not a flamer, and he is not. Defintely not. But I am working on that.
We met quite by chance.
I had a moving crew bring my stuff to my current place, a little row house not far from Fells Point. I like the inner harbor area. People are genuine, and they let you be.
The crew was black, of course, husky young African Americans, and it was pretty exciting. The eye-candy was extraordinary.
They were decent guys, though of course playing polite in the hope of getting a fat tip. I was wondering if they were stealing me blind, not caring that much as I thought about the fat tips that were swinging free under those baggy three-quarter gangsta shorts. They were working hard and sweating, and I was getting weak in my own knees at the pure male aroma they produced as I helped them position something carefully.
I do like white cock, too, for the record, though that is more a case of any port in a storm. and I can always close my eyes and imagine anything I want. It was a black man who brought me out, long ago, and black dick that I have dreamt about ever since.
At the aquarium I have a pal who is a young and quite lovely woman; southern Spanish by ancestry birth, and she must have some Moorish blood in her. She tans dark.
She goes out with a stud who is black as night, and he has her dressing in street fashion. She changed before leaving one afternoon into a tight top that showed off her pointed breasts that pout with ease-sized nipples and left her midriff bare to show off the tattoo and the ring in her navel. Her jeans hung low on her hips, and she wore platform boots. She loves to hang on his arm, smiling that smile that lets you know that once you go black you never go back.
She even has her lustrous black hair semi-frizzed to look more ethnic.
She could almost pass, going the other way, and I wish her well on the journey! I wish I could do that. I just waved from my cubical as she sashayed by my cubical on the way out.
She winked at me as she went, and I knew she would be in those clothes only briefly. I often imagine myself as her, my ankles up over her boyfriends shoulders, getting the pumping of my life with that massive black rod!
Ooh, the thought makes me quiver. I think she knows, but I am shy or I would ask her if she has met any players who might like to fuck me the way her boyfriend does her, but that is something that has not come up at our staff meetings. I would try to hang out with her, but I don't want that big black man to get the wrong idea.
I mean the other wrong idea, of course.
I am a retiring fellow, though I know what I want. The bar scene makes me a little nervous, particularly the places where I would like to meet the kind of men I would do anything for. It might be that I would have everything I didn't want get done to me, and not get the anything I needed.
I became pretty aroused when the moving crew was handling almost everything I owned, and I came up with a plan. Once everything was in place, I would ask the crew chief to come back and look at something that had been mishandled, and then I would just ask if I could mishandle something of his, just for the road.
What is the worst that could happen? He could call me a fag and walk out, or he could hit me, though I thought that was unlikely, considering it was a business encounter.
I liked the two younger guys on the crew, they moved like cats, muscles rippling. The crew chief was a few years older, and tall. His hair was neatly trimmed, and the white of his eyes and teeth were in brilliant contrast to his ebony skin. He was trim, but solidly built, and he wore a thick gold chain under his khaki work shirt.
The tag on his shirt said "Albert," and I did not presume to call him "Al" when I went out to the truck at the curb. The young men were folding packing blankets and the two-wheel carts on the truck.
"Albert," I said diffidently. "There appears to be a discrepancy in the manifest. Could you come in and check it with me?"
He gave a small frown, thinking he was done with this run, and already on the next one in his head. He followed me up the four stairs on the low stoop and into house. He did not close the door behind him. I walked through the living room and across the small dining area to the kitchen, where we could not be seen trough the front window. Two tall china crates were stacked with the list on top. A crisp fifty-dollar bill lay across them.
I turned as he came in. I gestured at the papers but did not pick them up.
"Well," he said. "What seems to be the problem? Anything broken that you want to put a claim on?"
"I just wanted to privately tell you how much I appreciated your courtesy and efficiency on the move," I said. "And the fact that I would love to find a personal way to thank you. Anything at all, if it is really personal." I didn't know how he would react, and wondered if I had been too subtle.
I shouldn't have worried. I think movers get a lot of attention, particularly from people who watch them muscle their most intimate things around. Albert was handsome, and he knew it. A wide smile spread across his face. "If you mean anything, we need to be running along. But there is something you could do, if you got on your knees."
I just about fainted with relief, and slid immediately to a position on the linoleum floor in front of him. His grin went ear to ear and he reached to zip down his fly. "You little fags all love a black cock, don't you! I thought I had you made for one!"
I looked up with anticipation, and licked my lips. I kept my hands on my thighs, waiting for the prize.
"Now, work quickly, boy. I have things to do besides stick my dick in your mouth."
He fished in his trousers and brought forth an ebony shaft that was already starting to thicken. I leaned forward as he let is fall free, arcing to the right. I opened my mouth, leaning over to catch the tip on my tongue.
I licked it, tentatively at first, and then closed my lips around the massive cornice. I began to tongue him rapidly, swirling my tongue around, smelling the essence of his working body. It made me feel giddy, and I closed my eyes in deligiht.
"Look up at me, fag. I want to see your blue eyes above my fat black cock."
I mumbled something that might have been "Yes, Sir" around his massive member and looked up at him, his face beaming. I began to lubricate his shaft as best I could, leaning in. I tongued him and swirled around him until he grunted in pleasure.
"You go, you little slut. Suck that cock. Yeah."
I worked him steadily, always looking up as commanded. He became hard as a rock, and I managed to get him all the way to the back of my throat with comfort. Still, inches of him remained, and I wanted to bury my nose in his black pubic hair.
"That's nice, soooo nice," he said. Then he reached up with his right hand to stroke the shaft, pumping rapidly as I sucked and licked him. He grunted, and his eyes closed and I knew he was close. Three more hard strokes and he plunged himself into me, gripping the back of my head.
It almost choked me when he climaxed, thick ropes of warm man-juice jetting almost directly down my esophagus and into my stomach. After five hard jolts he held me still, obviously very sensitive. Then he let me go, and I eagerly lapped up the last strands from the tip of his spear, savoring them on my tongue.
He let me clean him for a moment as he softened. Then he pulled himself from my mouth and stuffed himself back into his pants, hiking them up as he sipped.
"Now you call if you need any moving assistance in the future, you hear?" He chuckled as he said it, and I scrambled to me feet, breathing hard. The slime of his balls was on my lips and the musky smell of him filled my head.
"Here is something for the crew," I said, handing him the fifty. "Maybe they could get lunch. I enjoyed mine."
"I know you did, you little pervert." I might have blushed, but I don't think so. "I wrote my cell number on the bill. Copy it down before they spend it. I would like to do that again."
"Just might," He said, stuffing it into his pocket. "You have a nice soft mouth."
Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen, whistling a snatch of some song I did not recognize.
That was the start of it. He did not call for a few weeks, and I thought my boldness had put him off. Then the cell went off one afternoon at the Aquarium, and I peered at the unfamiliar number. I answered, and the voice I remembered asked if I was the little fag that liked black cock.
I answered that I certainly was, at least for the right black man, and that I could be available just about any time. The voice on the other end chuckled and told me that around Miller Time I could expect something to drink.
"Yes, Sir," I said, and I think my pal in the next cubical heard my tone, because a wad of computer paper came flying over the divider.
"You be careful," she said. "Or if you can't be safe, be good."
I am such a slut. I think I did blush.
Albert showed up just after five, coming back from the depot on his last delivery. I got him a cold beer, and he drank it standing as I serviced him on the same spot I had before. He let me work a lot longer this time, since he had nowhere to go, and he let me stroke him after nearly a half-hour of pleasuring him. I was hard as a rock myself, but I had no desire for anything except his hot seed in my mouth.
He belched as I licked him clean, and he laughed. "This is just about perfect," he said. "Cold beer after a hard day, and a hard dick in a warm mouth. I could see this being a regular thing."
I assured him that would be just fine with me, too, and that is how it went. He began to stop by several times a week on his way home. He was married, he told me, but lived his life on his own terms. Sometimes I would cook for him, and have a plate of finger food with a cold beer on the side table next to my comfortable chair in the living room when I serviced him.
He seemed to be content with that, since he was the passive and very top participant in the evolution, and I was the hungry cocksucker.
It took me almost six months before I could get him to fuck me. That was a special day, and I made a plan. I was nude from the waist down and in the kitchen. I cleared the little butcher-block table off, and placed a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil on one corner. When I heard him hit the door I bent over it face down, with my legs spread.
"I don't smell nothing cooking," he bellowed as he came through the living room. He stopped dead as he looked into the kitchen, seeing me as vulnerable as it is possible to see someone. My rosebud winked at him from between my outstretched cheeks.
My head was sideways on the wood, and my arms cradled the table. "I was thinking that you might enjoy something that starts cold but heats up," I said. "Maybe drizzled with oil."
I was afraid that he might think this was too gay for him, but I heard him chuckle and the sound of his belt unbuckling and his pants sliding to the floor.
He picked up the bottle of oil and unscrewed the cap. I waited for the cool liquid to hit the top of the crack of my ass, and my bud tensed instinctively as the oil ran down over it.
He was not particularly gentle when he penetrated me, but he was patient, pushing hard to pop the tip of his massive cock through my anal ring. I gasped at the sudden pain, and then he stopped, and I felt him pour more oil. He pushed in a little, and withdrew, and then pressed again. The oil worked its magic, and I could feel myself warming and responding. The discomfort turned to something else, warm and fulfilling and quite wonderful.
Then he drove all the away in, his bulb massaging my prostate, and I groaned with delight. Then he began to stroke in earnest, and the table creaked with the impact of his thrusting. His balls slapped my ass and somewhere along the way I came in waves, jetting over the side of the table. A while later, I don't know how long, he came as well, grunting hard in pleasure.
When he softened, he pulled out suddenly. I lay there, delirious and empty, feeling the loss of that mighty fullness and completion. I heard him rip a paper towel from the roll, and wipe himself. Then the sound of a zipper, and the buckling of a belt.
"Damn," he said. "You are one sly little faggot." Then I heard his footsteps leave the kitchen and later the door slam shut.
I did not hear from him for a few days. I think he might have questioned whether fucking me was different than having me suck him off, and if it meant he was going queer. If that was the case, he never mentioned it. It took him seventy-two hours to work it out and he was back.
I had locked the door, since I did not know if he was ever coming again. I unlocked it and opened it wide. There was beer on his breath as he stood there, and I began to unbutton my shirt.
"What are you doing?" he said suspiciously.
"Anything you want, Albert. Anything at all."
Once he started fucking me, the intimacy went to a new level. Fucking me from behind was, of course, only the prelude to his fucking me on my back. It was only a step from that until he had his tongue down my throat, and once that happened it was only a question of time until he just stayed right where he was, cock buried in me, and stayed the night.
This morning I woke early, the sky still black outside, the room dark, and was spooned up against my strong black man, left hand around his waist, gently, so gently, grasping his sleeping manhood.
Testosterone levels are supposed to be the strongest in the morning, that and the pressure of the bladder can stimulate the organ into rampant erection while the mind is still in dreamland, the proud cock rising to the occasion.
"Need to piss," he mumbled, feeling himself thicken, and he started to rise.
"No, Baby, I'm here, remember?"
"Um," he grunted, and turned on his back. Half hard, his giant snake arced upward. I found it in the darkness, and my lips trembling with anticipation as they cover the silken smooth helmet, and my tongue pushes deep against his piss-slit.
My strong black master moaned a bit, and tensed. I know what is coming, the coppery taste of the first urine of the day, and I clench my mouth around him to ensure that no drop leaks out on the bedclothes.
Not that it would matter. He would just fuck me on the wet spot, and I will do the laundry for him today anyway, dreaming of his hardness buried within me.
His flow started slow at first, and I encourage him with gentle suction. He doesn't need much, my stallion. His urethra relaxed and his flow mounted, almost to all I can take, gurgling down the warm acrid fluid. The smell of it rose in the back of my mouth and up through the passages to my nose, and it is both horrible and wonderful, this most intimate and basic of services.
I took all of him that I could, and this small act of subservience, drinking his piss in our bed, completed something deep in me. My stomach churned with his warmth as his flow declined to a trickle. I nursed like a babe against Albert's proud cock, ensuring that all of him in safe within me, and then I begin to probe his slit with my tongue, and began the transition from his relief to building his first pleasure of the day.
He placed his hands on the back of my head, and he moaned, telling me what a good piss-drinking, cum sucking white bitch I am, and how he will feed me that smaller, but more precious load of man-cum, if I just keep licking and sucking him.
"You fucking bitch, you are a trip."
I nodded against him, reluctant to take my mouth from the source of his mastery and strength. I loved his hands on my head, and the way he tugged insistently on my ears, driving his now-massive shaft into the back of my soft palate.
I hoped that if I got him close enough he would turn me over and fuck me hard, and then allow me to clean him off with my eager lips.
I knew exactly what I wanted for breakfast, and I got lucky.
His warm sperm was still leaking down my legs when I fixed him breakfast. I like to fix him a good breakfast, with fried eggs and bacon, before he heads off to his day.
I don't know if he will ever be comfortable being seen with a white faggot like me, academic or not, but so long as he feeds me what I need, I'm happy to be his bitch.
Considering how far I have got him to come in the last year, I'm cautiously optimistic, you know?
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