Erotic Stories And Porn Stories

I was stunned, to say the least. To think that two women had actually discussed me. To think that my performance in a romantic interlude had been the topic of several evenings’ conversation between friends. Actually, I was immensely flattered. And apprehensive.

And here was my way out; a way to clear the way for the already-scheduled meeting with my online friend. I could very simply be polite in my refusal to become involved. I could easily explain to her that last February’s activities were a one-time-happening. But I didn’t. Why didn’t I?

Simple. This woman exuded more sexuality than any woman I have ever met. She was so animal-like in her appearance - almost predatory - that I was mesmerized and agreed to everything she proposed. She explained she could only stay the afternoon since she was traveling into the city for another appearance that evening. This, of course, fell directly into the plan I had cooked up for the day, anyway.

We returned to our hotel and I led her to the room I had arranged. What was her plan for the afternoon? This was not a romantic liaison, as had been the one in Hershey. This was a deliberately planned afternoon of sex — simple, unadulterated sex. I honestly did not know if I was up to it. For the first time in my life, I had doubts about what I was going to be able to accomplish.

She wasted no time at all in giving me clues as to her intentions. She was wearing a beautiful beige cashmere business suit and removed the jacket to reveal a matching beige silk blouse. Her breasts were huge and stretched the silk to its limit. I could see the lace on the tops of the cups of her bra, also beige it appeared, contrasted starkly against her dark skin. I am not a breast man. I have never been a breast man, or boy, or teen. I much prefer a woman’s nether regions - those regions not seen by many, hidden from view until the woman decides to reveal them for her own reasons. But, in this case, I was stunned. My gaze could not be torn from those melon-shaped hills pressing for release from their lacy prison. I resorted to a juvenile phase and whispered, “Oh, my God!” She laughed and lifted them with her two hands and asked if I liked them. I responded in the affirmative, and she remarked that she had heard I was not usually attracted to a woman’s breasts.

I gave her the short version of what I did prefer and stepped closer to her in the thought that I would now take over the direction for the afternoon. No. It was not to be. She put her hands against my chest and told me to relax on the side of the bed, that she was responsible for the afternoon and that our mutual friend had described exactly how she should go about pleasing me.

Argue with her? You’ve got to be kidding! I sat down on the edge of the bed and simply watched as she removed the articles of clothing she had on. Small brown heels, straight beige skirt, (no stockings), half-lace cup bra, (a later peek while she was in the bathroom gave me the size of 42D), all laid carefully on the back and arms of the overstuffed chair at the other side of the room. Each trip to the chair and back to stand in front of me brought me to a higher state of rigidity and readiness, I must admit. I was totally enjoying the “show” so to speak.

Two days before the conference, I heard from her. She was sexually delirious with the idea that we could have the opportunity to renew our passion and told me she was quite anxious to connect in Philadelphia. I could not say no. I could not tell her that in the meantime I had met someone else online and had planned to meet that woman at the hotel where the conference was to be held.

I was, indeed, in a quandary.

So, here I sat in the conference hall, watching this new woman walk back and forth across the stage, comparing her to the one I had met some months ago. Opposites, to be sure. Where my first black involvement had been tall, willowy and cafŽ au lait in color, this woman was short, compact and as black as the inside of Hades. I wondered where my “friend” might be. I supposed she was conducting a seminar in one of the other meeting rooms, but had not yet seen her. I hoped she would make contact soon and we could slip away for lunch to make plans. I had already reserved a room upstairs and hoped that we could arrange things so that she and I would skip all afternoon sessions and retire to our romantic tryst for the entire afternoon. My sordid plan was to tell her, then, that I could not stay the evening because of family problems and make her afternoon one to remember for a long time. That way, I could meet my new online partner for the evening and hope that my physical stamina would withstand the attention of two women.

But I did not see her anywhere during any of the refreshment breaks, in the halls between sessions, or at lunch when we were ushered into the huge banquet hall. I scanned the crowd with anxious eyes but found only the woman from that morning weaving her way through the tables toward where I was standing. I paid little attention to her and continued to search the crowd for my lost lover. I even moved out of her way when she approached the table where I was standing.

She, however, did not move; and she stood directly in front of me and extended her hand to take mine, saying, “I think we have a mutual friend.”

The details of our lunch conversation need not be reproduced here in their entirety. Let it simply be said that we adjourned to a small Italian restaurant a block away for some privacy (her suggestion, not mine) and shared an antipasto. Her contact was deliberate. My previous romantic liaison had informed her about me, about my propensity for a particular type of sexual stimulation, and the fact that I would be at this conference looking for her. At the last minute, she could not be present and thought that this woman might be an apologetic substitute for me.

We learned about each other during a long, luncheon discussion. We learned that we were both married to partners who no longer cared for the physical side of a relationship and had supplanted that factor with other things - in my wife’s case, the spiritual life of a fundamentalist church group, in her husband’s case, an overwhelming vicarious experience in watching sports of any and all kinds. We looked at each other quite naively and expected that we would feel something and walk away from it at the end of the day. How wrong we were!

Our afternoon and evening were spent in a romantic hotel room with snacks and treats and an unbelievable marathon of sexual tenderness. She very quickly accepted the fact that at my age, actual intercourse was a sidelight to the big event and relaxed into a receiver’s role to my repeated onslaughts of oral attention. This, for some odd reason, had become an honest-to-God fetish with me over the past ten years or so. I find that I much prefer to ravish a woman orally - repeatedly - than to engage in any form of genital copulation that would be less than satisfactory to her. After a few polite protests, she understood that I could be fulfilled emotionally by providing her repeated peaks and valleys of delicious orgasm with fingers, thumbs, lips, teeth and tongue. It became evident that she was enthralled with the idea that she could take all she wanted from the afternoon and not be fearful of having let her partner down in her part of the bargain.

What I have failed to mention to this point is, she was black — my very first black woman of any consequence in a loving, physical relationship. And I learned very quickly in that long afternoon that black is, indeed, beautiful; and there is a taste and texture difference, which simply cannot be described by a mortal man with a limited vocabulary.

When we parted, we arranged to meet again at this particular conference. She would, again, be moderating a discussion panel and I would be a willing participant in the audience - until after the conference; and then my participation would take on a different attitude — or so we thought at the time.

Somehow, we lost contact for a while. E-mails dropped off in their frequency and I assumed that the interest had been fleeting on her part and she had decided that the rendezvous in Philadelphia was a poor idea. I accepted that. She had much to lose in her position, and I was treading on thin ice in my own marriage as my wife had already allowed suspicion about my online activities to take over her life. She had become a private investigator of the enth degree and had actually confronted me with her suspicions. So I, too, was not too certain this would be a good idea.

She was black. An incredible shade of black I was not accustomed to seeing in any social or business setting. Not chocolate. Not cafŽ au lait. Not the mahogany of the professional models who grace the covers of Ebony or Elle or even Vogue, but a rich, deep, dark, ebony hue that this old man’s eyes had never had the pleasure of appreciating in the flesh, so to speak.As she paced back and forth in front of the assembled conference participants, cordless microphone in one hand, the lighting often cast her skin color into the blue-black indigo range of the spectrum. She was extraordinary in her carriage as well. She was not a tall woman; but she was a big woman, perhaps only 5′ 5″ tall and most likely 145-150 lbs. She was purposeful in her movements and let everyone in the assembled group know that she was a force to be reckoned with.

Her most incredibly attractive feature was her hair - long, inordinately long, jet black and brilliantly lustrous in the overhead lighting. Her entire face was set in an inky frame that solidified the idea in my mind that this was a hugely sexual being. A thin sheen of - of what? Perspiration? Natural skin oils? Whatever it actually was, it turned her skin into a shiny obsidian that reflected the light from the small spotlights in the ceiling directly back into my eyes and stunned me with a smothering effect.

I stiffened at my table as her eyes found mine, locked for a second, then moved on to another target around the room. Had there been a moment of recognition there? A moment of communication? I felt it; but I did not understand it.

My reason for being here in suburban Philadelphia at a conference of advisers and counselors from colleges and universities in the eastern part of the state was simple: I intended to get laid; again. Let me digress a bit here, dear reader. Approximately nine months ago I attended a similar conference in Hershey, Pennsylvania and met an incredible woman with whom I enjoyed an afternoon and an evening of truly romantic passion. For some reason, our goals at that very moment meshed so that both of us attributed the electric charge that surged through us when we were first introduced, as a sign that something else - something much more definitive - was about to take place in our commingled lives.

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“Don’t fucking move Tina,” i yelled as i took my position behind here.

She said nothing, just slightly nodded as i pulled up the back of her dress.

We had just spent 3 hours taking the kids trick or treating, only to have to lock ourselves in the bathroom so i could shoot the wad i had been building all day inside my balls.

I still had smeared makeup on my face from the scarecrow costume i had worn earlier that day, but Tina had won first prize for her costume. A fucking clown with big red lips, ball nose and thick afro wig. Complete with the horn.

Seeing her earlier, big hips swaying back and forth in her baggy, brightly colored clown pants, had given me an erection to beat all erections. I’m not sure what it was, but ever since i was young i had been attracted to clowns.

Now i was fucking her from behind, still in her clown costume, barely able to control myself as i slammed my hard cock in to her tight, very wet pussy. I reached up to grab her hair, which was a habit of mine, when her wig came off in my hand. I put it to my nose and enhaled her smell as i shot gushing cum blast after cum blast inside of her.

As i recovered, all i could think of was how i looked forward to next halloween and my sweet little clown.

Skanky whores

Are like janky doors

Everyone gets a turn.

Fuck the skank

Then bet the bank,

You’re dick is gonna burn.

My pelvis exploded. My pussy went from simply being warm and twitchy to convulsing uncontrollably. I began screaming, and she quickly undid the straps on my thighs so that I could press them together.

As my legs wrapped around my spasming genitals, she undid the wrist cuffs…and finally I was able to hold my pussy and ride out the convulsions. She opened the corset, letting me sit up, and sat behind me…she took my hands away from my private parts, replacing them with her own and expertly stroking me to prolong the orgasm. Her fingers, longer and more skilled than my own, made my softest flesh throb in ways I never could on my own, pulsing and quivering, the pleasure intensifying in ways I couldn’t fathom despite having experienced her love before. It was almost frightening, beyond my understanding, but a perfect vindication of the trust I placed in Michelle every time I exposed myself for her and confessed my need. She owned me. I needed her to own me, needed to be her plaything, her pet. Her domination of me meant bliss, meant safety, meant satisfaction.

Finally I collapsed in her arms, smiling, coughing, my body spent, unable to lactate or lubricate any more. She leaned over to disconnect the cushion, and swung it off the bed. It was followed by the milk and lube soaked towel. She had another towel ready, and used it to wipe the sweat from my forehead and the juice from my pussy. As I snuggled up to her, pressing my back against her breasts, she pulled the heavy comforter from its folded position at the foot of the bed and wrapped us in it. And we lay there, her hand cupping my swollen vulva with the soft towel, until I fell asleep in her arms.

My body was ready, my vagina lubricating openly, but she would not take care of my clitoris. She angled the vibrator upwards, pressing against my G-spot…and I could just feel the vibrations in my clit. This would not let me come, but I was getting closer. Just as my insides began to heat up, she began sliding the vibrator in and out.

A plateau was coming, but not an orgasm…I began to actively grip the vibrator. I began crying out amid the intensifying pleasure…and she delivered the coup de grace. She gently pulled back my hood, squeezed the shaft of my clitoris…and slowly dragged the length of her wet soft warm tongue directly across the exposed tip.