tagFetishBlack On Black Pegging: Redemption

Black On Black Pegging: Redemption

bySamuelx©

My name is James Dalton Guillaume. My friends call me J.D. for short, And I'm a man with a dilemma. You see, I got issues with Black women. It's a love and hate thing between me and them. On the surface, I definitely look like a 'together' brother. I stand six feet two inches tall, broad-shouldered and well-built, with medium brown skin and curly Black hair. I was born and raised in the City of Cap-Haitien, Northern Haiti, but moved to the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario, twelve years ago. I am twenty eight years old, and work for the Canadian Revenue Agency on Bank Street in downtown Ottawa. I hold a bachelor's degree in business administration from Carleton University and an MBA from the University of Ottawa. I made ninety six thousand six hundred and eighty six dollars after taxes in the 2010-2011 year. I live in a newly minted plush condo on Roger Guindon Avenue near the Ottawa General Hospital. It's a pricy neighborhood but I got to park my bright red Lexus somewhere safe, you know? Not bad for a guy who's fresh out of school during a recession, eh?

I attend All Nations Full Gospel Church in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. It's a beautiful and mainly African church where a Haitian brother like me can feel right at home. A year ago, I made an astonishing discovery. Throughout my University years, I mainly dated White women because I found sisters too dramatic and too loud for my taste. A lot of good-looking, educated Black men working in the public and private sector in America and Canada's big cities mainly date White women as well. The way I figure it, a Black man has enough problems on God's green Earth. You don't need the complications that a mean sister can bring. That was my reasoning when I asked out Deirdre Saint-Aubin at Carleton University during my freshman year. The tall, blonde-haired and green-eyed French Canadian simply took my breath away. She hailed from the City of Montreal, Quebec, but opted to study at Carleton University in Ottawa, Ontario, because she wanted to get away from her hometown.

Deirdre Saint-Aubin and I had some glorious years together. When I graduated from the University of Ottawa's Telfer MBA program, I told myself that I was ready for big things. I asked my longtime girlfriend to marry me inside East Side Mario's restaurant. And she turned me down, shattering my poor little heart into a billion pieces. Deirdre looked at me coldly and told me that while our time together had been fun, she couldn't see herself marrying a Black man. Even though we'd been dating for six years. How about that? She also told me that she was rekindling her romance with Keith Madison, the Irish guy she'd been dating when we met at Carleton University. Apparently, Keith was back in Ottawa after several years in the City of Calgary, Alberta, and he wanted her back. That day, I swore off White women. For real. White women are bitches, man. We Black men often accuse Black women of being gold diggers but White women are the original gold diggers. They really don't mess with a broke brother. Oh, my God. I made the same mistake as Tiger Woods. I chose a gold-digging White bitch over the sisters and I faced ridicule because of my mistake. That's how I ended up almost killing myself and landed on the couch of Dr. Barbara Williamson, an African-American psychiatrist and famous author who emigrated to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, from the City of Atlanta, Georgia, six years ago. Supposedly she now divides her time between the Province of Ontario and the State of Georgia.

Sitting on the couch, I bared my soul to this fifty-something Black woman who looked stylish in a nicely cut business suit. Dr. Williamson's office was packed with pictures of her family. I saw a light-skinned, older Black guy in a highly decorated U.S. Military uniform who reminded me of that preppy hotel dude from The Jamie Foxx Show. I guess that was her husband. And the younger Black guy in the picture must be their son. Cool. I found these pictures oddly reassuring. A Black female professional happily married to a successful Black man. Cool. Kind of reminds me of my parents. My folks, Lucien and Marguerite Guillaume live in the City of Montreal, Quebec. They're enjoying their retirement in the beautiful house I purchased for them in Montreal-Nord. It was the least I could do. I mean, my parents sacrificed everything for me. My father worked as a bus driver in Ottawa for ten years to feed his family. Working for OC Transpo, the bus company that transports people across the vastness of Ottawa, isn't easy when you're a foreign-born Black man. Yet my father did it because he wanted to take care of his family. My parents are really loving the Haitian-dominated neighborhoods of Montreal-Nord. My mother Marguerite Etienne Guillaume still works as a nurse practitioner from time to time, doing the odd shift at a nursing home when they call her.

Lately, I've been feeling trapped. A lot of Black women say they want a nice brother who's educated, heterosexual, unmarried, has no offspring and happens to be disease-free. I definitely meet the criterion. So why am I alone? In my division at the Canadian Revenue Agency in downtown Ottawa, there are exactly one hundred and thirty people. Nineteen Chinese guys. Eight Chinese ladies. Three East Indian men and five East Indian women. Four Arab women and one Arab man. Eleven Black women and eight Black men. The rest of the division is made up of White men and White women. That's the Canadian government's idea of racial diversity at the workplace. Most of the Black women at the Canadian Revenue Agency are dating White men or Hispanic males. Two of the Black women are gay. All of the Black male employees at the Canadian Revenue Agency, from Stephen, the tall young brother in the security uniform who attends Algonquin College part-time to Joshua, the older Black janitor, happens to be either dating or married to a White woman. I'm the only brother in this cutthroat environment who likes the sisters. I've got several pictures of Black American celebrities like Serena Williams ( on the beach), Alicia Keys ( in concert) and South African-born singing sensation Noni Zondi. I lust after big-booty Black women, big-time. So why am I often alone on a Friday night?

I told Dr. Williamson this, and she told me that I had unreasonable expectations. The average Black woman living in Ottawa wasn't a Nubian goddess. I thought of myself as the next Barack Obama and I was looking for my Michelle Robinson. Reality didn't work like that. I walked out of the doctor's office feeling frustrated. Why am I paying this woman sixty dollars per hour if the sessions aren't helping? I walked downstairs. Ottawa on a Friday night. And my car is in the shop due to motor issues. Damn. This means I'm going to have to take the bus. I walked down Elgin street and headed toward the Subway restaurant. I figured I'd grab a bite before going home. I must have been really absent-minded because I crossed the street without looking. I saw this car speeding toward me and thought I was about to meet my maker. That's when something amazing happened. Someone knocked me out of harm's way...and landed on top of me on the sidewalk. A very fresh-smelling someone. I was still dazed but at least one of my senses was working perfectly. I looked up and saw a tall, fine-looking sister in a track suit looking at me. The young woman held her hand out, and gave me a hand up. I took it. Wow, the grip on her. My savior looked me up and down, smiled and asked me if I was alright. I mumbled something. She nodded, then said she had to run. With that, she took off. As she ran down the street, I could see the logo Goodlife Fitness Club on the back of her track suit. I could also see that she had a curvy but firm physique, and quite a butt on her. What a woman!

I went home that night with a smile on my face for the first time in ages. I had to see that woman again. I couldn't shut up about her in my next session with Dr. Williamson on Sunday afternoon. So imagine my surprise when I saw her at the office Monday. There she was, looking mighty fine in a Commissionaires security uniform. They're a big security company in Quebec and Ontario. I approached the security desk with my identification card ready to swipe. Recognition flashed on the young woman's eyes when she saw me. I smiled, and our eyes met. I took in the sight of her. Hot damn. She was at least five feet eleven inches tall if not six feet. And she was built like Serena Williams. Her face was beautiful, round and had a spooked softness and vulnerability in it. Her name tag read Yvonne Mathieu. A Haitian name! Security officer Yvonne grinned and asked me if she'd seen me somewhere. I told her that I was the guy whose life she saved Friday night. Yvonne smiled, showing beautiful pearly Whites. I shook her hand. Again she crushed my grip. I was about to say more when a short, stocky White guy with red hair came in. it was David Winston, my boss. Winston smiled and told me we had to talk. He had some exciting numbers to run by me, since I was his number one guy. I smiled apologetically at Yvonne, and took the elevators with Winston. I wanted to strangle the little man for interrupting my talk with this fine ebony goddess, but I refrained. I'm a good Christian and it's not polite to strangle your boss. I read that somewhere.

Winston dumped a huge work load on me, since I'm the workaholic at the office and everybody else is married or some crap like that. During lunch, I went downstairs to look for Yvonne. I couldn't find her. So I looked her up on Facebook. I found out quite a bit about her. Yvonne was a graduate of the Police Foundations program at La Cite Collegiale, a small French College in Orleans, Ontario. Interesting. There was even a little blurb about her. It said she moved to Ottawa, Ontario, from Grande Riviere Du Nord in North Haiti, in 2008. Hmmm. She'd only been in Canada three years. Interesting. I couldn't stop thinking about her. I ditched work early so I could run into her at four forty five in the afternoon. Yvonne was leaving early because her replacement, a chubby Black security guard named Todd, was already here. I smiled at Yvonne and again thanked her for saving my life. Then I asked her if she wanted to grab dinner sometime. Yvonne smiled politely, and told me that she didn't date people she worked with. With that, she walked away. I stood there mournfully as I watched her big sexy ass walk away. Damn.

That afternoon, I told Dr. Williamson about the encounter and she told me she was amazed that I ran into my savior again. I smiled. Small world indeed. I was determined to change Yvonne's mind even though Dr. Williamson warned me away from her. I pursued Yvonne doggedly. I joined the same Goodlife Fitness Club where she worked out twice a week. She seemed surprised to see me there. I asked her to grab a coffee with me and she relented. As we sat together inside Tim Horton's restaurant, I got to know her a bit better. Yvonne was twenty two years old, and was working to make money so she could attend the University of Ottawa. She told me that she wasn't a Canadian citizen or even a permanent resident yet so she wasn't eligible for the Ontario Student Assistance Plan. Hmmm. I remember what that was like. I told her to look into scholarship opportunities, and empathetically told her that we weren't that different. When she cocked a skeptical eyebrow, I revealed myself as a fellow Haitian. That surprised her. Yvonne told me that I didn't look Haitian. I smiled. I get that a lot. With my medium brown skin and naturally curly Black hair, I often get asked if I'm mixed. I am not. Both my parents are Black. My father has some Dominican in him, though. He's mixed, not me. I am one hundred percent Black. I'm just light-skinned with curly hair and pale brown eyes. I addressed Yvonne in creole, and told her "ou se yon bel fanm". Translation? You are a beautiful woman. Yvonne blushed.

I offered Yvonne my cell phone number and took her email address when she seemed reluctant to offer hers. I told her I just wanted to give her some scholarship options because I had been through similar things. Yvonne seemed okay with that. That night, she texted me. I saved her number, and we talked for forty five minutes before she had to go to bed. I went to sleep with a smile on my face. The next day, we had lunch together. I offered to pay but she declined. Taking out her Royal Bank of Canada blue and gold debit card, Yvonne paid for everything. I couldn't believe it. I was becoming fascinated by this young Haitian woman. I wanted to find out more about her. So I did. I hate to sound all stalker-like but a good thing about working for the tax agency means I can find out anything about anyone. Just give me a name. I found out a lot about Yvonne Jeannine Mathieu.

Yvonne Jeannine Mathieu's information came up on the national Canadian database. Her social insurance number started with a nine, meaning that she was not a Canadian citizen or a permanent resident. Also, she had a work permit and happened to be a refugee claimant. I sighed when I read that. A lot of Haitians living in Canada fall under that category. Lucky for me, my parents managed to become permanent residents and eventually citizens before I started University. By the time I started my undergrad studies at Carleton University, I was a new citizen of Canada. Studying for the citizenship test was tough but I made it, as did my parents before me. Yvonne wasn't so lucky. It said that she lived in Boston, Massachusetts, for five years before moving to Ottawa, Ontario. She had an uncle in town, Ernest Mathieu, the guy who was sponsoring her. I figured out the story. Yvonne came to America on a visa and stayed long after it expired. Since America is pretty hostile to illegal immigrants since September 11, 2001, Yvonne decided to cross over into Canada. Supposedly Canada was more tolerant of newcomers. Hmm. Not with the conservative government of Prime Minister Stephen Harper in power. Maybe if Dalton McGuinty, supreme leader of the Province of Ontario, ever became Prime Minister then Canada would become a bastion of diversity again. I smiled at Yvonne's government picture. Poor gal. Brave gal. I decided to help her.

Yvonne definitely interested me but she was determined to keep me at arm's length. Just like a woman. Isn't that funny? Well, I pursued her doggedly and soon we were meeting for dinner and movies regularly. At work, we were friendly to each other without being too obvious. Judging by her smile and how she checked me out when I came in, she liked me too. Yvonne and I became fast friends, and she introduced me to a world I didn't know much about. The world of lower-class Afro-Caribbean and African immigrants in Ottawa. All day I rubbed elbows with the capital's elite. I had lost touch with my people. Well, Yvonne helped me get back in touch with my roots. Yvonne took me to Soleil Des Iles, this quaint little Haitian restaurant in the Vanier sector of Ottawa. The place sat in the middle of a neighborhood filled with Arabs, Somalians, Mexicans and Chinese people. All of them loved it. I met the owner and her husband. Nice people. They were really fond of Yvonne, whom they described as friendly and helpful. Yvonne and I dined on some authentic Haitian food. Something I hadn't had since my mother moved to Montreal two years ago. Damn, how I missed my people's cooking!

When Yvonne got up to buy some lemonade at the counter, I checked out her fabulous ass. Hot damn. Yvonne's all natural Haitian woman's booty was bigger and better than that of Serena Williams. No lie. When Yvonne came back, she smiled at me and told me that booty gawking was considered a crime in Saudi Arabia so I should be thankful I lived in Canada. I grinned sheepishly. Busted. Somehow, she caught me eyeballing her ass. Damn. Yvonne smiled, and did the last thing I expected. She leaned closer, and planted a kiss on my lips. A quick, hot kiss. I looked at her, stunned. Yvonne smiled and shrugged. I grinned, and we continued eating. Yvonne reminded me we had to get back to work. I smiled. No way I was getting any work done for the rest of the day after she kissed me. True to form, I didn't. I sat inside my office, curtains drawn over the windows, checking out Yvonne's pictures of Facebook. She had a ton of them where she wore short skirts and booty shorts. Hmm. Delicious. Thank God for creating the Black woman! When Winston dropped by to talk to me about something, I had to cross my legs to conceal my boner. I had a picture of Yvonne on my computer's wallpaper. One where she wore a tight red T-shirt and Black thong underwear. And she was on the beach. Hmmm. Winston dropped more work on my desk, and I had to grin and bare it. I wanted him out of my office and agreeing with him was the quickest way to get it done. Lest he stick around and find out exactly why I didn't get up to greet him when he came in!

That afternoon, I sat inside Dr. Williamson's office and told her about my growing feelings for Yvonne. Amazingly, the doctor told me to go for it. How about that? The next day, I took Yvonne to the movies and finally she let me pay for everything. Good. I am the man, after all. This big-booty tomboy better not forget it! After the movie, we walked through Saint Laurent Mall. A haunted look filled my face when we walked by East Side Mario's restaurant. Yvonne asked me if I was okay, and I said no. I didn't want to tell her jack but she dragged the story out of me. As we sat inside the food court upstairs, I told Yvonne how Deirdre broke my heart into a million pieces. I couldn't believe I was pouring my heart to this young woman. She was only twenty two. What did she know of heartbreak? When I finished, Yvonne didn't say anything. She simply stood up, and wrapped her arms around me. For the first time in nearly a decade, I actually cried. I'll vigorously deny if you ask me about it in front of my old Carleton University fraternity buddies but it did happen. I cried in front of a woman. A cardinal sin in the male handbook. Great shades of Chuck Norris! Yvonne simply held me against her, and I let go. I swear I didn't remember how we got home.

Yvonne drove my Lexus back to her Donald street apartment in Vanier. There, we had another heart to heart. I lay on her couch, resting my head against her thighs. I had a lot to say. I'd never been lucky with women, either Black or White. In high school, I was too nerdy for the sisters. In University, I mainly dated White women because of my negative experiences with the sisters in the past. And now I was alone, because I was afraid to trust women with my feelings again. Yvonne told me I wasn't alone. Then she kissed me. And just like that, we began making love. Gently, slowly, we undressed each other. I admired Yvonne's gorgeous, curvy body. From her beautiful face to her curvy body, her succulent, large breasts, her wide hips, her thick legs and big, heart-shaped butt. Hmmm. She was perfect. Yvonne kissed me and ran her fingers all over my hairy chest. Sometimes she tugged at my chest hairs and I winced. Laughing, she kissed me some more. Her hands went to my groin, and just like that, she began stroking my thick, uncircumcised dick. I'm only seven and a half inches long but I am THICK. Yvonne kissed me a path from my chest to my groin, then began sucking me.

I lay on the carpeted floor of Yvonne's living room as she sucked me. I moaned in pleasure as she fingered my asshole while sucking my dick. Hot damn. How did she know I like it like that? I didn't tell females I liked having my ass played with. Especially Black women. Many of them thought any man who liked butt play was queer. I'm not gay or bisexual but sometimes I fantasize about a hot woman fingering me or even fucking my ass with a dildo. My ex-girlfriend Deirdre used to bang my ass with a strap-on dildo. It was a lot of fun. One thing about Deirdre, she might have been a cold and heartless bitch but she was kinky. Yvonne banished all thoughts of Deirdre from my mind as she shoved two fingers up my ass and sucked my cock until I came. I shouted a warning that I was about to cum but she ignored it. And then she sucked me dry. Wow. Yvonne wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled at me. I was eager to return the favor so I pulled her to me, and spread her big sexy thighs wide open. I inhaled the scent of her womanhood. Hmmm. No two women smell or taste alike. I began to gently lick her pussy. Gently I teased her clitoris with my fingers and tongue. Yvonne had a big clit. I like them like that. I sucked it and licked and fingered it. I jammed two fingers in her pussy, then three. Yvonne bottomed out at four fingers. I had her squealing in delight as I did my thing. In the end, I made her pussy gush love juices all over my face. Then I drank her in. I love the taste of a Black woman's pussy. Nothing like it on this planet.

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bySamuelx© 1 comments/ 6014 views/ 1 favorites

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