tagInterracial LoveConfessions of a Southern Wife Entry #01

Confessions of a Southern Wife Entry #01

byLadyBlueMoon©

I have found this website, to which to post my 'confessions'. Why do I bother? Perhaps as a catharsis, an emotional cleansing. I have sinned, grievously. Might I yet find redemption? – Erica H.

Journal Entry 07/17/02

Mine is a story told a thousand times before. Why, then, do I bother even writing? Perhaps because it happened to me, something I would not have imagined possible until this moment. If the voyeur within takes you, if your prurient interest is aroused, then read on. If not, file this away as just another tale of forbidden lust and seek elsewhere.

For many it is hard to accept that forty years after the civil rights movement there are still pockets within this country that segregation holds sway. The small Mississippi town in which I reside is one such place. Blacks and whites keep to themselves, no longer by law, but by choice. Thus, I never really had the opportunity to know someone of color. While I fantasized along with my girlfriends as to what it would be like to be with a black man, this was simply teenage girl talk. None of us would have dared cross that forbidden line. As the years passed, such fantasies grew dim for me. Marriage, children, maintaining a home, all the usual trappings of middle class white southern life, dominated my thoughts and actions. Sexually, I knew that I was a bit different from my friends. Most of them enjoyed the waning attention of their husbands. Even those who knew their spouses sought comfort elsewhere were not upset. To them, sex had been a burden, a duty, payment for the lifestyle they sought. With me, though, sex was a very prominent part of my life. Even after twenty years of marriage, my husband and I made love on a regular and thoroughly enjoyable basis. Yet, as I entered my fifth decade of life, my mind again began to wonder, to ask what I might be missing. It was such thoughts, I am sure, that led to the events I am about to reveal.

While our home is not the most ostentatious in the neighborhood, we do take pride in keeping it up, both inside and out. The latter is accomplished in large part because of the excellent lawn care and landscaping service we employ. An elderly black man, Richard Deeds, who personally attends to the care and upkeep of our yard, runs it. This is typical of our town that blacks do such labor. And Richard had been with our family for such a length of time that I rarely even took notice of his presence in the yard. Frequently I would sunbathe in the shelter of our backyard while he worked, oblivious to what he might be thinking. He was, after all, in his seventies, and such thoughts as my bathing suit clad body might have aroused should have long since left him.

Thus, it so happened one day last month, I took no particular notice of the lawnmower noise as I went out back to sunbathe. Wrapped up, as I was, in a particularly engrossing book, I paid no attention to who was operating the machine. It was not until I looked up to apply more lotion to my legs that I saw it was not Richard mowing the lawn but rather a young black man I had never seen before. I suddenly became aware of how exposed I was to his gaze. The bikini I wore was too revealing for public swimming, but had always served me well for private sun bathing. My husband was fond of my tanned look, and for him I would sometimes even remove my top while tanning. Of course I would never do such a thing when Richard was about, but the thin piece of fabric covering my breasts seemed inadequate to cover me properly from the eyes of this new man. Still, I felt the best action to take was one of nonchalance.

"Hello," I spoke to him over the noise of the mower, "Who are you and where is Richard?"

The man explained to me that he was Jonathon, Richard's nephew. It seems Richard had suffered an accident, and that he, Jonathon, had come down from Jackson to run the business while his uncle recovered. Jonathon was a student at Jackson State University, but was free for the summer, and thus able to help out his uncle.

As he explained all this my eyes could not help but notice his muscular chest beneath the white tee shirt he wore. His calves and thighs were also well sculpted, I noted. I felt a tingle I shouldn't, not when talking to a black man, certainly. Perhaps it was the way he looked at me, or the softness of his voice. I do not mean to imply that he was disrespectful in any way. Blacks in our town knew their place, and would not have dared to be forward with a white woman. Still, I could sense an electricity in the air as we spoke. Our small talk ended and he went about his business. I, however, had lost all ability to concentrate on my book, preferring to sneak glances at Jonathon as he worked.

Over the course of the next month, I found myself eagerly anticipating 'lawn care days'. I would be sure to look my best when I knew Jonathon would be about, and I found myself having the fantasies of my teenage years once again. I don't believe I am revealing any secrets by admitting that most white women have fantasized about black men. The rumors of their size, the images of contrast between their skin and ours, their purported stamina, all stuff that make for excellent fantasies. I certainly had no intention of ever acting on them. My position and that of my husband in this community simply couldn't risk it. That is why I still find it hard to believe what happened today.

Perhaps it was the heat. It was a typical July day in southern Mississippi, humid, with the temperature near one hundred degrees. Perhaps that combined with the wine coolers I drank, I really can't say. It might just be that I finally decided to live out a fantasy. If so, it was a spur of the moment decision, but one I do not regret. I was on my third cooler when I decided to be a bit brazen. I rolled onto my stomach on the chaise and undid the top of my bikini. The wine had made me so very relaxed, and the sound of the mower combined with the heat of the day to make me drowsy. My mind drifted into the nether area between sleep and wakefulness. I began to fantasize, and my hand slipped under me and between my legs, rubbing gently on my mons. I was thus occupied when I noticed the absence of the mower sound.

Turning my head, I saw Jonathon, watching me. As soon as he saw me look up, he turned away and busied himself tinkering with the mower. That was when, with my inhibitions down and my libido aroused, I crossed the line. Without thinking about the consequences, I called out to him, telling him I needed a favor. He hesitantly approached, bandana in hand.

"Would you be a dear," I asked, "and spread some of that lotion on my back?"

He froze for a moment. I could see he was wrestling with the idea. Finally, he did as I asked. But as he squirted the lotion into his hand, he spilled it. Perhaps it was because his hands were shaking, or perhaps it was intentional. It doesn't matter now. It provided me with an opening, as if providential.

"Oh, you spilled some on your pants," I said, innocently, then reached out and took his bandana from his hand.

Slowly, I wiped the lotion from the front of his pants. A thrill shot through my body as my fingers felt what was beneath the fabric. Jonathon's eyes rolled as my hand slowly and firmly pressed against his crotch, wiping up the lotion.

I sat up then, leaving my top behind. My breasts are full and soft. They sag a bit with age, but still attract the gaze of men. They certainly attracted Jonathon's.

"Mrs. H.," he began, "We shouldn't… I mean…"

I hushed him then, reaching out with my hands to his zipper. Quickly I undid his pants and pulled them down his legs. I gave an involuntary gasp as I saw what they had concealed. His penis was long and thick, twice the size of my husband's it seemed. It put me in mind of the black snakes that used to come up into the yard when I was a girl. I reached out and took hold of it. Hard, so hard, and hot it was. I used my other hand to lift a breast, guiding the tip of his penis along my soft flesh, across my stiffened nipple. I felt the moisture that had gathered in its slit. His precum was sticky. I pulled back and observed the strand that stretched from my nipple to the head of his cock. I bent my head down and flicked it from his penis with my tongue, then looked up into his eyes. He said nothing, but his faced said everything. His look was one of pure desire.

My hand slipped down and cupped his sack, feeling his testicles heavy in my palm. I guided his penis to my mouth and licked along the pink head, around the rim, tasting the saltiness of his sweat and desire. I squeezed his scrotum and his hands moved to behind my head, black fingers entwining in my red hair as he forced my mouth down onto him. I gagged as I took him in, his cock thick, filling my mouth, pushing to the back of my throat. I fought against the reflex, concentrating on relaxing my throat muscles to accommodate his size. My saliva oozed along the sides of his shaft and my head began to bob, helped by his hands in my hair, pulling me up, pushing me down. My finger slipped down, between the cheeks of his buttocks, and sought out his rectum. I pushed one in, and he moaned loudly. His penis stiffened and twitched in my mouth. I fought against his hands, trying to pull my head off his cock.

Not yet, I thought, but it was too late. I managed to disengage my mouth at the moment his first spurt of semen shot forth, catching my hair. My hand wrapped around his spurting cock, and I stroked it up and down across my breasts as he continued to ejaculate. His semen covered my breasts, my neck, my chin. At last he stopped, spent. He stepped back, his penis slipping from my hands, and he began to mumble an apology. I hushed him with a finger to his mouth as I stood, then reached out and took his semi-hard manhood in my hand and led him into the house.

We went into the bathroom, where I cleaned his jism from him and myself. I slipped off my bikini bottoms and stood before him, naked. He appeared mesmerized, unable or unwilling to move. I took his hand and pressed it against my sex. He felt my wetness as my lips opened for him. His hand began to explore, spreading open my lips, fingers slipping up, into my vagina, thumb finding and rolling my clitoris. My knees went weak; I put a hand to the wall to steady myself. His hand increased its speed. I began to move my hips in time with it. Finally, I could take no more. I pulled his hand away, and walked to the bed, encouraging him to follow.

I lay back on the bed, legs spread, inviting him to mount me. His penis was rock hard again, and as it slipped into me, I cried out in ecstasy. Never had I felt so filled. Ever nerve in my vagina was stimulated. I raised my legs into the air, spreading myself wider, accommodating his size. He began to pump then, pushing deep, touching my cervix, then pulling back, until the head teased my pussy lips. We settled into a rhythm, long slow strokes, my hips rising to meet his thrusts, allowing the deepest access we could. My cries of pleasure filled the room, juxtaposed against his own grunts as he worked. My first orgasm built quickly, washing over me. I slipped my legs around his waist and held him in me, deep, as the orgasm subsided. Relaxing my grip, he began to pump into me again, and another orgasm followed, fast, but stronger than the first. My fingernails dug into his back as yet a third orgasm began. His tempo increased, his cock moving faster and even deeper. Then his muscles tightened, and his seed filled me as I had yet another orgasm. Faster and faster he stroked, spurting deep inside me. At last, he pulled out and collapsed on the bed. His semen oozing form my cunt, I lowered my head and sucked him dry, the combined taste of his cum and mine, intermingled, led me to one final climax. I lay my head in his lap and watched as his thick black penis slowly began to soften. I ran my tongue across the head and giggled with pleasure as I felt the warmth inside me.

Finally, we arose, headed back to the bathroom and cleaned ourselves. Not a word was spoken during this time. He left, and I soon heard the sound of the mower again.

As I write this, I have come to realize I have crossed a threshold, entered into an altogether new realm of existence. I do not apologize for what I have done. No, far from it, I anticipate with eagerness the next 'mowing day."

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