Emmet

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sr71plt
sr71plt
2,993 Followers

I was at a loss for words to have a coherent discussion with him, so I couldn't pursue my curiosity. But it seemed that he knew what I had seen—and how it had affected me.

When we shook hands, I felt the electricity. I wondered if he did too. And he might have, because he didn't let loose of my hand until someone nudged up at my elbow, wanting a wine tasting, and the liquid brown eyes of his that had been boring into my depths turned back to his current duties.

Another week after that I heard his voice on the local jazz and classical music station, and I confirmed in a discussion with him over the back fence when he was working in the garden, and I was, unsuccessfully, trying to work in the pavilion and ignore that he was working in the garden, that he had gotten a job—at least temporarily—at the radio station.

Stealing a march on the neighbors, I declared to all within blocks that I was having the neighborhood gathering for brunch on July 4th and went to considerable effort and expense to provision the affair, even though various neighbors were bringing this and that. We spread out between our large first-floor den opening out onto a covered patio, the flagstoned garden around the fishpond, and the screened garden pavilion.

The whole reason I'd gone to this trouble was to be with Emmet, even if I also had to be with twenty other assorted university professors and administrators. Cleo came and was vivacious and the center of much of the attention, particularly of the men. The women were faked smiles to her face and catty behind her back. If she knew that—and I gauged her as too intelligent not to know it—she showed no signs of being bothered by it.

Emmet didn't come, however.

"I'm sorry Emmet couldn't be here, professor," Cleo told me as she entered through the gate in the fence between our properties—we were such a tight-knit community that, although we had wooden fences separating our gardens, each lot had a gate in the fence to each other lot it abutted. When I'd heard the squeak of the hinge of the gate between our two properties, I turned in anticipation. Cleo must have seen my face cloud up when she came through alone, as she was quick to apologize for Emmet's absence.

"He has a radio program to give today—actually a string of them. He's junior on the staff, so he draws the short straw on holiday coverage."

"I'm sorry he can't come," I said. I'm sure my voice made clear just how sorry I was. "Please let him know I'm sorry he couldn't come." I know I sounded idiotic, but I was just that disappointed.

The party went on famously, though, and I soldiered on. It was only later in the afternoon, when it was over, and the maid had cleared everything out and left me alone that it fully hit me. I was alone. I was really alone.

I felt sorry for myself. And when I felt truly sorry for myself, as I did now, I reached for the collections of English poets.

After nibbling on leftovers for dinner, I went out to the screened pavilion. It was a hot and muggy night. A typical July 4th evening in the lower middle South. Knowing it would be hot in the pavilion, I stripped down to gym shorts and sandals. I could have stayed in the air-conditioned house, but it was oppressive in the house in more ways than temperature and humidity. And oh so lonely. For the first time since Joanne and I had parted in Paris earlier in the spring I missed her—not sexually, of course, but for her companionship. For the sound of another voice. And maybe to help curb what was growing inside me. The desire that I had so carefully stifled.

Once in the pavilion, I realized I probably was out here to hear that voice of Cleo's that carried so well from her sunporch—and, more specifically, to hear another sex session between the two. Looking over the fence, though, I saw that her BMW convertible was gone. Emmet's Mustang was there, but Cleo had mentioned something about a dinner or some other affair she had to go to. Most likely he'd gone too. The Dutch colonial was dark.

I had come out with a bottle of Shiraz and a glass, settled myself in the loveseat glider at one end of the screened pavilion, and slowly buried myself in the poems of John Keats.

So engrossed had I become in the rhythm of the poetry that I wasn't immediately sure of the sound I heard—the sound of the squeaky hinges of the gate in the fence between my property and Cleo's. Emmet was there, at the door of the screened pavilion, before I fully realized what was happening. And so strong had been the mystical worlds that Keats had been weaving in my mind that it didn't immediately register with me that Emmet was real.

He was naked, his manhood swinging low between his legs.

He pulled open the screened door to the pavilion and entered.

The whop, whop, whop of the overhead fan and the beating of my heart had become oppressive. I was close to hyperventilating. I couldn't bring myself to speak, still struggling to separate the Keats poems from reality. This couldn't be happening. I had so carefully sublimated these desires.

"Cleo told me that you wanted me to come," he said in that rich, low voice of his. "I've seen you watching me. I think I know what you want, what you need. I think you want me to come inside you. Tell me if I'm wrong."

He had moved to me, and I spread my legs to let him come into me very close. I could not speak. My answer was to reach out for him, my hand cupping his balls, lifting his jet-black, hardening cock with the heel of my hand, and leaning forward and opening my lips over the tan bulb of his ebony cock. My eyes locked on the thick blackness of the cylinder as, with a sigh, I pulled it, lovingly, inside my mouth cavity.

He fucked me in the glider, crouching over me, his hands under my buttocks, pulling them up to give his cock a straight angle into the depths of me. My wrists locked around his neck, my legs running up his torso, ankles on his heavily muscled shoulders. We kissed deeply, repeatedly, as he moved the glider back and forth, slowly, pulling my channel on and off his deeply buried staff.

I cried quietly while I told him how much this meant to me. I spoke of my first lover, a black field hand on my father's farm in Mississippi. Of our forbidden love—for more than one reason—in that time and place. How big and thick he'd been. How black his cock was. Nothing compared to Emmet, though. Thinner, not as beautiful. But my master all the same.

"Oh, god, how I'm loving this," I murmured. "How? How . . . did you . . .?"

"How did I know? The need was in your eyes. And you were there when I was fucking Cleo. Each time, it seemed. And I could see it in your eyes. You were having sex too, weren't you? With me?"

"Yes. Oh, god, yes. Like that. Oh, god, oh fuck. I'm going . . . to . . . coooome."

"I can come now too, if you wish. This is your wish? Do you want me to pull out and come?"

"Yes, come. But don't pull out. Silas, don't leave me. Give it to me. Big . . . black . . . cock." I moved my legs down and hooked my ankles together on the ledge of his bulbous buttocks, holding him fast to me, as his breath grew ragged and he jerked a couple of times—and bathed my insides.

We held there for several moments, neither one of us moving a muscle. "Silas. Was that the name of your first lover? Your black lover?"

"Yes."

"So was that part of your obvious fascination with me? Black cock?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, I know that sounds . . ."

"It's OK with me. I like white ass. Man, woman, it doesn't matter to me what white ass I'm fucking. It's all the same to me. So you like having this black cock deep inside you? Churning and revolving. Black cock is good enough for a university professor, is it? You like being mastered by a black man?"

"Yes."

"And you've been fucked by a black man before?"

"Yes. Many times. It's what I want." But he was distracting me, pulling me back into the immediate. "Yes, oh fuck yes," I cried out. He was working me again and I was panting hard. "Love that black cock," I whimpered. "You're my master. Black, black, black. Inside me. Deeper. Work me."

"Good to hear. You've got a sweet ass—for a professor. So tell me, professor. All of the lovers since that first one . . ."

"Black, yes. All black. That's what I want. He's got to be black. Oh, god, I want this so bad. Don't . . . talk . . . now. Just fuck."

He laughed a low, guttural laugh at that admission.

He worked me for a while, showing me he could do anything he wanted with me. And I melted to him. He slowed, though, not giving me another ejaculation just then. When we were cooling, he spoke again.

"What happened to that first lover. Did you . . .?"

"I went to graduate school; he went to Iraq. He never came back."

"And after that?"

"Black. They all had to be black. And big . . . where . . . it counts. I know, that's so stereotypical. But I can't help it. It's got to be black and big. I've tried others . . . but I can't."

We paused as a breeze went through the screening of the pavilion, setting the wind chimes to tinkling.

"The breeze feels good on my back," Emmet murmured.

"I'm sure it does. But you hardly raised a sweat. And it's so hot and humid tonight."

"Is this how Silas fucked you? Slow and easy?"

"He was usually very anxious. Impatient. Hard and fast."

"Would you like that now—for the memories?"

"Any way you want. But, oh, god, could you? Would you?"

He fucked me that second time with me bent over the table and holding the far edge with my fists for dear life as he crouched over me from behind and pounded me and pounded me and pounded me. This time after I'd ejaculated onto the floor of the pavilion under the table, he pulled out of me and shot up the small of my back. Then he thrust back inside me, laced his arms under my arm pits, locked his fists behind my neck, arched my back up to him, and fucked me hard until he came again.

"Silas do it like that?"

"Not nearly that well," I whimpered.

"You had enough?"

"Never enough."

"Would you like me to come inside with you? Sleep with you tonight?"

"Cleo?"

"Cleo was called away on business. We have three days and nights."

"Ah."

* * * *

Total surrender to my need.

Emmet was lying at the foot of my bed, the small of his back on the bed, his tan-soled feet on the floor, muscular legs spread. He was holding and waving his erect cock with one hand, and he had his head raised, looking past that, down the line of his luscious black torso, to where I was crawling along the floor toward him. All propriety and pretense out the window. Just the need and the desire. And that big, black cock.

"Black cock, black cock. Come and get it," he was singing in a rich, deep, quiet voice. He was grinning at me.

When I reached the bed between his spread legs, I went up on my knees and reached out with trembling hands and touched his cock on either side with the tips of my fingers. I ran my fingers up and down the sides of the staff, lovingly. I followed the line of the thick vein on the underside with my thumb. Looking down the line of his magnificent ebony torso at me, Emmet grinned and a deep, growly laugh bubbled up from deep inside him. His cock was getting bigger, harder under my worshipping touch.

I leaned in and gently rubbed the jet-black phallus on each of my cheeks, making soft mewing sounds, showing my pleasure, my awe, my total submission to it.

"Suck my black balls, professor. Show me how much you want me—what you'll do for a black master, to have a big, black cock ruling you. This isn't about me. This is about you, what you need and want and have been denying yourself for too long."

I took each orb in turn in my mouth and then both of them together, separating and moving the nuts into my cheeks on each side. I hummed softly, vibrating the balls in my cheek cavity, and he arched his head back, staring at the ceiling, and gave me a low growl of a moan. I was holding his cock cupped in a hand, loving that it was still growing, still getting harder, throbbing.

"You do this for your black soldier boy?" he asked in a low, hoarse voice.

"Mmm, mmm," was the best I could manage.

"It's surely a mystery that he ever left you and went to war then. Are you my little white man whore, professor? My black cock your idol, your god?"

"Mmm, mmm."

"Lick it. Make what you love a lollipop."

After moving my mouth away from his body, pulling his balls taut and extending them, being rewarded by a deep groan from Emmet, I released his ball sack, ran my tongue up his shaft and slowly licked across and around the purple bulb of his cock, which twitched against the hand gently cupping it. I ran the other hand up his belly and smooth, hard, ebony chest and played with his nipples, one after the other with a thumb and forefinger.

"You want it inside you now, don't you? Down your throat, rubbing your tonsils, don't you, professor?"

"Yes," I whimpered. "Be good to me, Emmet. It's been so long since I've been used this well, this totally. I need it so bad."

"Well, all right then. You can suck it now."

My mouth opened down over his cock. I shuddered with pleasure, desire . . . and surrender.

Minutes later I was straddling his hips, positioning his bulb at my hole, groaning in ecstasy as I slowly sank on my idol, what at this moment was my god. His hands on my waist, he grinned wide, murmuring that I was free, that it was all mine, that he knew this was what I needed, what I wanted beyond all else in life. Pulling it deep inside. Riding it, riding it hard. Black cock, black cock, black cock. BLACK COCK!

All those years of work, of self-denial. Jettisoned. Out the window. I . . . couldn't get . . . enough . . . of black cock.

* * * *

July and August were heaven. The first week in September I met Joanne in Paris and we went to Oxford for a week before coming home.

When we arrived home, the Dutch colonial next door was empty. No one could tell me where or why Cleo and Emmet had moved away. Everyone seemed pleased they were gone, though. Just too different. They didn't fit in.

I was devastated, of course. But everything was relative. I had had my summer of bliss and memories.

And Emmet had told me about the young hunk of a university assistant football coach down the block—and what he really wanted to do and that he'd confided to Emmet that I aroused him. And the coach was black too and was especially anxious to meet up with me when Emmet told him what I thought of and what I'd do for black cock.

sr71plt
sr71plt
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AnonymousAnonymous2 months ago

One of your best! To see the mature white professor obsessed by the magnificent beauty of the black cock of the gardener is a fantasy to cherish.

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 11 years ago
Re: Disappearing comments and an accolade

Anonymous: If you hit "show all x comments" at the bottom of the comments listing the negative one is among those that appear.

More importantly I think this is a thoroughly enjoyable story. Well written as always and well worth reading.

And congratulations are also due to the author on making the top ten, by number of stories, authors list here.

Quality is what matters most in writing, but when a writer can produce quantity and quality together then we, as readers, are very very lucky indeed.

Thank You, sr71plt

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 11 years ago
???

You said you left a negative anonymous comment but it seems to have dematerialized. Do you know why?

klippertklippertalmost 11 years ago
very well written

Worth every stroke...

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