Leasa Ch. 05

Otis told me he idolized those beautiful southern belles he’d sometimes see from a distance, but he also hated them too, for their uppity, superior pretensions. He always wished he could just once be with one.

“And now,” he said, “with you, Leasa, here on my birthday—maybe my last—my son tells me, you gonna make my wish come true, eh?”

I was stunned. Was he kidding, I thought?

I smiled and tried to laugh it off, “Oh well sure, Otis, I’m just a special gift for you today, right?” I giggled.

But Otis wasn’t laughing.

“You laugh, girl...but that is what you here fo’ right?”

Otis appeared hurt. I immediately knew Amos had played a cruel joke on both of us. I felt badly for Otis. How could Amos do this to his 80 year old Dad?

“Otis, I’m sorry. I think Amos has played a cruel joke on both of us. I was only here to wish you happy birthday, nothing more.”

Otis appeared to droop. He looked very sad, and embarrassed.

“I musta been a fool,” he muttered, “I musta been a fool to think a goddess like you would wanta...”

“No Otis, don’t say that,” I said, feeling terrible for this poor old man.

“There’s no reason why a woman wouldn’t want to be with a man like you,” I said, trying to lift his spirits. But I didn’t realize how it might sound to a desperate old man.

“Why’s dat,” he said, challenging me.

“Well, you’re older, wiser and more mature than many younger men. You must know from what Amos has told you about he and I that many young, attractive white women are particularly attracted to much older black men.”

I could see his spirits were rising; unfortunately, I noticed the muscle in his pants was rising too.

“So, you do find this old nigga kinda appealin’ then, eh?”

I was stuck now. What could I say?

“Yes. Of course I do...you’re very, very handsome, Otis, really, you are.”

“Well, then, sweetie, why dontcha’ take a samplin’ o some a dis’, eh?” he said, glancing down at his enormous hard on.

“Well, Otis, I’m Amos’ girl. You understand, right?”

Otis leaned over and began stroking my thigh:

“Anything that’s my son’s is mine by parental rights.”

Normally, I would have laughed at such a nonsensical comment. But I could see that Otis was dead serious. And his pawing was beginning to slide higher and higher up my thigh.

I tried to grab his wrist and push it away gently, saying, “Otis, this is really inappropriate,” but it was clear that the old man hadn’t had any sexual harassment training—and he really didn’t give a shit whether his feeling my thigh was ‘inappropriate’ or not.

“Damn, Leasa, you got some fine legs!” Otis exclaimed, staring down at the flesh he was squeezing along my thighs.

As I struggled, trying to push his hands away, I ridiculously responded, “Th-thank you, Mr. Jackson. Th-that’s very nice of you to say...but it is really, really inappropriate for you to be feeling me this way!”

Slowly, this old satyr was working my thighs open. I felt helpless, I didn’t want to insult him and feel Amos’ wrath, but I didn’t want to submit to this horrible, homely old goat.

“C’mon Leasa, you know you be wantin’ me. I sees ya’ lookin’ at my baby maker, girl.”

Otis was right to some degree. As I tried to fend him off, I couldn’t help but glance down at the huge projection within his pants. There was even a widening wet spot forming right above the head of it, soaking through his pants. I began to wonder, if I just rubbed it a little would he cum and then leave me alone.

I reached down and began to rub the bulge in the old man’s pants. But my plan back fired, it encouraged him in the idea that I really wanted him. He began working harder at his objective.

Unfortunately, my thighs began to give under his constantly probing hands and fingers.

Otis suddenly smiled wide. He looked me deep in the eyes:

“Girl, you wet fo’ me.”

I was. I was ashamed then, and I am now, but Otis’ stroking hands, and the sight and feel of his enormous dick, had made me horny and wet for this toothless and wrinkled, black octegenarian.

He leaned over and put his thick lips to my neck. He sucked on it, gently at first, and then with lust. We sat like teenagers, with this ‘raisin in the sun’ planting a huge, red hickey on my soft white neck.

Otis’ hand stroked my breast, his thumb playing with my aching, swollen nipple. I moaned. I could feel my hose getting wetter. My body was responding to Otis now. My pussy lips were secreting fluid, lubricating specifically for his aged, black weapon to penetrate them.

I whispered, “Otis, is there a bedroom we could go to?”

He removed his lips from my throat with a loud smack, “Sho’...that what ‘cha want?” he asked looking me in the eye, now feeling in command of the situation.

“Yes,” I whispered back, averting my eyes from his. Ashamed of my lust.

He signaled to a hallway behind us. I arose. Otis couldn’t get up from the couch. I had to help pull him up off the couch and down the hallway. Once in the bedroom, I even had to help him indress.

I thought, how low has my life sunk than to be here in a fetid, filthy bedroom with a black man so old and enfeebled that I am literally undressing him to assist in his fucking of me?

I would have cried had I not been so in need of his sex.

After undressing him, I let him flop back against the head board of the bed. As I undressed in the twighlight of the room, I could see Otis stroking his incredibly large dick as he watched me stripping for him. The old man seemed to flog it like it was a thick, foot long fire hose. When I was nearly undressed, I could see his cock was stiffening. I was amazed that this black half-corpse of a man was more ready for sex at the age of eighty than my white husband ever was at thirty.

I was ready too. I stood before Otis feeling incredibly randy and hot. I looked down at him and stroked the lips of my cunt with my fingers, then brought them to my lips and sucked them.

“I am so hot for you, Otis,” I whispered to the wrinkled man, as I continued licking my fingers.

“Dis’ is like a fuckin’ dream, girl. Come over here befo’ I pop!!!”

I did. I came to the old man’s bed, and straddled him, offering the old Black the very nook that I had only months before sworn to the world, from an alter, would only be offered my husband.

The rotund head of Otis’ dick began stretching my lips as I knelt down onto it. It hurt as it stretched me. I enjoyed the pain it gave me. I needed just this kind of aching.

I could feel the fat, black organ begin to penetrate me. Deeper and deeper I took the thick blackness of Otis into my body, until our pelvis’ touched. He reached out and held my hips down on to him. He smiled widely.

“God, you mine now, ain’t ‘cha, Leasa?”

“Yes, Otis...I’m yours.”

I began to hump myself up and down, skewering myself on Otis’ manhood. I could hear him grunting as I did so. He reached up and played with my boobs—squeezing them and pulling on them. I loved it. Otis was making me feel like a woman again—much more than my young husband ever had. The old man with his African manhood was well worth breaking my western, white vows for...and I knew I would do it again for him. Otis Jackson.

Otis came in me, over and over, that night. Amos never returned. He must have known that even his aged father could have me, knowing the persistence of the men in his family, and my weakness to just such persistence from black men.

These black men—even old and balding—seemed almost genetically predisposed to be able to seduce and mate me. Leaving me in the family way. Breeding the future manhood of a strong, black nation through my open, willing, and fertile caucasian womb.

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