Lynne’s Story 01

1: Crook of a Finger

Where I grew up it was unthinkable that one would find a partner that was different from the acceptable norms: very white, very Christian, and responsible with a solid future. Growing up, I dressed conservatively, limited my friends to the "good girls" and, I think, acquired a reputation for being strait-laced and plain.

My father, this ever-present, stern figure introduced me to Richard – one of father's friend's sons - at church. It was clear that Richard was viewed as an appropriate choice for me, and there was a sense within the family that I should go along. Richard was, frankly, a bit gangly and plain; but to have a boy pay attention to me was novel and exciting: I was hardly the center of attention at school. He was reserved and very serious and there were initially thoughts that he would rise to great heights. But as our relationship progressed into engagement and marriage, and he started building a career it was clear that this was never going to happen – he became progressively more passive as the pressures of career and family grow, including in the bedroom.

We had fooled around before we got married, of course – sweaty back seat explorations – but it never seemed to rise much beyond that once we had the privacy of marriage. Within a year we seemed already to have settled into a comfortable pattern; and I was not the kind of person to question, compare or complain.

It also meant, though, that we needed more money than he was bringing in – and so after our second child I went out to work in administration roles at small, local companies. None of this was pressured: I would work most mornings, then do the soccer-mom route. I had settled into the pattern that everyone expected and found some pleasure in having found my place.

I worked mornings at one company or another, changing as my kids grew up and my daily routine required until, at the age of 42, I no longer had a need to be at home and finally went to work full time – I could not contemplate days at home on my own. And so it was that I finally had the time to establish myself in some way. I loved my job, and administration was never monotonous. At the end of that year I found myself working for a company of about 50 people, having to organize the Christmas function. I had also become, I think, a bit of a mother-figure, and probably the oldest person there. We all relax more as we grow older and I found that role easy to fit into.

The company had recently been purchased and the CEO had been replaced with a black man in his early 30s. Robert was the antithesis of the experiences I had, had with management before. He dressed carefully, but not enough to hide his muscularity. He stood taller than anyone on the company and that – combined with a quiet presence and gravelly voice – left us all in no doubt who was in charge. He took charge of everything, and wanted me to report regularly on the Christmas function – he paid close attention to details all the time and I learned quickly to have my answers ready.

I had also changed over the years and, although I had never lost my views regarding race, I had grown accustomed to seeing black people in the workplace, even in positions of authority. And so I had an easy but respectful relationship with Robert. I never imagined that a young black man would be watching a 40-something slightly curvy woman - because, of course, two children and a relaxed suburban lifestyle had an effect on me. And as we worked together, often closely, I occasionally pondered what his girlfriends were like. Robert was still single and I was sure there would be many black women interested in his attentions. He was the opposite of Richard in every way imaginable. If he wasn't black, I once joked to myself, and if I was younger I would be showing a lot of attention – especially those days when we sat alongside one another and I became aware of his strength and size.

I was also aware how difficult Richard and my father would find this. If they knew I was working under the close supervision of a young black man they would probably have told me to move jobs – yes, they were still that way. Just being in Robert's presence all day had become a secret – actually a small statement of my independence. Of course it was unthinkable that anything could ever happen between us – he was black! – but I could flirt with the idea, even think about it in front of my family and savor the fact that they were unaware that I had, in some small way, freed myself from their values.

The Christmas function was held the day that the office closed for the festive season. Robert had allowed us to hire a private venue and set an open bar and by mid afternoon the party was louder than it should have been. The Christmas tree had been bumped over once already, and the mistletoe in the doorway had caused a lot of attention and provoked some private comments: the rumors were sure to flourish about office romances when work commenced again in January. I expected Robert – as polished and restrained as always – to calm things down, but he kept a distance, talking to me about the arrangements through the afternoon, and pressing white wine onto me himself. I kept my behavior restrained, but we so seldom would have wine at home that as the afternoon wore on I knew I was becoming very tipsy, and a little nervous that perhaps people could see it.

By late afternoon almost everyone had left. As the organizer I stayed behind to finalize everything, and so it was that we eventually found ourselves alone. Robert congratulated me on the arrangements, but it was a slightly stilted conversation – the one that you have when the year has ended and it seems that there is not much left to say. I thought that my cheeks were glowing from the wine and I said so.

Robert laughed. "You're allowed one day a year to let go, Lynne – you behave like such a lady every other day of the year."

"I'm not as young as everyone else here, and I have a husband who will be wanting dinner later. He'll be asking why it is I am so tipsy."

"There are many reasons for red cheeks, Lynne. I didn't see you under the mistletoe?"

I laughed, and I suspect that my cheeks reddened even more. "As I said – I'm not as young as the others. My mistletoe days are long behind me."

"That's a shame. One should never lose mistletoe days."

We both laughed, embarrassed – I thought – at how the conversation had turned. "Before we go," he said, "come with me."

I followed him as he walked to the back of the venue, away from the lights to a dark area near the kitchens. He led me to a corner and as puzzled as I was, I had no concern or question, until he pointed to a sprig of mistletoe hanging on the wall.

"See – there is still one left. Nobody saw it here so they left it alone."

I covered my mouth with my hand and blushed furiously. Robert was asking for a kiss? A black man? Instinctively I took a step backwards but Robert had grabbed my hand and pulled me into the corner. He was so strong he did it without effort – and yet with no intent to hurt me. It was almost a game. My heart, though, was pounding and I know that my breath was coming in sudden pants.

He stood in such a way that I could not escape, close enough for me to feel the heat off his body. So close. His deep voice came from the shadow: "It's only a kiss, Lynne. Only a kiss. And if you don't want me to do it I will understand. I would never do anything you weren't ready for."

In the dark I could see very little, just feel the closeness, catch an aroma of scent, sense his vigor. He was not seeming to threaten me – but this was my boss, and we were alone. And more – I knew him; I trusted him; and I was innately vulnerable. I knew I was trembling slightly, that he could feel it. He lifted his hand and placed it on my cheek; and without realizing I covered his hand with my own. And then slowly, slow enough for me to stop him if I had wished, he leaned forward and placed his lips against mine.

The first kiss was no more than you would expect under the mistletoe – a brushing of closed lips, cheeks touching briefly; but he stayed close, and I let him stay close, and those were the changing moments when I knew, suddenly, that I was cheating, that this man with his one hand on my back had taken something away from Richard that was precious and could never be returned – and more, that I had allowed him to do so. And so the second kiss was different; Robert leaned forward now with his whole body pushing against mine and the pounding in my ears was now about my compliance and not from fear. He opened his mouth and bit my lower lip gently, prying my mouth open, his thumb still on my cheek, slipping in between my lips. I pressed my tongue forward into his mouth, not thinking, just experiencing – perhaps for the first time in my life – that first rush of lust that comes from want, not duty.

And then I realized with a sudden shock of horror what I was doing and tried to pull my head away; but I was against the corner walls and while I had pulled away from his lip his thumb was still in my mouth. Deliberately, he held it there. We stood long moments in the dark – there was a light in my eyes and while I am sure he could see my face, he remained a dark presence. And then slowly, imperceptibly, he started moving his thumb in and out of my mouth, pushing it deeper and withdrawing progressively more with each stroke until his entire thumb was moist with my saliva, my mouth felt dry and, shamefully, I realized I was responding, drawing him in, holding him in my mouth, softly biting, sucking.

At first I was so caught in the moment that I didn't realize he was speaking: "Everyone tells you what you must be, Lynne. But some women, in their hearts, just want a strong man to hold them, to own them ... to control them. And we both know that describes you, don't we?"

How does one respond to that? Yes I was tipsy and caught up in the moment; and yes he was my boss and attractive; but he was BLACK and I am WHITE and a wife. And yet ... and yet ... those moments with him so close, so strong, those moments that I was realizing were unlike any I had experienced before; that sudden, first sense of wanting to be a woman, not a wife or mother, not a daughter – a desired woman.

He broke in again, pulling his thumb away and noticing how I pushed forward to hold it, saying again, "You want this don't you, Lynne?"

Still I wouldn't answer and now there was a sudden sense of annoyance, a harder edge to his voice. His thumb was resting against my cheek, moving slowly, tantalizingly out of my reach. "It's an easy question, Lynne. It's a yes or no. You can say no and we'll leave now and this will never happen again. But you and I both know that you will never have this again. And I don't think you ever have." He spoke slowly, not unkindly, but with steel in his voice. "Again – you want this, don't you?"

And incredibly, not fully understanding what he meant, I nodded. I nodded.

I nodded and he moved his thumb back to my mouth. "You need to say it to me Lynne. Say that you want me."

I whispered, so torn that I knew there were tears in my eyes. "I want you." I didn't realize that it wasn't Robert I wanted at all; that it was this expression of lust and submission and desire that had been missing my entire life; this innate essence of my womanhood that had been taken away through disregard by the weak men in my life.

He used my mouth with his thumb for a short while again as he spoke. "I know that you want me. And you will want me, even when it is not my finger, and even when it is not your mouth."

The shock ran through me at the words. Robert kissed me again but now he put the full weight of his body against me and I felt suddenly the unmistakable hardness pressing against my belly – more forceful than anything I had ever felt with Richard. I murmured in ... lust? Shock? Fear? Want? He heard the unmistakable sound of my desire and as his other hand moved down my back, resting on the mature flare of my hips he spoke again: "Every white woman needs a strong black man at least once in her life. You have waited a very long time. I think you need this more than you know."

When the kiss ended we were in a different world to when it started. In those minutes we had moved from a professional work relationship into a world I barely understood, except to know that this must be kept secret, that I would have to take time to understand what had happened here.

His hand had moved down over the curve of my bottom, taking the time for a soft squeeze as he did. I moved my hand to stop him but he slapped it away. "If you want me to stop I will, but if you prevent me ever from doing what I want this will be over." He lowered his other hand and grasped my wrist behind me so I could not move, then started to hitch up the back of my skirt, pulling it up then grabbing it lower down, until his hand had access to my pantied bottom, which he fondled and squeezed gently. "Big mature panties," he murmured, as I buried my face in shame in his shoulder. "I bet they're white or beige. Am I right?"

I nodded and whispered: "Beige."

"Mature wives and mommy panties are so right for each other. You can keep wearing them, but when you are with me you either have white mommy panties or no panties at all. Do you understand me?"

I nodded, still grappling to understand what I was allowing to happen to me. "How many white mommy panties do you have?"

The question left my mind racing – my black boss was querying the most intimate details of my wardrobe, details that Richard would never have known. He waited as I hesitated, then squeezed my bottom as he asked again: "How many white mommy panties, Lynne?"

I spoke into his jacket, still hiding my face: "I think four. I'm not sure."

"So unless you wash you panties daily, you should be panty-less at least one work day a week. When do you wash your panties, Lynne?" All the while he was fondling, squeezing, occasionally pinching or running his hand lower down to let his fingertips trail across the bottom hem of the panty legs.

"I wash weekly," I said, without thinking.

"Good. Then one day a week you'll go without. I'll be understanding enough to let you choose the day. If you go buy extra panties without me being present to choose, you will not be allowed to wear them. Do you understand?"

I shook my head. "No," I said, and even I could hear a tremor in my voice. I tried to pull my hand free but he held it firmly.

"Your husband thinks he still owns your body, Lynne. You think you still own your body. But in truth, so long as you stay in this relationship, I do. Including deciding what you wear." His hand was now pushing down the back of my panties. I twisted but he was too strong and within moments I felt it fall until the positioning of my legs caused it to hang at my knees, and his hand gently caressed the naked flesh of my bottom. I tried to turn away from his caress, but I was held so tightly that it was ineffectual. "You only have to ask me to stop and I will, Lynne. It only takes a word." With my face hiding in the material covering his shoulder I said nothing.

He squeezed again. "I thought not," then slowly trailed his hand around, over my hip until one firm finger drew a line up my vaginal slit. I pulled my hips back and squeezed my legs together, causing my panties to fall to my ankles; but the wall made it impossible to pull away, and he whispered, "Never, ever close your legs on me unless I tell you to. Do you understand?"

I remained silent, slowly opening my legs as he pushed against my thigh to make me do so. He cupped me, then slipped an exploratory finger inside my lips, teasing, finding moistness, as I murmured and moved my hips involuntarily against his hand. "You're wet Lynne. Moist plump mommy pussy." I gasped at the words, so he continued: "I'm not Richard, or any other man you've ever had. I don't have to court you or romance you – I'm here to own you." He leaned close to whisper in my ear: "You have a moist white plump mommy pussy that needs attention," as his index finger started to circle against that softest, hardest, sensitive spot that I would touch, sometimes in the privacy of the bathtub. My hips were twitching, jerking at his touch, gasping, murmuring, heart pounding, mouth dry. "God you're sensitive. You need a hard cock for this white wife pussy and nice plump ass, don't you?" Stiffening, straightening his finger and now sliding it up into me, achingly slowly.

"Say it Lynne. Say that you need a hard cock."

"Yes," I gasped.

And now he started sliding into me, and out again, as his thumb had done with my mouth. "No Lynne. You don't answer in one word. Say that you need a hard black cock for your white wife pussy. Say it now."

I whispered it into his jacket, hiding away, but he stopped his slow fingering and pulled his hand away, causing my skirt to fall and suddenly hide my nakedness again. He raised the moist finger and ran it across my lips, then pressed it into my mouth and onto my tongue. "You can taste how much you need it Lynne. Look me in the eye and say it."

For the first time ever I tasted the sweet, salty, sharp, pungent taste of my womanhood, as he spread it across my tongue. I swallowed involuntarily, more confused, more captured by the barrage of new sensations with each passing moment. "Look me in the eye. Say it Lynne."

I took my head away from his shoulder, but struggled to hold his eyes. I knew that my face was flushed and I felt both shame and want in every pore. I slowly, ponderously whispered: "I need a hard cock for my white wife pussy."

"A hard black cock Lynne."

"I need a hard black cock for my white wife pussy."

"Because Richard doesn't fuck me enough."

I looked away, not wanting to draw Richard into any of this. I had betrayed him enough. Robert grasped my chin in his hands, forcing me to purse my lips. I wanted to scream at him, make him stop, make this all go away – and yet there was something happening that I had been longing for, without realizing it, all my life.

"Say it Lynne. Look me in the eye and say it."

I had never used that word in anything but anger before; certainly not during the act of sex. I had never used it in front of anyone but Richard or some very close friends – it was indicative, to me, of poor upbringing and low morals.

I raised my eyes to his, in shame. "Because Richard doesn't fuck me enough."

My hips were pressing forward against Robert, in want, slowly moving in aching circles. He could feel me trying to find relief against his hardness as he whispered: "Go onto your knees, unzip my trousers and take me out."

I slid down slowly against him, the wall against my back, kicking the panties off my ankles and carefully resting my knees on the uneven wooden floor. His hips at my face, his hands resting in my hair I glanced up at him as I undid his belt and then his zipper. I reached in, and pulled his manhood out, but in the dark I couldn't see anything. But I could feel it, and my heart pounded – he was at least twice as long and wide as Richard if not more, and he was not yet fully hard. I was almost afraid to touch it at first – I ran my hands softly up it's length, finding the circumcised head, trembling at what I was doing. Robert looked down and whispered: "Kiss me. Kiss my black cock."

I could almost have wept in shame and fear, but this presence, inches away from my mouth, wanting attention, drew me forward until I opened my lips and let the head slip into me. I closed my eyes and drew him in, hearing his breathing change, feeling it go hard in my mouth, concentrating now, lost, lost, lost in the moment as he started moving his hips forwards and back. His hands were tightening in my hair as he murmured dark thoughts, sexual innuendo: "I'm going to give black cock to your mouth and your married cunny." He was so large that as he pulled me forward, the head of his manhood ran against the top of my mouth, back until I started to choke slightly, but he held me there – letting me know that I was being used, making me listen to his words. "You've been looking at my pants, Lynne – thinking about sucking my cock, haven't you? Married white wife touching her cunny under the desk."