"Irene...?" Mr. Olson prompted a second time with an edgy smile.
"Hmm...?" Mrs. Olson responded distractedly.
"I asked, would you please pass the canapés to our guests?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Mrs. Olson apologized, passing the plate of hors d'œuvres while stealing a look at the mantel clock for the twentieth time.
Both she and Mr. Olson were trying as best they could to conceal their anxiety from their dearest and oldest friends, the Chattertons, while awaiting the arrival of their daughter and her newest boyfriend.
When Sula had first excitedly let it be known that she'd begun dating this "absolutely fabulous black man," the Olsons were naturally taken aback, but trusted that it wouldn't amount to anything, certainly no more than had any of their daughter's other short-lived, loopy infatuations. Surely, Sula would soon come to her senses and find herself a more fitting companion – i.e. someone white -- preferably a nice Episcopalian boy, or maybe a Lutheran or Presbyterian.
By all accounts, this new boyfriend appeared to have plenty of money, but Sula had admitted she hadn't any idea what he actually did for a living. For all the Olsons knew, he might be a pimp or a drug dealer -- or, worse yet, a subversive community organizer. But as the relationship dragged on, month after month, it became disturbingly apparent to the Olsons that their daughter wasn't simply infatuated; she had deluded herself into thinking she was actually in love with this Damon person.
And now, perhaps, their worst fear was on the cusp of being horrifyingly realized: Sula had orchestrated this first face-to-face meeting at Damon's behest, giddily hinting he might even use the occasion to ask for her hand in marriage. Now, at the eleventh hour, as it were, the Olsons agreed they would've gladly settled for a Catholic or Southern Baptist -- or even, as inconceivable as it once might have seemed, a Jew.
Just then, a sleek black Maserati Quattroporte pulled into their circular driveway. Moments later, the doorbell rang and there they were: Sula and Damon.
Well, no question they made a very striking couple as they entered the living room arm in arm. And an even more striking study in contrasts.
Twenty-eight year old Sula Olson was a stunning, blue-eyed, Nordic-looking beauty with flawless skin and natural tow-blond hair in a pageboy cut. At 5-feet 10-inches, she was blessed with an athletic yet sumptuous body: natural 36C breasts, 22-inch waist, and 36-inch hips. She was dressed in a flesh-colored silk camisole edged in black ribbon with spaghetti-thin shoulder straps, and a form-fitting, mid-thigh length black cashmere skirt. Her long, tapering legs were perfect pedestals, set off by 4-inch black leather pumps.
Damon Ogumbu was equally striking in his way: a 32-year old dark-skinned African-American, 6-feet 3-inches tall, with a lean yet muscular physique draped in an exquisitely tailored dark gray Armani suit and black silk shirt. His facial features, while pleasant enough, were far too Negroid for the Olson's liking. His dark brown eyes, however, were strangely compelling... and eerily penetrating.
Of course, she would never have divulged such a thing to her parents, but from the outset of their amorous relationship, Sula had been bowled over not just by Damon's prodigiously oversized genitalia but also by his absolutely extraordinary sexual stamina. His mighty organ was fueled, it seemed, by a supercharged reproductive system that enabled him to outlast, out-recuperate, and outperform any man she'd ever been with. Up to that point in her life, Sula had been intimate with numerous alpha male celebs – movie stars and other assorted Hollywood types, politicians (from both sides of the aisle), top-tier athletes, rock stars, and business tycoons. But none of them – none – held half a candle to Damon's Olympian performances.
And they'd met in the most interesting way.
Sula and her closest supermodel friend at the time, Victoria, had been waved through the ropes of a very exclusive club when she'd noticed a parking valet pull away in a simply gorgeous black Maserati Quattroporte. On a naughty lark, Sula had turned to her friend and boldly declared, "Whoever owns that car, that's the lucky bastard I'm going to fuck tonight."
Sula had been about to slip a ten-dollar bill to the valet captain to learn the identity of the Maserati's owner, but Victoria informed her she could put her money away; she already knew who it was: a fellow named Damon Ogumbu. Victoria had been hearing the most gushing reviews about him from several of her swimsuit model friends.
Sula was immediately intrigued. "Well, tell me all about him. His name sounds African. Is he black?"
"As the ace of spades," Victoria said, adding lewdly, "Every inch of him."
"What is he, then, an actor? An athlete? What does he do?"
"I've no idea," Victoria shrugged, "but they say he fucks like a god."
That was sufficient recommendation for Sula. Afterall, she had no racial biases, none whatsoever. She'd sucked and fucked plenty of black dicks in limos before. And then there'd been that night in that hotel suite when she and Victoria, and three other models whose names she couldn't recall, had had a tad too much coke and wound up getting gangbanged by nearly all the starters from two competing basketball teams and half their benches.
Sula had gotten Victoria to point Damon out for her at the bar, then walked over, wedged herself in between Damon and a couple of wannabe fuckstresses, and boldly introduced herself.
As he had taken her hand in his, she thought she'd heard him say, "Pleased to eat you." At that same instant, she'd felt a poignant tingling in her clit and a twat throb filled with such tender yearning that she grew briefly dizzy. She then felt his lips press lightly against her ear as he murmured these memorable words: "Panties should never come between friends."
Sula had promptly excused herself and literally raced into the ladies room to remove the offending undergarment. By the time she'd returned, the other two women had mysteriously vanished, leaving the bar stool beside Damon conveniently available.
For the next hour, they'd carried on the most scintillating conversation regarding ... regarding ... Well, Sula couldn't recall what the subject matter was, or what either of them had actually said. Not a word. But what she did vividly recall were those incredible, aphrodisiacal eyes of his. And the way he'd seductively caressed the nape of her neck and tenderly kissed her on the lips. And how he'd finger fucked her to a screaming, gut-wrenching orgasm right there at the bar while everyone else around them appeared to take no notice ... absolutely no notice at all.
How perfectly extraordinary it all had been!
Moments after she'd publicly climaxed, when Damon invited her home with him, she had virtually leapt off the stool. Damon's offer to settle the tab had, interestingly enough, been magnanimously declined by the barman.
That night, in his luxurious penthouse apartment, with its spectacular views of the city lights, Damon had taken Sula to heights of lust and ecstasy she'd never before known. By dawn, he'd made love to her an astonishing nine times – or, maybe it was ten -- she couldn't remember. It had all been such a wildly rapturous haze of sucking and fucking.
But what Sula, even to this day, wasn't aware of – hadn't even guessed at -- was that Damon's greatest gift lay unseen within his cranium: A preternatural prefrontal cortex that gave him the power to alter the consciousness of others, and bend their hearts, minds, and bodies to his will.
While portions of his brain may have been unusually large, his pineal body, by contrast, was not merely underdeveloped but missing entirely – a quirk of nature that had brought about a precocious puberty at age five, and an equally precocious and near-insatiable sexual appetite.
From earliest childhood, Damon had learned that the world -- and all those in it – existed largely for the simple purpose of making him happy. He had only to desire something and it would be granted. To wit, his mother had breastfed him until he was ten by which time he'd felt sufficiently sated to move on to other menu items. And by the time he'd graduated from high school, he'd already sired twelve children by as many of his schoolteachers. White, Black, Hispanic and Asian, he had had them all. He'd even bedded and inseminated a number of his friends' mothers. More than a few of all these impregnations, had, unfortunately, culminated in rather tumultuous divorces, though none of the women, understandably, had been willing to divulge the identity of their young lover.
Throughout Damon's life, he found people unfailingly and exceedingly kind, instantly obedient to his every wish and whim. They lavished upon him the finest of educations, their places in line, the best clothing, wristwatches, haute cuisine meals, housing, the choicest of automobiles – and the most enchanting sexual partners. Everything and anyone his heart desired he received openhandedly and without any repercussion or cost to him whatsoever.
Now, as everyone gathered round, Sula introduced Damon first to her father, Charles Olson, a stocky gentleman in his late sixties, dressed in a tan leisure suit, and possessed of a thick head of expensively barbered white hair, a ruddy tan complexion, and a gold Rolex Presidential wristwatch studded with diamonds. He'd made his fortune in commercial real estate and manure. He was normally a steady and sober-minded individual, but the buzzing in Mr. Olson's head that had coincidentally begun the moment Damon entered the house was making him a bit giddy and euphoric.
"Damon!" Mr. Olson bellowed, shaking hands with Rotarian gusto. "Welcome, welcome, welcome!"
"Thank you, sir," Damon said with a hint of some form of an African accent. His words were well articulated, measured, and had a steady cadence. "You are too kind."
Sula introduced him next to her mother, Mrs. Olson, a very comely, gray haired lady – in her mid-sixties, Damon imagined – pleasingly plump, with a grand, jutting bust, full hips, and a delightfully rounded plush derriere. She wore a simple white blouse with collar spread wide enough to afford a glimpse of her deep cleavage, and a green tartan skirt cut a few inches above her lovely knees. She bypassed Damon's extended hand and pulled him tightly against her cushiony bosom for a welcoming hug and a buss on the cheek.
"Oh now, Damon," she gushed, "you know a simple handshake won't do. You'll be calling me 'Mother' soon."
Sula's face flushed red with embarrassment at her mother's presumptuousness. But Damon was genuinely touched by the old lady's warm reception and decided to have her on the spot.
But first there were other introductions to endure.
The Right Reverend Richard Chatterton was next in line; a sixtyish, tall, bespectacled gentleman wearing a gray suit, black shirt, and white clerical collar.
"So good to meet you, Damon," he said, giving a limp-wristed handshake. "And allow me to introduce you to my wife."
"Please, call me Violet," Mrs. Chatterton said, shaking hands energetically.
Violet was a willowy, somewhat pinch-faced, brunette in her late fifties, dressed in a powder blue business suit with matching silk paisley scarf knotted about her long, tapering throat. Her bust, though petit in comparison to the mammiferous Mrs. Olson, was still nicely shaped, Damon thought -- even tantalizing. She had dazzling green eyes and he liked the slightly saucy turn of her mouth. Her breath smelled unusually of Tic-Tacs and bourbon. Damon permitted himself a fleeting fantasy of her kneeling before him, servicing his cock with that saucy mouth. He vowed to turn that fantasy into a reality this very visit.
"Well, it is very nice to meet all of you," Damon said, affably. "I've heard so much about you from Sula." Then, after a moment's pause, he added: "I hope you will not think me rude, but I would like to steal Mrs. Olson away from you for a little while."
"But of course, of course," burbled Mr. Olson, hospitably, the buzzing in his head growing suddenly louder.
"We shouldn't be much more than about an hour, I think."
"No rush, my boy. Take your time," insisted Mr. Olson, feeling a bit unsteady on his feet.
"Sula?" Damon asked thoughtfully.
"Oh, don't fret about us, darling," Sula sweetly assured him. "We'll be out here visiting."
"Well then ..." Damon said, rubbing his hands together and looking around, "Uh ... bedroom?"
"First door on the right," said Mr. Olson. "Let us know if you need anything."
"Thank you," Damon said, winking at the buxom Mrs. Olson, "but I believe I've got everything I need right here."
As everyone else took a seat, Damon placed a hand on Mrs. Olson's lush backside and gave it a firm squeeze as he guided her into the master bedroom. He could hear them all chatting amiably in the living room as he shut the door.
"Well," Damon said to Mrs. Olson, "would you mind turning sideways? I'd like to see that splendid bust of yours."
Mrs. Olson smiled shyly, looking flattered, and promptly did as requested. Damon examined her profile with deep satisfaction.
"My! What a lovely, large bosom you have!"
"I am rather large, aren't I?" she responded proudly, placing her hands on either side of her tits and lifting them slightly.
"Yes, indeed," Damon said, fondling both breasts through her blouse. "They feel unusually firm for a woman your age."
"Why, thank you."
"And exactly how old are you, dear?" he asked.
"I see," Damon said with delight. "Open your blouse, now, and give us a kiss."
Mrs. Olson demurely unbuttoned her blouse down to the top of her skirt and spread it wide open. Her fleshy breasts spilled enticingly over the top of her bra. The skin over her chest was a bit wrinkled and crepe-like, just the way Damon liked it with his more mature women. She then snuggled against him, put her arms around his neck, and planted a slow, sensuous kiss upon his lips. For a full minute, they stood exchanging seductive, open-mouthed kisses, their thighs pressed together, while Damon's hands caressed her bountiful bottom.
"Stick your tongue in my mouth, darling," he said. He parted his lips to permit her tongue entry. His hands groped her bra-covered breasts as their tongues wetly caressed each other.
"Your tongue is very smooth, almost like velvet," Damon observed as he slipped off her blouse. She assisted, pulling it free of her skirt, and dropped it on the floor. His black hands roamed all over her breasts and deep cleavage, then reached behind her and unhooked her brassiere. Her heavy, full tits descended halfway to her navel. Damon took a half step back to admire them. Her nipples were surrounded by large, pink areolae.
"I like the look and feel of your nipples," he murmured appreciatively, pinching and rolling them between his thumbs and fingers.
"Thank you," she said, feeling her nipples harden.
"Put your right breast in your mouth now, dear, and suck the nipple."
As commanded, she hefted her breast to her mouth and sucked the protuberance.
"That looks very enticing," Damon observed, feeling his cock stir for the fifth time since their meeting.
"Mmm," she responded. "Look how big my nipples get when I'm aroused."
"Yes, they are ... deliciously large," said Damon, as he bent his head to sample each nipple for himself.
"Oh," Mrs. Olson crooned, unconsciously rubbing her belly against his groin, "they're so tender, particularly the way you're licking and sucking and nibbling them."
After a second generous helping of her nipples, he said, "Unbutton my shirt, my sweet, and kiss and suck my nipples just as I did you." Sula's mother obediently opened his shirt and gave each of his nipples delectable little treats with her tongue and lips.
He tilted her chin upward and kissed her full on the mouth. Grasping her buttocks, he pulled her close as their mouths hotly mashed together. He unzipped her skirt and slid it down her legs. She obligingly stepped free of it, leaving on just a garter belt, silk stockings, and panties. He kissed her neck as his hand tweaked her fleshy mons. Then, he took her by the hands and led her toward the king-sized bed.
"Take off your garter belt, stockings and panties, my love."
Mrs. Olson perched on the edge of the bed and began to discard the designated items while Damon quickly shucked off his clothes. He pulled back the satin coverlet and sprawled himself on the fresh, cool sheets, his head propped up on two pillows. He enjoyed watching women undress, never tired of it, even the old ones. Once nude, he had Mrs. Olson slowly pivot 360 degrees, his eyes drinking in all the treasures this mature beauty possessed. He then had her bend over his supine form, slowly running her soft hands and fingers up and down his legs and thighs, gently stroke and massage his oversized genitals, and then lick him wetly, lovingly, salaciously, from crotch to eyelids, leaving a moistened trail with her tongue.
"Here," he invited at last, patting the mattress beside him.
Mrs. Olson knelt on the bed with knees well parted, exposing all of her charms. Her belly was pleasingly protuberant. Her gray bush and the fleshy lips guarding her split offered many obscene pleasures to come. Her big breasts looked magnificent. He had her pose for him in a variety of alluring positions so that he might enjoy her massive mams from every conceivable angle. For the finale, he had her lace her fingers behind her neck and pull her elbows back, causing her bosom to thrust forward boldly. Unable to constrain himself any longer, he sat up to fondle and kiss her breasts from their origins near the armpits, down along their sides, underneath, and all over the tops. He nuzzled his face in the soft flesh and inhaled. She smelled nicely of lilac. She moaned softly as he licked her nipples and sucked them deep into his mouth, working them over expertly with his tongue. Then he had her lie down on top of him to seductively kiss his neck, face, and lips. She put the tip of her warm, moist tongue in his ear, and sucked his earlobe.
He pointed to his enormous, stiff-standing cock. "Suck me, my love. Thrill me with your lips and tongue. Be creative, naughty, and very vulgar."
For the next thirty minutes, he lay in infantile delight as Mrs. Olson performed unimaginably salacious acts upon his cock and balls. The sight of those tiny, sexy age lines around her mouth as she intently sucked and nipped his member was, for him, a special visual treat. He looked on in satisfaction as she sucked his nut bag. He relished how her face contorted when the tip of his cock prodded her cheek from within, causing it to protrude obscenely. He adored the way her tongue, fully extended now, sensuously slid along the exquisitely tender underbelly of his penis as her sweet, gray head bobbed slowly up and down. As much as anything, he enjoyed seeing her frothy secretions freely course between her lips and cascade in slow rivulets down his shaft to pool over his scrotum.
But the most wickedly delicious part of it all was that he'd known from the first moment he'd laid eyes on the demure and oh-so-proper Mrs. Olson that it would come to this: that this aging beauty's moist, warm mouth would soon be engaged in voraciously sucking his young black cock and become the receptacle for his potent sperm.
Feeling himself ready to cum, Damon grabbed a fistful of Mrs. Olson's perfectly coiffed hair and forced her face down toward his crotch until his cock was deeply ensconced in her throat, causing it to bulge like a bullfrog. His cock erupted. The shockwaves of his ejaculating semen pummeled the back of the old woman's throat, making her gag and retch most charmingly. She grew red-faced, and a little of his semen even dribbled out of the corners of her mouth and her nose. Afterward, in gratitude, he kissed her on the mouth, but only after she'd first swallowed all his spermatic liquor and his sperm cells were wriggling contentedly in her tummy.