tagInterracial LoveWhat the Hell Am I Doing?

What the Hell Am I Doing?

bysatinlvr_mwf©

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Author's Note: This is the beginning of a new series of stories, all of them holding at least a kernel of truth, if not more. Not all will have full-on sexual contact and/or encounters, at least as I have it planned, but I hope the reader will enjoy the feelings, and emotions, that went through my mind. That being said, there is going to be a lot of interracial sexual relations, sex with strangers, and even some violence.

Call it adultery, call it slavery, or call it submission, whatever label you choose, but unless you have a CONSTRUCTIVE comment, I'm not interested in hearing your blithering, whiney fingers scream about how I should be divorced, shot, made homeless, or abandoned. We all have enough troubles in our days without listening to your opinions on how someone should live their lives.

With that said, if you are still here, please enjoy the first installment:

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"What the hell am I doing?" It was a question I seemed to be asking myself more and more lately. I had pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, one of my regular stops in my assigned territory. My job made me travel about three weeks a month, sometimes less, but all of it was 'local' travel. I was a road warrior. And I am a woman. I am a woman in a man's industry, and what made matters worse was that I am what men would call a solid 8+, in their subjective rating scale, sometimes even a 9, if I wore the right outfit, and my hair was just so. My appearance made it difficult for men to take me seriously in a business-sense, and more than once I only achieved my business objectives by letting my counterpart get a flash of cleavage, as opposed to sound business decisions. At first I was incensed, but I got used to it, even to the point of derision. In some ways, I hated my job, and all the travel, and I was so unhappy having to be away from home.

My figure had earned me many suitors when I was in college, some of whom had succeeded in making me their conquest, until my one came along, and I married him. He worked, I worked, but perversely, I did all the travelling, and he was the homebody. Which brought me to the evening, and my being seated in my company car, the key in my hand in my lap, and my soft voice whispered. "What the hell am I doing?"

The first time I asked myself that was the first time I met Him. The man who dominated me. I am a mere five foot four inches, and he was well over six feet, and had over a hundred pounds on me, easily. I think that the only two categories I could beat him at was hair length and boob size. I'm a D-cup, and even though he was very fit, and tremendously strong, he suffered from some man-boobs. My brown hair was past my shoulders, and his was missing. He shaved his head regularly, but then many black men did. With dark brown eyes, and skin so dark I missed him at first when we met at a hotel bar (where else?), it was not long before I was giving him my full attention, and that same night, he was making me full of his.

Now when I came to town, it was time for me to make a transformation. From wearing a grey silk women's business suit, to the most revealing slut I could ever imagine, when I opened the door to the hotel lobby, I was His. I asked myself one last time. "What the hell am I doing?" Then I exited my car, locked it with a chirp of the clicker, and made my way in. He was there, greeting me with a leering look as my crème charmeuse blouse shimmered with each step of my bra-lass, bounding breasts, my black heels echoing from the polished marble floor. He did look so very out of place for a four-star establishment, wearing baggy shorts, and a wife-beater t-shirt, with undone high-top sneakers, and a couple of gold chains around his neck. Plus one in his fingers. It was that one which was intended for me. It was thin, but just as real as his own jewelry. I never asked where he got it, out even how, I was actually afraid to know.

One of the nice things about upscale hotels is that they know the value of discretion, especially for regular customers. Since I stayed there for three or four days at a stretch, at least once a month, I was a very good guest of the hotel. So when there were certain variances from what many would consider the norm, staff would politely look the other way, as long as the shenanigans weren't too far out of line. So far, what I was doing was well within bounds. I walked to him, and for the reader's sake, I'll call him Ben, and I looked him squarely in the eyes, and spoke softly. "I am ready..." I let out a sharp breath. "I am yours to enjoy, and will fuck you or whom you want, when you want, and where you want." It was part of our ritual, it was the beginning of that time where I surrendered myself to Him, and became Ben's property. I reached up, and collected my shiny brunette hair in my fingers, lifting it up, making a display of placing my hands behind my head, elbows out, and he reached around my neck, fastening the gold chain and trinket around me. The trinket was a charm that said "Fuck Me", and hung down the plunge of my blouse, to the beginning of my cleavage, a placement sure to catch the eye of men as they oggled me. Preliminaries out of the way, he escorted me to the front desk, and I checked into the hotel, signing in as "Mr. & Mrs.", playing the role of his toy, and for a few days, his wife. My own wedding ring remained in place, more as a symbol of Ben's dominance, his ability to claim my body, and my mind, and my spirit. But not my heart. I gave Ben just about everything, but I didn't love him. That I reserved for my husband, and him alone.

Taking the room key, we made our way to the far side of the hotel, where we asked for a room on the ground floor, so we could have easier access, and as we were on the parking lot side, not many would be loitering there. We weren't ten steps down the hall before Ben's hand was reaching my skirt, lifting the tight hemline until I could barely walk, so he could hook onto my panties, and take them off. I had to short-step as he did so, as that, too, was part of the routine we had. No panties by the time we reached the room. This time he made me leave them on the floor of the hallway, where they finally fell off, and I had to kiss another pair of twenty-dollar lace panties goodbye.

Inside the room, he took no time at all in idle chatter, not even a 'How are you doing?'. The air conditioning had made the room an ice-box, and even as I had bent slightly to adjust the thermostat, he was behind he, the bulge in his shorts pressed against the thin silk skirt. Wordlessly, he reached around, and undid the wide black patent-leather belt and then unzipped my skirt, which clanked and then fell softly to a pool of fabric around my heels. I stood up, and felt his hands on me, one reaching to collect a massive handful of my breast, and the other in my hair, thick black fingers controlling my head, until I was twisted and lips upturned to begin a passionate kiss. My hands reached to his, pink nail polish perfect from the fresh manicure over the weekend, and my petite fingers simply rode on the hand pawing my breast, strong fingers groping and squeezing it, until it would certainly bruise. My voice let out a small moan of pain as his fingers dug in.

My last fleeting thought, "What the hell am I..." faded away, instantly vaporized as he did the one thing that captured me in the first place, that very first time, in the bar, where he kissed me. It wasn't a normal kiss, with tongues lashing everywhere, and drooling, sloppy lips, it was that thing that I didn't even know I had until Ben found it. He injected his tongue into my mouth, nearly prying my teeth apart as his lips coated mine, and he sucked my tongue out, from the recesses of my oral cavity, into his. He sucked on my tongue, holding it between his lips and teeth, and from there I was done for. My weekend with my family, my day at work, even the shitty commute to get where I was, fighting the Los Angeles freeways, all those memories were instantly surrendered as he suckled my tongue. My arms fell limp, hands dangling uselessly at my waist, then even falling back as he pulled me onto him from behind. My voice mewed, the sweet mewling of a kitten in hunger, perhaps, and I had no resistance. Early on he had found that primal instinct that belonged to me, and me alone. He had found that thing I would respond to, regardless of the circumstances. He found my slut-switch, and brutally turned it on.

(Chapter 2 to follow)

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