tagInterracial LoveDown Your Throat

Down Your Throat


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"I'm going to shove this fucking ball down your fucking throat!"

A large menacing black woman, dressed in a slim white tennis outfit, glared at the Roman gladiator, fist upraised, extending a bright green ball towards him.

I looked on with amusement. I did not follow professional tennis, but I kept up with all major sporting events. During the United States Open this past year, Serena Williams--the world's top female tennis player--had lost her composure at the end of her semi-final match. Frustrated at a call by a line judge, she lurched towards the official with ball in hand and--in a menacing voice--spat out those words (among other threats), all caught--of course--on a live microphone. Moments later, the chair umpire awarded Serena's opponent a penalty point, and it just so happened that her opponent needed only one more point to win. So: The match was over. For the first time in history, a major tennis event ended on a penalty point, dramatized all the more so because it involved one of the world's top players going ballistic before a live national audience.

I love sports, and I love sensational stories. And I also love Serena Williams. I have always found her attractive. First, she is black (and if I note a fact such as that, then you know that I'm white): I must admit that, as one who has only been intimate only with those of the same skin color as mine, I am intrigued by women of color. But even beyond that, Serena is the rare, extremely busty female athlete, with wide hips and a full yet muscular body. She is a woman of power and size. An intimidating figure. And this appeals to me.

In my eyes, Serena Williams carries with her a certain sexiness. In real life, she poses for racy photos and wears revealing outfits, often designed by herself. In magazine shoots and paparazzi photos, she regularly shows off her huge breasts and large, rounded butt. She strikes me as the kind of women who is proud of her body and confident in her appearance. My kind of girl.

And so, with this background, I hope you can see why I was so enamored by this woman in the kitchen, thrusting that tennis ball in the face of the confused gladiator. It was not, of course, the real Serena Williams. It was a Halloween costume party. But the black woman in the small white tennis outfit certainly had the body of Serena. The face? Not even close. But did I look like Harrison Ford in my Indiana Jones' costume? No way. Most of us have to pretend.

I must admit that it was a rather fun party. I dreaded work parties, and I even more so dreaded costume parties. This one was both. I came alone, prepared to be miserable, filling out an otherwise empty evening. But two hours later I was on my fifth draft cup of Shiner Bock beer and well aware that a fresh new keg was on ice in the backyard. I had not socialized much, but I was extremely entertained. It wasn't really a work party after all. Yes, most of the 15 people from my department were here, but they were a small subsection of the nearly 100 guests, who were all in costume. Brandi, the hostess and work acquaintance (it seems wrong to say friend), lives for Halloween. New to our school, she had been talking about her past Halloween parties for months. She had her costume by mid-September and weekly queried the rest of us about our costume choices. (You can guess that I'm the kind of guy who would decide a few hours before the event.)

Really, Brandi's enthusiasm and persistence was the reason that I came. She is the kind of person who--by appearance--suggests a bit of wildness in her personal life. At lunch most days, she regales us with drunken exploits from her youth at this dance hall or that. She once apparently dated three men at one time, two of whom knew of the situation, one who didn't. (She ended up marrying one of those who did.) When she looks at you, there's that naughty twinkle in her eye. And then there's that picture of her wearing a strap-on at some party that one of her friends in the department always starts showing people at department happy hours.

Why was I here? I guess it was because of Brandi. Though I am the quiet, intellectual type on the outside, my inner self burns with passion and longs for debauchery. I just need to find the right person to draw it out of me. (Tragically, I have never found that person....) Sensing such sentiments in Brandi, I wondered what kind of friends she had and what type of party she and her husband would throw. Deep down, I suppose, I was hoping to find a single girl there who might have that wild streak. My life was mundane. Thirty-two and single, six months since my last (brief) relationship. I needed a pick-me-up. Something wild and fun. And so here I was. Hoping.

And I was not disappointed. The work crowd was scattered about the room, hidden behind dull costumes. (What would you expect of English teachers? William Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, Captain Ahab,.... Ugh.) But the other guests were wildly inventive with a ribald, theatrical flair. There were the two girls dressed as Siamese twins, joined at the breast, who walked around looking for a doctor to separate them. There was the man dressed as a giant dildo with a name tag saying, "My pleasure is yours." There was a woman dressed up as Hillary Clinton, who from time to time raised her skirt to reveal a limp (and fortunately fake) penis, asking passing men to help her village raise its people.

What made it such fun was the interactiveness. I didn't know these people, but they walked around in their wild, edgy costumes role-playing and engaging in witty repartee. My evening got off to a rollicking start at the backyard keg. A nun walked up to me, put one hand on my hip, grasping my whip with the other (I'm Indy, remember?) and whispered into my ear: "Oh, adventurer, I have sinned! I want you to whip my naked body long and hard until the pain makes me scream! Only then will my soul be cleansed!"

She then patted me on the butt and staggered off, braced on the shoulder of Napoleon Dynamite. I couldn't tell if she was flirting, drunk, or just raunchy by nature. But it charged me up and changed my attitude from a negative "Get me out of here!" to a positive "Anything might happen!" (I would look for this girl later, but I never found her again.)

It was simply a great party. I did find my workmates and took part in the usual small talk, but mostly I traversed the house, drinking draft beer and enjoying the sights. Hours must have passed this way, but every time I turned a corner there was a new costume. Guests kept coming.

I did keep running into "the regulars" (the early guests who stayed), and among those, of course, was "Serena." Whenever I came upon her, I had to stop and watch. Though we had never personally interacted, I enjoyed her shtick from afar. She would target some man in the room not paying attention to her, walk up to him aggressively, shove that ball in his face, and say those angry words: "I'm going to shove this fucking ball down your fucking throat!"

She was energetic and passionate, but above all she looked truly angry. Every target reacted with initial fright. It was extremely fun to watch. I must admit though, that beyond "the show," my eyes were always helplessly drawn to Serena's extremely short white skirt. Barely extending to her thighs, it clung to her wide hips. The woman was generously full-bodied in a sensual way. Her thighs were round and thick yet athletically firm. They suggested a power and strength that appealed to me. No doubt that there were other attractive women at the party, but Serena had my full attention. Her costume tennis outfit was probably borrowed from a friend. Several sizes too small, it certainly did not fit. The extreme tightness highlighted and accentuated her body, especially her immense breasts. Of all the women at the party, she showed the most flesh. And, as every man reading this knows, the girl showing the most flesh usually draws the most attention.

Serena was the perfect cocktail for me: An attractive, athletic, full-bodied woman of color with an aggressive, fearless attitude. I didn't follow her around, but I stopped and stared every time I came upon her. She was my favorite on a night of fascinating sights.

As the night wore on, guests filled up the entire house. At some point I found myself sitting with a random group in an upstairs bedroom (the downstairs was too jam-packed). Finding my beer empty, I wandered off to get a refill. Passing the next room, a small study, I heard those words again: "...your fucking throat!" Sure enough, peeking in the doorway, there was Serena holding her bright green tennis ball in the face of a toilet paper mummy.

The sight was amusing enough, but my eyes went directly to the base of that tiny skirt. Those thighs were so big and tight. I loved how the overhead light reflected off the smooth dark black skin. Raising my eyes a bit, I fixated on the woman's massive breasts. There was no cleavage, but the top stretched so strenuously that every curve was visible. I could see her nipples pushing against the fabric. I wondered what they looked like.

"What do you want?" It took me a moment to realize that now Serena was now both looking at and talking to me. I felt a tinge of fear, barely noticing the mummy scurry past me. I had been watching Serena all night, but I had never interacted with her. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps she had noticed my leering gazes. For the first time I faced her eyes. Though her face was nondescript, I felt myself drawn in by her forcefulness. Her black ponytail wagged behind a scowl as she waited for a response. Her coal black eyes sparked with anger.

"Um, I . . . you . . ."

Romeo am I not. Given an opportunity to impress, I never fail to fail. The words never came.

"Do you want me to shove this fucking ball down your fucking throat?" She had moved into character. The bright green ball appeared inches from my face.

Her powerful presence ignited my desires. I am not the meek kind of man who seeks a dominatrix for pleasure; rather, I am the controlling kind of man: I seek strong women because I want to tame them. I wanted to take this woman of beastly strength and make her submissive to my whims. I wanted to hear her grunt passionately in response my heated thrusts. I wanted to feel her hands on my ass pulling me deeper inside of her. I wanted her to whimper with pleasure as I slowly came inside her.

Now, that is the man I wanted to be, not who I was. There's no way a mild personality such as myself could solicit such behavior. Shit! I would be terrified by the thought of what she would do to me if I made unwanted advances. Most men, I assume, are like myself. Filled with grand sexual urges and ideas, but ultimately unable to engage due to the (likely righteous) fear that such wantings were unwanted by the other.

So, when Serena uttered her contemptuous question, I slunk away, lips quivering with unformed words.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!"

She stepped forward aggressively and forced her finger into my chest. (It hurt!)

My mind searched for something witty. I wanted to impress her, changing this awkward situation to something fun or sexy.

Perhaps it was the fact that I had no idea who she was (and would probably never see her again). Perhaps it was due to excessive alcohol that I had drained into my body. Perhaps it was because I was sexually drawn to this woman.

The spontaneous, unfiltered words came.

What did I finally say?

I, as Indiana Jones, my whip by my side, stood up straight, tipped by hat up, and said (dangerously): "I want to shove my fucking dick in your fucking hole."

Now, even I was shocked by the words. They captured my thoughts and feelings at that moment quite accurately, but, to speak in this way was definitely out of character for me, and even more so for Indiana Jones (now, as for Harrison Ford, I don't know). I don't want you to think that I said those words in a confident voice as I stared directly into her eyes. No: It was said in a soft, halting voice, with no eye contact. Think of it as a drunk accidentally saying a private thought out loud.

There was a long pause. I tried to look sexy and confident, but I was afraid. Very afraid. I intentionally did not look at her. When I stole a glance, I was surprised. In character, Serena had glared at me with furious eyes. But now they had softened and her head was cocked to one side, as if contemplating deeply. For several moments we stood there looking at other. I had mentioned that her face was not pretty. This is not fair. I am not particularly handsome myself. We can't all be supermodels. Serena's face was just average, like my own. But her lips were thick and full. I felt drawn to them as she stood there looking at me.

With no warning, she broke our gaze, stepped towards the door, and shut it. I heard the lock snap lightly.

"OK, then strip." Her words were back in character: Forceful and strong.

This may read to you as surreal and unlikely. Believe me: I felt the same way. Awkwardly, I began to undress. I kept thinking that this must be a beer-induced fantasy. That I was passed out in the chair of the other room. Or that this was some part of her vengeance: To get me naked and vulnerable.

But, spellbound, I did not dally. In moments I stood there naked before her, my costume on the floor.

I am pleased to tell you that, in the excitement, I had a firm erection. I could not rival a porn star, but I know that I am above-average in size. (Yes, all men secretly measure. We have to know.) The cool air in the room made my penis tingle.

Serena, still fully clothed, looked upon me from a few feet away, her arms folded as she leaned against a desk.

"Not bad for a white boy. But I want it bigger."

With that, she strode towards me confidently and dropped to her knees (for a moment I thought she might deck me!). With no hesitation, she grabbed my penis, opened her mouth, and pressed her head forward. I stared dream-like. A generous-sized man, I had never before seen a woman take in my entire cock, but Serena swallowed the entire thing in one seamless motion. Her lips began groping at the base as I felt her tongue press against the underside of my penis. Forget the touching--my mind was entranced at the sight. I simply couldn't believe what I was seeing! Then ever so slowly, she began moving her head forward and back: perhaps covering only one inch only of my member. I can't say I felt tingling sensations from the blow job itself (my sensitive areas weren't really being touched) but the pure excitement overwhelmed me. For the first time in my life, I felt the tip of my penis pressing against what must have been the sides of a woman's throat. The simple idea that this woman wanted my full size in her mouth was just too sexy. I felt myself grow even more. It was actually painful!

Surely recognizing my rising energy (which I wouldn't be able to contain much longer), Serena slowly released me, her tongue and lips firmly against me until I popped out. Rising, she stood up, took two steps back, put her hands under her skirt and pulled down a pair of skimpy black panties, which she took off over her white tennis shoes. She then turned around and put one hand on the desk. (We were in a small room used as an office. There was the desk, several shelves of books, a few chairs, and an old couch.) Serena, her backside facing me, now flipped her skirt up, briefly showing me her firm, muscular butt.

"Now stick it in me, white boy!"

Elbows on the desk, she turned her face away from me and bent over. I lunged forward and flipped her skirt up over her back, giving me a full view of that round black ass. The cheeks were thick and full. The dividing line was inlaid deep, creating a two-toned black effect. She was an exceptionally dark-skinned lady, but, as my eyes followed her crack down to her pussy, I could see the raised edges of her clitoris gleaming out of the darkness. I could not tell if she was shaved, but it didn't matter to me. I placed my hands on the sides of her hips, enjoying her warm touch for the first time. The firm flesh gave only slightly.

My penis had obeyed her command. I didn't need to guide it. As I pushed my groin towards her, it found the entrance and slid in without resistance.

The situation was surreal and awkward. Had I thought about it, I would have realized that I didn't know this woman, that I had no protection on, that my workmates were nearby, and that I was in a strange house acting inappropriately. I would have had many reasons to stop. But once your dick is in a girl, nature takes over. I wanted her. I wanted this. I began to move my hips slowly back and forth, first straight forward and back and then slightly rounded, probing, wanting to find a spot that pleased both her and me.

But she wasn't happy. "Don't give me this sensitive slowness. Fuck me! Hard! Like a man." That was all the incentive I needed. I squeezed her hips and went to maximum speed.

So, there I was, straddling a muscular black woman's hips, she bent over in front of me, my dick in her cunt, flailing away out of control. The moment was so illusory that I felt no physical sensations. Only the echoing sound of pounding flesh engaged my senses. Now this is not to say that I wasn't fully aroused. I never felt so large and thick.

My eyes fixated on the crack of her butt. As I thrust, I could see my white shaft appear and disappear into her black body. Though my hands tightly grasped the sides of her hips, there was enough loose flesh to ripple as I pounded into her. As I pushed forward she pushed back. Considering my forceful energy, a normal girl might have been thrown across the desk, but Serena held firm to her spot.

As I watched her black body pulsate beneath me, I was seized with the desire to see those large breasts. Without stopping my hips, I put my hands underneath her skirt and pushed it forward, towards her head (the outfit was a one-piece). It occurred to me that perhaps it should go down, but I didn't want to separate from her. Firm, hard back muscles, glistening with sweat, greeted me. Soon the tips of my fingers reached her shoulders, but by now my hands had slid completely under the resisting fabric. Unseeing, my hands groped down her sides until I felt the softness of her breasts. They seemed enormous. I could feel them quiver as I rammed into her. I found it pleasing to know that her body's movement was caused by me. My fingers took pleasingly long to locate her nipples, pointedly hanging from the bottom. They were long and thick to the touch. I loved this show of strength from her body and the excitement led to a sudden but brief increase of pelvic thrusting. (Truth to told, my position draped over her back was rather awkward, but who lets a little back pain stop great sex?) Slowing, I allowed my hands to run over her breasts, squeezing, caressing, fondling. Wanting to please her, I placed only the ball of one finger on the tip of each nipple and began to gently massage them.

By this point, I had unconsciously stopped my thrusting to focus on these new sensations. Clearly pleased by my touches, Serena had started rocking back into me, rolling her butt in a circular motion. From time to time, she slowly slid forward and back. Her gasping clearly relayed when she had found a pleasure spot. The simple fact that she was enjoying herself sent tremors up my cock and through the rest of my body. Some men like it fast, but I prefer it slow. My mind could focus on every pleasing touch, especially when she pulled away so far as to have the tip of my cock dangle at the entrance of her vagina. The enrapturing sensitivity, muted by the new coldness, dramatically enhanced again by the return to warmth,...well...quite simply, it moved me to orgasmic heights.

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byLascivo© 8 comments/ 57811 views/ 14 favorites

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