Latitia Ch. 01

[Author's note: This started as the first chapter of an interracial dominance book but those pesky characters turned out to be genuinely in love. Anyway, here's where the story went.]

I glanced at the clock, looked around the house, making sure everything was in place, and then went upstairs to the bathroom to shower and get ready. My bride would be home in less than an hour and she likes me to look my best.

I showered quickly, scrubbing my face, using the purple shampoo I use once a week to keep my white hair from turning yellow, and then did my body. I had long since accepted the pot belly I had put on suddenly at about 60, but I still hated it as I held it up to make sure my pubic hair, cock, and balls were nice and clean. Then I bent and did my legs and ass. That's another thing I hate about nearing three-quarters of a century, my arthritis has my toes knobby and ugly. At least my hands, although they troubled me from time to time, didn't do that.

Standing in front of the mirror, preparing to shave, trimming around the goatee she liked me to wear, I took inventory. All in all, not bad for 70. I still had all of my hair, well, most of it, it wasn't as thick as it had once been but it was still curly and had that nice silver-grey color many say looks good. My shoulders were still pretty good, but I had lost muscle mass from my chest. My nipples seemed to have grown larger in the past few years, but I didn't have moobs, you know, those man boobs some men develop after a certain age.

My belly, a pot belly rather than a beer belly, made me look almost pregnant if I turned sideways but it was still firm. Hell, I might not be able to do 400 situps anymore, but I figured if I had to I could still take a punch. The repair on my umbilical hernia still held, but my belly button was a bit of an outie.

Below my belly, the triangle of my pubic hair was still dark although streaked with grey these days. My cock was still stubby, as it always had been, but pretty thick. My scrotum hadn't sagged like many men do after a certain age. My balls were still tight against my body. My legs were no longer the distance runner's legs they had once been, but they were still pretty good.

All in all, not bad.

I shaved, carefully outlining the goatee, brushed my teeth, and put in my partial upper bridge, something uncomfortable but she said if I left it out I looked like white trash. I put on fresh boxers, light grey slacks, brightly patterned socks, and my leather loafers. I finished with a pale pink Oxford cloth button-down shirt, a brightly patterned tie, and a dark grey sports coat that contrasted nicely with the slacks.

I checked myself in the mirror one last time before I went down to mix her drink. I carefully measured a double shot of Flecha Azul premium tequila, a shot of premium natural lime juice, and a light shot of the Cointreau Triple Sec into the stainless shaker half full of crushed ice, shook it, and strained it into the stemmed double bowl glass with the salted rim. I hooked a slice of lime over the rim of the glass and then took the fresh Margarita into the front room to wait for her.

My wife teaches three days a week at the local community college and is working on her doctoral dissertation the rest of the time. But I can always count on her being home at four o'clock sharp. She says she needs stability in her life and I give her that.

I told Alexa to start on our coming home playlist, shuffled, and heard Peggy Lee's incomparable version of Fever softly through our Bose surround sound system. I closed my eyes, listening, enjoying, and thinking that retirement was turning out WAY better than I had ever imagined it would.

I heard the soft burble of her car pulling into the driveway, the vintage Austin Healy 3000 making those wonderful English sports car sounds. The car is as much hobby as transportation, but I had it running well for now and she enjoyed it, making all of the bruises and cut knuckles worth it.

I got up, she likes to be greeted at the door, and a line from an old Tom Petty song flashed through my mind. The song is called The Wrong Thing to Do, and the line is "She's tall and blonde and 23, put on the earth to get the better of me." Which is funny, really, because my wife is certainly tall at 5'11" in bare feet and well over six feet in the high heels she liked to wear, but she was most definitely not blonde.

Latitia is the very personification of a "black" woman. She has the broad nose and thick lips along with the dark milk chocolate-colored skin that makes it clear that no white overseer ever contaminated her gene pool. She looked, in other words, like her great, great, great, great, great grandmother must have looked when she stepped off of the slave ship in Charleston or Savannah or Mobile or New Orleans. Her eyes are dark brown with outrageously white sclera (the whites of her eyes, a term I had learned long ago in a Human Anatomy and Physiology class). Her teeth are not bleached although when she smiles the contrast with her dark lips makes them look like they are.

At 25, she is almost exactly one-third my age now but she had been, and I suppose this is why that line from the song tends to stick in my mind so often, 23 when we got married.

Well, okay, let me back up. I think I may have jumped into this a bit abruptly. I do that sometimes these days.

I was a widower, to use the archaic term, when Latitia came into my life. I had been happily married and planning on growing old with my wife of 22 years. She was my third wife and, well, I always assumed, my last. Then I woke up one morning and she didn't.

Just like that. Oh, I did it right, called 911, and did CPR, but she was already cold to my touch and I knew it was too late. But I kept it up right until the paramedics arrived and then rode with them to the hospital where she was pronounced dead.

I mourned for a year and then I was starting to get out. Well, I didn't do the dating sites or anything, but I did become a regular at the senior citizen center dances in two towns and the occasional American Legion or Elks Lodge dance too. I wasn't sure what I wanted, but I knew I enjoy women too much to be alone.

Lightning struck at one of the senior center dances.

When she walked in it was obvious that she was the girl, well, okay, young woman but a girl to most of us sitting at the stag table like it was the high school dance and we didn't quite know how to ask the girls to dance. She was tall and black and beautiful and all I could think of was that old song - Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger.

She didn't even have a chance to sit before I was on my feet. I did a soft prayer of thanks as the band started up a not-too-bad rendition of the old Bobby Vinton song Blue Velvet.

I didn't say anything, just offered my hand, and when I saw that gorgeous smile I knew, right then, that I was lost.

I monopolized her for the night although she did accept offers from others to dance, drawing angry looks from the regulars of the female persuasion.

"May I drive you home?" I asked as the band wound down for the last time. It was a little after 10:00 at night. Things don't run very late at the center.

"I'd rather you drove me somewhere we could get a drink," she said and there was that smile again.

I courted her for a month before she finally said she thought it was time to spend a night together.

We were married two months later. It was an interesting day. The wedding was at her church and, it turned out, when you marry a black woman in a black church you need to be ready to meet a lot of black people and deal with a lot of suspicion.

Her grandmother, the perfect black grandmother who made me think of Carl's "Nana" from Mike and Molly had "the talk" with me. "Baby," she said, she seemed to call every male baby although her tone could mean anything from "I'm going to kill you now," to "you are the sweetest thing in my life." Right then the tone was "listen closely boy, because this is very important."

Anyway, she said, "baby, I'm not sure about this but Latitia says she loves you and you're obviously in love with her so I give you my blessing."

When I started to say reply she said, "I'm sorry, did you think I was done talking?"

Her tone and her accent were what I think of as pure African-American. Not the ghetto bullshit or the gangsta rap so many people associate with black people. It's hard to write out the way she sounded but I'll try.

"Ah'm sawry, did you think ah was dun tahkin'?" That still doesn't do it justice but it's close.

I smiled, took her hands, and said, "forgive a rude white boy."

Which made her laugh, a great belly laugh that made me laugh back.

"Now listen then, white boy," she said, but she was smiling now, "you have my blessing but," and her entire, well, "presence" changed, she was serious now in her face and her tone and even in subtle shifts in her body language, "if my granddaughter ever comes to me and says you have hurt her I will send four strapping young men to drag your well beaten white ass before me and I will personally cut your throat."

I still held her hands.

I smiled, bent, kissed her lightly on the forehead, and said, "Miss Mamyjo (it's pronounced "may me joe"), I believe you and I hope you believe me when I say you'll have no reason to do anything but like me."

"Oh, I like you fine," she said, "but you have to admit this is a bit odd."

Anyway, I survived the wedding, jumped the broom, did it all.

And now here I was, two years later, on my knees, taking Latitia's shoes off and rubbing her feet while she sipped at her margarita and sighed as my thumbs found little knots of tension and I worked them out.

Her feet, like the rest of her, are big. She's a size 10 shoe. But she enjoyed this little attention and I enjoyed offering it to her.

She finished her drink while we watched the news on TV, well, she watched and I listened. My attention was on her feet.

Then I stood and held her hand while we padded into the dining room. I seated her, as I did every night, holding the chair and scooting it forward when she sat, and then brought out the dinner I had made. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, corn, and a second margarita for her. A beer for me if it matters.

As we ate she regaled me with stories of her day. With a Master's Degree, she was limited to teaching freshman history and at the Junior College level she had great stories about the stupidity of students. And, she tells a great story.

After dinner, we watched the night's menu of sitcoms and dramas. Our weeknights don't really qualify as exciting. The THC gummi, her margarita, and my beer did spice things up a bit. At 10:00, as the last laugh track wound down I gathered up the glass from her third margarita and my second beer, rinsed them, and then walked her to the bedroom.

I still enjoy looking at her as I undress her, and she enjoys being undressed.

Her teaching "uniform" is a blouse and slacks. Nothing special. In fact, she was pretty careful to not wear anything that might be considered the least bit sexy.

But she was always sexy to me.

I unbuttoned her blouse, enjoying each one of the buttons, making it a little two-act play, working the button free of its buttonhole, and then gently parting the material and kissing the skin I exposed.

When I tossed the blouse at the laundry basket, missing, I just stopped and looked her up and down. Against her dark skin, the white bra seemed to glow.

On my knees before her I unbuttoned and unzipped the slacks and then slowly worked them down, kissing her belly button and then her knees as I did.

Once again, I just looked.

Latitia is an athlete. Tall and kind of lean, with broad shoulders, high breasts, not small but not huge either, a narrow waist, flaring hips, the big, round, bubble butt of her race (what she calls the "ghetto junk in my trunk"), and oversize, thick, powerful legs ending in those big feet.

I stood again, reached around, and unhooked her bra, smiling as I pulled it free and tossed it to join the blouse.

Back on my knees, completing our undressing ritual, I rolled the panties down and tossed them into the corner. I kissed the delta of her pubic hair, the short kinky hair looking almost like little peppercorns had been pasted in the shape of a triangle, and inhaled deeply, her womanscent so much better than Viagra when it came to arousing me.

While she went into the bathroom I undressed and got all of the dirty clothes into the proper hamper.

I went in, peed, and then stood side by side as we brushed, she flossed and I used my Waterpik after putting the partial into the denture cup along with an Efferdent tablet.

Latitia is oddly shy in bed. I had asked a dozen times before she allowed the light in the bathroom to be left on, and about a hundred before she said okay to the LED lighting in the closet that gave enough light, if not to read a newspaper by, to see her and see what I was doing.

And I loved looking at her.

I try very hard to make our lovemaking original and exciting for her every night. This was a lesson I had learned from my third (and much younger) wife and it had made my own excitement and pleasure even greater. So tonight I was going to worship my Nubian Goddess in the way she deserved.

I began by covering her face with kisses, telling her how beautiful she is, and telling her how lucky I am. I traced her hairline with my fingertips, enjoying the feel of that coarse kinky hair and the smoothness of her skin. I closed her eyelids with my fingertips and kissed them very gently before kissing her cheeks, her nose, her chin, and finally those full soft lips that are the characteristic of her race.

I kissed her chin and then her throat before I captured her hand and started kissing her fingers.

One of the things that still fascinates me about her is those places where what I think of as "flesh color" from the label on a crayon from my box of 64 Crayola crayons when I was a boy shows on various places. Of course, her "flesh color" is dark milk chocolate, about the shade of a Hershey's kiss, and even darker, cocoa at her nipples. But the inside of her lips was more my "flesh color," the sort of pinkish beige of my race, something I saw as I used my fingertips to tickle and caress her lips.

I traced the shape of her broad nose and made her giggle and say "ewww" softly as I probed the big nares (the formal word for nostril) with my little finger.

Okay, I won't deny it. The physical characteristics of her race still captivated me. And the evidence of her reaction is that she enjoyed my interest. The pleasant womanscent of her burgeoning arousal was working with the Cialis pill and I felt, as someone might have written in a Victorian novel, "heat in my loins."

I left her face and began paying attention to her hands. Her palms and nails were places where that "flesh color" fascinated me again, and I kissed her palms with the darker lines that showed up against the pale skin there. I traced down the inside of her arm, starting at her wrist and ending at her armpit, enjoying the way I left a trail of goosebumps.

Her armpit had another patch of those little peppercorns of coarse kinky hair and as I kissed I remembered how many times I had encouraged her to throw away her razor.

Latitia likes this kind of attention and as I brushed her breast with my forehead and then cheek I could feel how hard her nipple and areola were with her excitement. I sucked each for a few seconds, drawing those soft hums that got to me on levels far below thinking. The heat in my loins got hotter as my erection got fully hard.

But I was less than halfway done at that point with my foreplay.

I kissed my way down her body, tracing the shape of her ribcage with my tongue before squirming around to get my knees between hers.

At her belly button, a tiny innie, I kissed and then probed with my tongue making her giggle. A very thin line of pubic hair started at the bottom of her navel and I kissed my way down it to get to that delta of very coarse, very kinky hair at her sex.

Latitia is still an athlete, running almost daily and swimming regularly, and she doesn't carry much body fat. But her nether lips are full, almost plump, and her excitement was showing as her natural lubricants, thick and white, overflowed slightly, leaving a thick line down the crack of her ass. I bent to kiss and taste with my tongue, slowly dragging my tongue from as far back as I could reach with it until it touched her clitoris. I know her pretty well by now, and I know what she likes. She likes when I do that. She likes it very much.

I did that three times but then moved down, kissing my way down her thighs, and her knees, and finding her feet with my lips.

The soles of her feet had that "flesh color" to them as did the nails. I kissed toes and soles and ankles and crossed her ankles and pulled gently, not forcing but encouraging her to roll over.

Her legs were thick and powerful, not fat at all, muscular, the athlete.

I kissed from heels up calves, knees, and thighs.

I sat on her knees and laid my palms flat on her ass, gently spreading her cheeks, kissing that "flesh colored" line deep in her gluteal cleft and that pale circle of smooth skin surrounding the tiny puckered orifice of her anus.

I kissed and touched that with my tongue, drawing a soft hum from her before moving up her back with kisses and caresses.

I rolled her over, very gently, and laid back while she worked her leg over my hips, straddled me, and then reached down, guided me fully hard now, and slowly settled, impaling herself on me.

Latitia likes being on top and I like pleasing her.

She leaned back, cupping her own breasts, rolling her nipples, her lips parted slightly, thin threads of saliva connecting the upper and lower lip, as her hips moved in that independent, boneless way she could do.

She was slick and warm and ready and her womanscent, pheromone laden and full of raw sex, was sweet perfume in my nose.

"Stay with me," she said, her breath coming faster and her voice thick and a little hoarse.

I reached up and caught her hands, entwining our fingers.

"Tell me I please you," I said.

She smiled, that wonderful smile, teeth almost glowing against dark skin, and said, "Oh, honey, you DO please me."

She was riding me hard now and I could feel that tension building in her body.

"Come on," I said, my own voice husky, "cum for me."

She was working hard now, sweating, breathing hard, and grinning down at me.

"Say please," she said and I said, "Please."

"Again," she said and I said, "Please, baby, please."

She was in that last stage now, her body almost trembling with her need.

"AGAIN!" she said, her voice louder, demanding, commanding.

"Please, Latitia, please, please," I said, putting all the desperation I could muster into my voice, "please, baby, please show me you love me, baby, please."

She liked to make me beg and, well, I liked pleasing her.

And she came, her body tensing, no, her body CLENCHING with the ecstasy of her release. Her fingers squeezed on my hand, her nails digging into the backs of my hands making me groan.

And she was soaking us both. Her love honey was flowing in great gushes as she came in waves. Her body was so tense and rigid that it felt like wood. She was hissing a drawn out, "yesssssssssssssssssssss," and I was whispering, "thank you thank you thankyouthankyouthankyou."

The orgasm passed and her hips started rocking again.

"Fill me up, honey," she said and I said, "say please."

But my control wasn't as good as hers. She squeezed with her vaginal muscles, almost pulling me in, and I came.

"YESSSS," she cried out, satisfied.

"Yes," I said, softly, beyond satisfied.