tagInterracial LoveLeasa's Graduation

Leasa's Graduation


The way “Big John” looked at me made my skin crawl. He was big, black, and had to be 55--at least ten years older than my father.

It was the summer of 1988 and I had just graduated from high school. I felt great about myself because I had been voted “Class Beauty” as well as “Most Likely to Succeed.”

My father was very proud that I had achieved a 4.7 grade average. He was also proud of my looks. He always bragged to others about how beautiful I was. Being the President of a mid-sized conglomerate, he also would insert things about my achievements, and looks, in the company newsletter. I’d often thought, when he’d read these comments to our family over dinner, “Gee, did the employees really want to hear about how great I was?”

But after thinking it over, I often thought that maybe they did. Maybe all the employees that worked for Daddy were just as excited about me and my achievements as he was.

As Captain of the Cheerleading squad, I guess I was a little bit vain, but I always tried to be nice to others. I was brought up that way—with manners. Scenes were to be avoided at all costs! With my smile, and looks, I felt I could always finesse any situation, especially with guys.

Rarely did I have to really turn a guy down in high school. Honestly, most were too intimidated to even make an attempt at asking me out. The few who did would get a smile, a “thank you,” and a “rain check.” I was always too busy. But I was always polite. The politely rejected boy would never attempt asking again. He’d know better.

Once a black boy even attempted to ask me out. I thought it was cute; I almost started laughing. What would I want to go out with some black guy for? I was dating the quarterback—who was also captain--of the football team. I was already with the best. I was kind of amazed the black boy thought I’d even consider him. Imagine me with some black guy. I just wasn’t that hard up, I’d find myself thinking.

Well, school ended, and here I was at seventeen in one of the national chain of paint stores my father’s company owned in Manhattan. Daddy was picking out paint for the large condo he and my mother would be leasing while he got a subsidiary straightened out in New York. I was so glad he invited me to visit with them for a week of my summer vacation; I’d always wanted to see New York.

But now it was starting on the wrong note, as I was brazenly eyed up and down by some old, black, retail worker in the mixing department. I thought, this guy has got to be kidding. He better get a clue, this could mean his job if I’d ever complain. But each time I’d look back over his way, he’d have this smirk on his face, just standing there, toothpick in mouth, eyeing me up and down.

As he continued checking me out, I could feel my face begin to get red. I was really getting pissed that this animal would have so little respect for my father, just standing a few feet away, that he’d dare look at me so lewdly. But he did.

I tried ignoring him, but it didn’t work. Somehow I just couldn’t get out of my mind the crude way he’d just keep running his eyes over my body. At that point, I wished I hadn’t worn the tight tank top I had on. I knew that I was a sight that would get a man’s attention—blonde, blue-eyed, 5’7”, slender, and well proportioned (even then I was 36C-24-35)—but I felt the way this old Black was doing it was just plain gross. He could be my damn grandfather, I fumed inwardly—if he’d been white!

Finally, I just let it drop. If he wanted to look, there was no way I could really stop him. And I really didn’t want to cause a scene over something like how some old man was looking at me. It would be so difficult to prove, after the fact. So, even though I couldn’t help but notice his continual staring at me, I tried to pretend that I didn’t.

After a few minutes, “Big John” (the name on his name-tag) walked over to me and asked, “So, sweet thang, anything I could help you wit’?”

This was my opportunity to put him in his place:

“Um...did you know that I’m Mr. M--’s daughter?” I said casually, waiting for the shock to grow over his homely, arrogant face.

“Yep,” he said, simply, “But I didn’t know you was so’s...ya know...stacked, so to speak.”

I couldn’t believe the audacity that this half-gorilla had. He was speaking to the daughter of the company President, a man that could end his career instantly, yet he blatantly made remarks—right to my face--about my body.

Worse yet, as he said this to me he looked down directly at my chest. I was speechless. But what could anyone say to such a pig? So, like an idiot, rather than cause a scene, I clenched my teeth together and said, “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment, even though it’s totally inappropriate.”

I expected an apology, but he either didn’t understand the point I was making, or he ignored it.

He smiled back at me, “No prob, baby, wit’ a rack like dat, I’m sho’ you gets lots o’ compliments, eh?”

He kept looking down at my ”rack” as he spoke to me, and in spite of my anger, my nipples began to respond to his lewd staring.

I really wanted to end this disgusting conversation with this disgusting man immediately, but I was having trouble ending it. On the other hand, he obviously wanted to continue it. He was enjoying the view my tight tank top was affording him. Meanwhile, I could only stand there trying to find a reason to excuse myself while my nipples grew larger, more obviously aroused with each passing moment.

“Everything OK over here, Princess,” my father said, as he came over to where John and I were talking.

“Sure is,” John said confidently, “I’s just admiring your little girl here, Mr. M--. She sho’ is evrythin’ you’d described in yo’ newslettas.”

“Why thank you, John,” Daddy said cheerfully. Then he proceeded to tell John about my grade point average, etc., all while John smiled and continued looking me up and down, very obviously staring at my tits.

I couldn’t believe Daddy didn’t notice this. It was very blatant. But although Daddy would sometimes appear a little flustered with John’s lewd ogling of my breasts, my father failed to call this old, black letch on it.

I was mortified that my father let this go on right in front of him. Was he in denial? I was furious and humiliated. Big John just continued his lewd smirk as he’d respond to my father’s bragging, “Oh, I’m sho’ she really somethin’...no doubt ‘bout it....” All this, while he’d stare at my tits and lean over in an exaggerated way like he was checking out my ass.

Finally, my father could see I was upset and ended the conversation, explaining to John that the painters for the condo would be coming the next day. He asked if John could bring over the mixed paints later that night, around 5:00PM or so. John said that, of course, he could. And then, I couldn’t believe it when my father asked him to try to get there by five because otherwise he and my mom would have to leave for an engagement, but of course, “Leasa can let you in.”

“Jeez!” I thought, “That’s all I need, to be left alone with this horny old—very black—man!”

On the way back to our condo, in my Dad’s limo, he explained that Big John was one of the union leaders in the paint company and my father had just concluded some long and difficult sessions with him. I read between the lines that Big John had apparently outmanuevered and bested my father in the negotiations, pretty badly. Daddy obviously didn’t want any more trouble with the union—or with Big John.

I appreciated my father’s predicament, but for god sake, the man was checking out my tits and making vague references to my body, right in front of Daddy. I expected so much more from my father, but I saw for myself how he reacted. He meekly allowed it to go on and pretended nothing was happening.

When we got home I changed into a short denim mini skirt, but left my tank top on. For some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about this old, arrogant black man and the way he looked at me that day. It made me feel strange in a way I couldn’t explain to myself.

As five o’clock approached, I wondered where Big John was.

As I feared, John showed up right around five, just as my parents were leaving. My father nervously invited him in and showed him where to put the cans of paint.

I was surprised to see him dressed smartly in khakis, leather belt, loafers, and button-down shirt. Very nice, I thought. Somehow I didn’t expect a black man to dress with so much taste.

When John was done setting down the cans of paint, I think my father expected him to leave. But the big black man just walked into the living room, looked around casually, and again, somewhat arrogantly, as if he owned the place.

My parents were running late, and so my father, a little taken back by John’s behavior said, “John, we’d offer you a drink for your trouble, but we’re running a little late.”

He answered, “Oh, no problem, Mr. M--, Leasa can make me one.” Then he added, “That is, if it’s alright with you...if it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

My father jumped right in, quickly and nervously, responding, “Well no, of course not, why should it? Leasa, sweetheart, why don’t you make John whatever he likes.”

I gave my father a pleading look, begging him not to leave me with this arrogant black man. But, my father tried to avoid eye contact with me, like he was looking around for his hat, and quickly grabbed the articles he was looking for and exited with my mother.

I was now left alone with Big John. And this large black man’s face bore a big, glowing, condescending smile on it.

“Well, ‘sweetheart’,” he mimicked, “I’d like a whiskey and coke. Oh, and, uh..” he held up his wrist, in an exaggerated stage manner, as if to look at his watch, “I have an important meeting to get to. So, could you get to it--chop-chop?”

He stared right into my eyes as he said the last few words, and then just continued staring me down. I couldn’t hold his stare and finally averted my eyes, but in my peripheral vision I could see him slowly drop his gaze, running it over my body, as he’d done earlier that day at the paint store. It was as if in staring me down, and making me be first to look away, he was beginning to assert his dominance over me--his prey.

I turned and walked over to the wet bar. As I did, I could feel his stare following me across the room. I began to sway my hips more than I usually do when I walk. As if on its own, my body was responding to this old man’s lewd gaze, despite my negative feelings toward him.

“Mmmmm...I like that,” he said crudely as he watched my ass from across the room.
“I’d call that some ‘Grade A’ ass you got there, Leasa,” he continued.

“Look, if you’re going to behave like this, I’ll have to ask you to leave!” I said. My voice rose, and shook a little, as I was beginning to lose my cool.

“Oh, I don’t think you’d want to do that, ’sweetheart’,” he confidently replied, “You don’t want Daddy to have a hell of a time with the union, all because his little Leasa was rude to one of the working men, would you?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to this beast. He had me. After letting his comment sink in for a few long moments, I lowered my eyes to the floor and barely whispered, “No.”

“What was that, Leasa?” he asked loudly and sarcastically, “Couldn’t here you, ‘sweetheart’.”

“I said, ‘no’.” my trembling voice answered.

“No what?” he asked, really demanding.

“No, I don’t want any trouble for Daddy,” my voice whispered, trembling more.

“I have a name, don’t I?” he pressed his advantage.

“No, John, I don’t want any trouble for Daddy,” I answered, fully and obediently.

“Leasa, don’t you think you should have a little respect for your elders?” he asked rhetorically, “My name is Mr. Robinson!”

I knew this was a command, nothing more, nothing less.

“N-n-no, Mr. Robinson, I don’t want any trouble for Daddy.”

“Well, ok then. Now, let’s get that sorry, little white ass of yours moving, girl, and get that drink over here.”

I turned and began to make his drink. My hands trembled terribly. No man had ever spoken to me like that, or had ever taken such control of me like that in a conversation. I struggled to just pour the Seagram’s because my hands shook so badly. But it wasn’t just my hands: my knees felt weak, my mouth was dry and my temples were pounding. I was confused and thought, am I frightened or has this arrogant, black man aroused me? I quickly dispelled this thought. I didn’t even want to consider the possibility.

As I approached him with his drink, I noticed what appeared to be a huge cylinder in his pants that stretched from the pit of his groin all the way over to his right hip. It bulged from his pants clearly, and I couldn’t help but stare at it as I approached him. A few feet away my shock made me quickly glance away and try to hand him the drinks without any eye contact. I’d clearly made out this ‘cylinder’ to be an enormous dick with its plum-sized head poking up over the belt line of his right hip.

I couldn’t believe what I saw. I thought, no man could be built like that. As I sat down next to him, I thought I’d just glance down at it and see if it was really what I’d thought. As I sipped at my ice tea, I glanced quickly down next to me. It was! The bulbous head stuck up in his pants, past his right hip, and over his belt line. It seemed aimed up at me, just 5 or 6 inches from where my now shaking hands clasped on to my glass.

I found myself staring at it. Then, as if waking from a trance, I pulled my eyes from it to look back at John. He had a big smile on his face. His arms spread over the back of the couch.

“What’s the matter, Leasa? Cat got your tongue?”

I could only shake my head to say no. I had no voice to speak with. I felt that I was in the presence of a very powerful man. And I felt very small.

“Noticed you looking at my new belt,” he lied—he knew exactly what I was looking at. “Would you like to feel it? Go ahead, Leasa, it’s leather, feel how soft and smooth it is.”

My hand slowly reached out to touch his belt. As it did, he sucked in his stomach and his huge dick slid up under the belt, right where my fingers were running over it. It surprised me and I almost drew my stroking fingers way...but didn’t. As John’s huge member strained away at the belt, seemingly trying to break free, I continued to softly stroke my fingers over the belt that contained it, and in so doing, conveyed the strokes of my fingers to John’s goliathan organ.

The dick seemed to struggle against its entrapment, lurching forward and seeking the fingers that were providing it such pleasure. I could see the big egg-sized head, fully stretching up several inches past John’s belt line, poking out under his shirt as if he had a live, throbbing hernia growing from his abdomen.

I continued stroking the belt, and through it, Big John’s dick, like a hypnotized participant in some erotic experiment.

Finally, John said, “Leasa, why don’t you feel how smooth my belt buckle feels.”

I paused and he added, “Go ahead, sweetheart, you’ll like the feel of it.”

As I moved my shaking hands to his belt buckle and stroked it, he once again sucked in his stomach and allowed the huge weapon to slide over, right under where his buckle and my stroking fingers were. My fingers now rubbed his cock via the gold buckle positioned between them and the big dick.

“See how it opens, Leasa,” he commanded, “It’s got a real interesting way of opening.”
I paused much longer this time. My hands trembling at the buckle I was being asked to unfasten.

“Go ahead, Leasa,” he goaded.

My hands slowly fumbled at the buckle and undid it. As it fell open, John’s organ burst forward against the waistband of his pants, like an angry prisoner fighting against his restraints. I jumped slightly at this, stunned by the strength and size of John’s tool.

“Undo my pants, Leasa.”

I heard the words as if far away, in a fog. I stared at the billy-club-sized muscle straining under John’s shirt and pants. Long moments seemed to tick away.

Then John said, “Leasa...” in an impatient, demanding way. My hands, as if on their own, reached out and clumsily undid his pants. The abnormal gland then struggled forward and half pushed down the zipper to John’s fly.

“Unzip it, Leasa,” John ordered. I did. When I was done, I could see he hadn’t even worn any underwear. He knew. He knew what he wanted to do when he came to our home that night. And he knew my father would not be strong enough to stop him. And he knew I would not be strong enough to resist him.

John unbuttoned his shirt and the incredible, mahogany weapon stood proudly in front of my face.

For long moments I stared at it as John replaced his big arms on the back of the couch, somewhat thrusting his hips forward, showing off his ebony trophy for my admiring gaze.

The large muscle stood over twelve inches tall, and at least five inches around. I just stared in disbelief. I never thought a man could possess a member of such size and such power.

“Give me your hand, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid to feel it. I know you want to, don’t ya?” John said as he pulled my hand to the throbbing organ. I gave only token resistance. I found my hand trying to wrap itself around a club to big for its fingers to encircle.

John slowly started pulling my hand up and down on the equine phallus. I offered little or no resistance. Almost like he was training an animal, he’d whisper to me, “Atta girl, you’re doing good, baby...that’s it...don’t stop...”

Soon he removed his hand, and my--now well schooled--hand just continued to stroke at the massive cock. It was as if I’d been hypnotized by his strength, his confidence, and his endowment. I seemingly couldn’t stop the momentum of the moment.

I turned my head from what my hand was doing, looking out the window behind the couch. I tried to tell myself, “This isn’t happening! This can’t be happening!”

The view outside served to distract me from the truth of my slut-like behavior, all while my hand pumped away at John’s increasingly sticky, drooling gland.

As my hand worked away furiously, this wicked, black man began to mockingly make small talk with me.

“So, Leasa, I hope this boy taking you out tonight is a real gentleman. I’d hate to see a sweet girl like you ever put in a compromising position. Now he is a gentleman, right?”

“Yes...” I answered with a trembling whisper, while in the background I could hear the, “squish!” “squish!” “squish!” of my jacking hand on his hard, fat member.

“Good, because a lovely girl like you deserves the best.”

“Squish!” “Squish!!!” “Squish!”

“Thank you..um, uh...Mr. Robinson,” I stupidly responded, not understanding he was just playing with me.

“Squish!” “Squish!!!” “Squish!”

“So where’s he taking you to dinner, sweetheart? You should really try a steak or beef house here in New York. We got the best, you know. You like steak?”

“Squish!” “Squish!” “Squish!”

“Yes...” my voice croaked.

“Squish!” “Squish!” “Squish!”

“You like your meat well done, girl?”

“Squish!” “Squish!” “Squish!”

“Um, no..usually rare.”

“Squish!” “Squish!” “Squish!”

“Oh, you one of them that likes her meat raw, huh?”

“Squish!” “Squish!” “Squish!”

“Well, I guess...” At this, the sounds my jacking hand was making changed, as Big John’s dick began to really leak precum profusely.

“Whack!” “Whack!” “Whack!”

“Well, can’t complain about a girl that likes her meat raw, I guess,” John teased, as he casually reached over and, with his finger, pulled down one side of my tank top and bared my right breast. He casually began to squeeze it and tickle my nipple, which stood out stiffly, responding to his play.

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