She Dreams Black

It should have been obvious; after all, her favorite actors were Denzel, Michael B. Jordan, Mahershala Ali, Sidney Poitier, and Harry Belafonte. As a dumbassed, self-centered white husband I could not see the forest for the trees. I could see now that she nearly had an orgasm whenever any of them was on the screen. She watched Training Day over and over, knew every Sidney Poitier movie and could recite the dialogue right along with the actors. She even had a Denzel poster in our den. I dismissed it as her simply being a movie fan.

Finally, in a moment of clarity, which should have come long before then, I made a sudden decision, coming right out and asking her one night after an incredible session of wanton sex, "Sweetheart, tell me, do you dream of having sex with a black man someday?"

It was like I had found secret love letters in her panty drawer. When I asked the question she recoiled, turned pale, and--obviously caught off guard by the directness of the question--began to cry. Her reaction was immediate and her face began to flush as the tears started to flow. She was emotional, appeared ashamed, embarrassed, and ten apologetic as if she'd been caught and had a terrible secret revealed.

"I'm sorry," she said sadly, barely above a whisper, as if she had just been caught drowning puppies. She looked devastated. I took her into my arms and tried to comfort her, kissing and hugging her, trying to make her understand that it was all right, that I was okay with whatever she felt. She turned away from me and that was the worst part: to have hurt her so bad that she would not want to look in my direction.

Finally she turned to face me and said quietly, "I dream black," she confessed with pain in her voice. She then paused. "My erotic fantasies are about black men. Ever since Henry, he was my first," she said quietly. "I have fantasize about having one in me, being fucked by a big, hard, black cock." I had never heard her say cock before and it stunned me.

"He was a handyman at my father's work," she said in a quiet voice, "and he took me when I was just seventeen." She thought back for awhile, clearly remembering her past sexual activities, then she grinned painfully. "I never got over fucking brothers, boys of the hood, black guys. They liked me, a white woman who had a weakness for dark cock. I have fucked a lot of them," she admitted. "I hope you don't hate me."

She looked at me with heartbreak in her eyes. "Of course white women are fond of black men, why do you think there are so many mixed-race people around today," she said drying her eyes. "White plantation wives could not resist sex with their negro men. They'd fuck their slaves in the barn, in the hay loft, or would even sneak them into their beds."

When she said the word cock it had shocked me. My wife had never used the word before in my presence, not in twenty years. When she said 'fuck' it was like hearing from a totally different woman, one I had never known. Realizing that she felt she had to confess, she turned to face me. "I still see him once a year," she disclosed honestly, tearfully. "When I go to see my parents I fuck a black man. I am not proud of what I do, but I just can't resist. Can you ever forgive me?" I kissed her, feeling all the pain she felt, and I held her to me, feeling like an ass for asking the way I had.

"If you like black men so much, why did you marry white?" I asked, feeling suddenly hurt as if I had been her second choice.

"It wasn't that I settled for you, but my parents would have freaked out if I had married someone who wasn't white. They would have disowned me. Yes, we have a good marriage, but I would have been kicked out if I had married Henry. I do still think about sex with him," she admitted. "I confess that I fantasize about being fucked again by a wonderful black lover. Do you hate me?"

"Oh no. I love you," I said. The perfect answer suddenly came to me in a flash. "Maybe I could bring Henry to you," I said feeling her pain, trying as hard as I could to ease her agony. "If I could do that, would you, would you like to fuck him again?" I asked, using her words.

She looked at me with that please-don't-tease-me face and was quiet. "I am serious," I said. "Wouldn't you like to see him again, without having to sneak?" She seemed frightened by the question, then she nodded blankly, not believing what I had proposed.

"You would do that?" she asked soberly. I nodded and kissed her, told her I would do anything I could to make her happy, to wipe away any shame she felt. It surprised me how I reacted to being told she had been having sex with another man while we were married. Her agony bothered me more than hearing she had been unfaithful. That she liked having sex with black men surprised me greatly because it showed how little I knew about the wife I had lived with for twenty years.

I had moronically missed all the signs: the favoring black actors, how giddy she got seeing them, the passion for racial equality, the exhilaration in her eyes when our friends who were black were around, and the way she spoke of racial issues and brightened in the presence of people of color. How could I miss all of that? How could I know my wife's sexual fantasies were about being "fucked" by black men with large, thick penises?

Now that I knew, I decided that I would do anything I could to see that she got her wish and would feel once again the fullness in her pussy of an enormous black penis thrusting into her, making her scream with delight at being a white woman with a coal-black man's manhood pushing into her eager and moist pussy. I would, I resolved, make it happen for the woman I loved.

I found where Henry was, near where her parents live, and contacted him by phone. When I told him what I wanted, he said he remembered Claire fondly, wanted to know how she was and I explained what had happened as best I could. He seemed as if he hadn't seen for years. He laughed at what I asked when I explained our situation and said he understood. "Lot of white women want the same thing," he said with a chuckle. "She was a great girl," he said.

"Still is," I said. "But she misses her black buddy. She would love to see you again." He said he was a lot older, not as spry and manly as he used to be, but I told him she was still interested in seeing him. Then he said he had a young nephew who might be able to help her more than he would.

I hadn't asked him specifically about having sex with her, but he seemed to understand, although it sounded as if he hadn't seen her in a while. He said his nephew would be a better person to help me with "my white wife" problems.

I asked if mine was a usual request, since he seemed to understand I meant for sex. "It's not unusual at all," he replied, still with a bit of a chuckle in his voice. "Once they get a taste of it, it is hard habit to break," he said. I could hear a smile in his voice.

"She says she has seen you recently," I said.

"Well, I think it was Randall she saw the last few times she was here," he said. "Randall is my nephew. He likes your wife a lot," he said. "Randall puts her in a really good mood. Really good," he repeated. Then he laughed again. "Your wife is one really fine white woman. You should keep her," he said.

I was surprised Claire had not mentioned Randle when she admitted to fucking black men, but I surely wasn't going to argue. If his nephew would help satisfy Claire, then all the better. When I told Claire about talking to Henry, and telling her about Randall, she blushed and looked at the floor. She said she had been afraid to tell me she had been fucking a young relative of Henry's. She had been embarrassed to admit it didn't matter to her which black man she fucked.

I told her Randall was coming to visit and would meet her at the Marriott on Sunday. "This can be the answer to relieving the tension from those black dreams you've having," I said.

My wife had confessed to me that she still yearned to fuck a black man, and I was happy to be able to accommodate her desire to do that again. I went with her to meet Randall, as I was eager to meet him and curious about just what he was like. When I met Randall it was clear the old adage about the apple and the tree weren't far off. Randall was certainly a virile looking young man, tall and broad shouldered, clean cut looking with a friendly smile and, I couldn't help but notice, he had huge hands. I remembered what people often said about men with big hands. Henry's kin certainly had the physical tools for what my horny wife needed.

Instead of shaking her hand, or giving her a hug, Randall took Claire into his arms and gave her a warm and intense kiss. They obviously knew one another. Then he turned to me and asked if I wanted to come up to the room. "You in to watching, man?" he asked. I looked at Claire, and rather than what I expected, she smiled and shook her head enthusiastically.

"You want me to?" I asked, expecting her to say no. She nodded and took Randall by the arm. Claire had obviously lost her shyness, and she said she would like me there. "You would?" I asked, incredulous that she would want to have sex in front of her husband.

"It may be fun for you," she said. "Randall can show you things.

"He can't show me how to have a large cock," I told her, grinning at my lame joke.

"But you can see what he does," she said. "He can show you stuff." I wondered what kind of stuff he would show me, but I nodded and followed them to his room. The desk clerk seemed to understand what was happening and gave us a knowing wink. I nodded at him as we passed, like he was a confidant.

Inside Randall made a production of undressing her, kissing each part of her after exposing it to the air. After she was nude, he proceeded to kiss and Kneeling behind her and attending to her body. Then he began to fondle her bottom, licking and kissing her tiny anus. He had an enormously long tongue and made good use of it at her puckered hole, swabbing her back door orifice with long and hungry passes up and down the crack of my sweet wife's ass.

He then went to work on her pussy, pushing his huge tongue into her probably as far as my cock would go. It was amazing how turned on she got from his mouth and tongue. Randall looked over and saw the expression on my face and laughed. "Whites girls like black tongue near as much as black dick," he said smiling.

When, after about thirty minutes, he finished with Claire's pussy, he stood and literally dropped his pants. A gasp escaped from my mouth when I saw the monster that flopped out of his jeans. He wore no underwear and his cock was probably close to a foot long, and it was very hard and erect. "She like big dick," he said as he approached Claire on the bed.

Without any of her normal shyness, Claire opened her legs fervently and smiled as he slid that monster into her splayed pussy slit, opened by his thirty minutes of the tongue pleasure his oral lashing had given her. His big cock slipped into her quickly and she sighed as the large organ hit the back of her vagina.

"Oh, god," she yelled. "Yes, Randall, yes! Oh, baby, fuck me with that wonderful black dick." I had never heard her call out during sex, and as I said before I had never heard her say dick, or cock, or fuck. Randall was making me understand just why my wife craved black cock in her pussy. She was showing me how much she liked it. He fucked her for an hour, bringing my sweet Claire to many orgasms that seemed to burst from her throat like an experienced whore at a Shriner's Convention.

Having been fucked by him for over an hour, she then knelt and took him into her mouth. When he came, she devotedly took all he had, holding his huge cock, thick and lined with veins, in front of her eager mouth. His semen shot out in large streams of cum, an amazing amount, and she eagerly took it all down her throat, swallowing like a well-paid streetwalker.

I do not ever remember seeing anything so impressive as the amount of cum that shot out of this black man's penis into Claire's awaiting mouth. She smiled over to me and I blew her a kiss. "I see what you like about them," I told her.

As we drove home I put my hand on her knee. "Thank you, baby," she said with a contented smile. I patted her leg, letting her know I understood why she dreamed black. "You are the best husband in the world," she said.

"Well, maybe the county," I said, thinking back to the night she confessed dreaming of sex with men of color and being happy I was able to give her the chance.