Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 02

Mitch and his wife Trina went back to their jobs on Monday morning, both trying to pretend they were back in their normal, regular routines, and that nothing between them had changed. They'd each spent the entirety of Sunday thinking about the events of Saturday night, but their recollections were completely different.

First of all, Trina remembered not wanting to go to Harlem for dinner, but she went along with it for the sake of her husband. She remembered the embarrassment of watching Mitch trying in vain to stuff half a roast chicken down his gullet, the shock of learning her husband had been mugged on the way to the diner without him even knowing it, the fear she felt when her husband said he couldn't pay and was escorted out back by a couple of local thugs, the relief she felt learning that her husband's wallet had been returned, and the emotional and physical disgust she felt on the long cab ride home.

Most of the evening faded in Mitch's memory, but there were two things he'd never forget.

Leroy and Tyrone.

Those two sexy thugs.

The outlines of their two big, black cocks.

And the terror and exhilaration he felt as they stood over him, dominating him.

He still had the images of their dicks stored on his phone.

Trina went out to meet a friend for coffee on Sunday afternoon. Mitch waved her goodbye, and as soon as their apartment door closed behind her, Mitch's pants were down. He gazed at those photos and jerked off. He barely even lasted a minute.

Neither of the Harlem thugs messaged him on Sunday, though part of Mitch desperately wanted them to. As a matter of fact, weeks went by.

It was a few Tuesdays later when Trina came home late. She'd had a few drinks in the city after work and was feeling a little drunk, and just a little horny.

She blamed it on the tall black dude she saw on the subway ride home. He had earbuds in and eyes closed, clearly listening to music or a podcast and minding his own business, but his legs were spread wide, and she couldn't take her eyes off his crotch. Fuck, that thing was huge.

Mitch was on the couch watching the news when she arrived home. She kicked her heels off and approached her husband in search of dick.

"Hey, babe," she cooed.

"Hey," Mitch replied.

"What are you watching?"

"The news."

She grabbed the remote. "Boring!" She turned the TV off. "I'm feeling horny. Come to bed?"

He had no interest in fucking his wife right now. "Babe," protested Mitch, "I was watching that!"

Trina put him to the test. "What exactly were you watching on the news?"

Mitch tried to concentrate on what he'd seen. "A hard-hitting report about fair competition in the global agricultural market."

Trina pulled her skirt down. "And that's more interesting than this?" She touched her cunt. "My pussy hits hard, too."

Mitch knew his obligations.

For what he hoped might be the very last time, he followed his wife to their marital bed. He didn't want to fuck her, but he felt compelled to. Following some stilted foreplay, his four and a half inches eventually stood to attention. She lay on the mattress, legs spread wide. Awkwardly, he climbed on top of her, wondering how many push-ups he'd need to do before he was excused from duty.

"Are you in?" she asked. She wasn't sure and needed to check.

"Yeah."

He thrust forward and kissed her briefly. There wasn't any passion. This was a job to be done.

She imagined she was being ploughed by the black dude she ogled on the subway. She could barely even feel her husband's dick inside her, but she guessed the dude on the subway would've split her in half. As she imagined the man on the subway fucking her, she found herself moaning, despite her husband's inadequacy.

She quickly came, but it was nothing to do with her husband's performance. He reached a weak climax and was glad to roll off.

Neither were sure what to say. She was disappointed, and he was relieved. For each of them, this felt like the final nail in the coffin of their married sex life. As Trina rolled onto her side to go to sleep, she wasn't sure if she ever wanted to feel her husband's puny penis inside her ever again. What she didn't know was that Mitch had lost interest in her way earlier.

They needed to have a conversation.

A conversation about big black cock.

But neither of them had any idea how to approach it.

They didn't even know they wanted the same thing.

*

For now, Trina kept her thoughts and desires to herself. But on a quiet Saturday afternoon, Mitch travelled north. Trina was out with friends that afternoon. Under normal circumstances, Mitch would've spent the entire afternoon fapping to interracial porn. But today, Harlem felt like a magnet. He got dressed and collected his wallet, phone and keys.

He'd recently downloaded Grindr. He created a profile. He uploaded a single photo, but it gave nothing of his identity away. His profile photo was of him standing outside a building on the upper east side, but he'd cropped it so that the only part of his body visible was a slice of his torso on the edge of the frame.

His name was derivative and unoriginal, yet accurate -- 'whiteboi4bbc'. He expected to get swamped, ridiculed or ignored.

He took the green line to the elevated station at 125th street -- MLK Boulevard. This was the northernmost station before the line headed across the river into the Bronx. He couldn't ever recall getting out of the subway above ground before today. He walked down the stairs and headed west.

He made sure his Grindr profile was active. Within minutes, he could feel his phone vibrating in his pocket, but he was far too anxious to check.

He walked westward, past the old Victoria Theatre and stopped in front of the Apollo. He felt ashamed that he'd never been to the Apollo before; it was a mere half an hours' transit from his own front door. The venue was still in action, but he doubted it was still like it once was. He thought about all the important artists who'd graced the Apollo's stage over preceding decades. He imagined gospel singers belting it out on stage, soul brothers laying down the funk, smoke in the air and fights in the street. He took a photo of the venue's exterior on his phone.

But he wasn't here for music. He was scouting for cock, though he had no idea what he was doing and wasn't brave enough to articulate what he wanted. For now, he was just looking. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer and his palms were sweaty.

He grabbed a takeout coffee from a coffee shop nearby and sat on a park bench, cap on backwards, trying to look nonchalantly cool as he sipped the hot beverage. He wasn't sure what his next move should be.

He watched people pass by for a few minutes. After a while, he spied a well-built black man walking towards him. Surely this guy had a big dick. "Hey, dude," he waved.

The pedestrian looked at Mitch, momentarily confused. "Wait ... do I know you?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Then what's yo' fuckin' problem?"

Mitch checked himself. He wouldn't greet random strangers in his own neighbourhood, so why would he do it here? Rookie mistake. If he was approached in a similar situation on the upper east side, his likely response would be to just ignore the person rather than confront them, but this was Harlem, and the most likely outcome for him would be a busted jaw. He imagined calling his wife from the hospital. How would he explain to her where he was and what he was doing?

He remembered his phone had vibrated a few times when he got off the train. He checked it to see if anyone had tapped his Grindr profile. He spied the orange icon at the top of his phone screen. Fuck! A message! He eagerly opened the app and was immediately disappointed to find it was spam. Something about paying extra to boost his profile. He'd only opened an account recently, so maybe they were targeting newbies. He deleted the notification. The other two messages he'd received were texts from his insurance company, asking if he was satisfied with his level of service, and prompting him to fill in a survey.

He was frustrated. He sat on the bench for another half an hour, but he wasn't brave enough to interact with the flow of human traffic any further.

He stood to leave, throwing his empty takeout cup into the recycling bin before heading further west. Since he was out of the apartment, he might as well get some exercise. His aim was to walk the length of 125th street until he hit the 1 train. He got some fresh air in his lungs, and while the street was interesting, it wasn't particularly exciting. Gentrification had been and gone, and he hadn't come up to Harlem to check out the architecture.

He arrived at 125th and Broadway and considered his options. The subway station for the 1 train was right in front of him. Should he just head home? He guessed Trina would still be out with her friends, maybe he still had time to jack off to some BBC porn.

He decided to hang out in Harlem for a little longer. He noticed a coffee shop on the other side of the street. Sitting at the counter, he ordered a cup. The waitress wiped the counter with a wet rag before dropping a cup of weak black coffee in front of him.

"Thank you," said Mitch. He tried to smile and genuinely tried to catch her eye. The waitress mumbled in response. He wondered why wait staff in Harlem were so abrupt and impersonal with customers when they were so reliant on tips. He drank his cup slowly, looking around.

He noticed a guy sitting at a table near the door. He was reading the newspaper. A half-eaten bagel and a coffee cup lay on the table in front of him. He looked like a local, a regular customer who was minding his own business on a quiet Saturday afternoon.

He was totally Mitch's type. Dark skin, thick, kissable lips, and muscled frame. Mitch noticed one of his nostrils was pierced, which was one of his secret fetishes. His crotch was beneath the surface of the table, so Mitch was unable to guess what he was packing. Mitch noticed he was staring and immediately tore his eyes away. He didn't want to get caught. He fixed his gaze on the coffee cup in front of him, the black liquid swirling.

Physically, Harlem was only a short distance from the upper east side, but psychologically, Mitch felt like he'd journeyed to another country. He wanted to do something to attract the man's attention, but he wasn't sure what to do.

He'd been given a clean spoon by the waitress when she poured his coffee, but he wasn't sure what for. Maybe it was to add sugar? He held the spoon up to his gaze, looking away from his cup. His fingers twitched, and without meaning to, his thumb and forefinger flicked the spoon into the distance. It sailed through the air, landing with a loud clatter underneath the table of the dude sitting near the door.

Mitch climbed down from his stool to retrieve his errant cutlery. "I'm so sorry, sir," he began to explain. "I've dropped my spoon. It's under your table, are you OK for me to and pick it up?"

The customer looked at Mitch. "Sure, whatever."

Mitch knew he had just enough time to get a quick sense, but lingering too long was dangerous, and seconds mattered. Other customers noticed as he sank to the floor and crawled under the table, wondering what was happening.

Mitch discovered that the customer was sitting with his thighs spreadeagled, and the outline of his cock was clear to see. Mitch wanted to smell it. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to suck it. He wanted to feel it deep in his ass as he pushed back on it.

He'd only been under the table for a few short seconds, but he knew it'd already been too long. He picked up his spoon and returned to his stool at the counter.

The guy at the table finished his bagel and drained the rest of his coffee. He stood up, ready to leave. But before he headed back out onto the street, he walked over to the counter. He leaned in close behind Mitch; so close that Mitch could feel warm breath blowing on the back of his neck.

Mitch heard a deep, resonant voice. "Did you get a good look while you were down there, whiteboi?"

All the hairs on the back of Mitch's neck stood up and his boipussy twitched. Mitch turned to plead ignorance, but the man was already heading towards the door.

The waitress glanced at Mitch and raised an eyebrow. She saw what happened. She knew what's up.

Mitch popped a boner. Apart from when he was watching porn, he couldn't remember the last time he felt this aroused.

*

Mitch made his way back home. He walked back to the green line and caught the subway back to 77th street. On the way, he received a text message from Trina. 'Hey Mitch. Out with Amanda and Sophie from work, we're gonna get dinner, will be home a little later.'

Mitch responded. 'Cool babe have a good time. See you when you get home.'

'Fuck yes,' Mitch thought to himself. He knew he had a few solid hours to lose his mind and soul to BBC porn. He arrived home, caught the elevator to his floor, opened the front door and went to the bathroom. He wanted to make sure he was empty in all respects. He went to the bedroom and disrobed. He fired up his laptop, found his bottle of lube, and retrieved his fat, black dildo from the back of his sock drawer. He was totally gonna fuck himself.

His phone buzzed with a new message. He checked. It was from Trina. 'xxx'.

He knew what she meant, but his own interpretation was very different.

He pulled the blinds down. This served two purposes. First, he wanted to eliminate the possibility of being seen, but second, he wanted to make the room as dark as he possibly could. In a perfect world, there'd be no light in the room at all, except the warm glow of the porn on his laptop screen.

He lay on his back, propped up on pillows as his fingertips directed his mouse. A towel lay under his ass. He didn't want Trina finding any telltale patches or stains on the bedsheets.

He began as he often did -- watching amateur homemade clips that other BBC-obsessed whitebois had uploaded. These clips never failed to get him in the mood. Some of the whitebois in the clips had microdicks locked inside chastity cages, while others had cocks that were quite sizeable, far bigger than Mitch's own; but the one thing they all had in common was a deep, undeniable obsession with big black cock. Knowing there were others out there just like him was comforting. He wasn't a freak. He wasn't the only one. In fact, he told himself, this was perfectly normal.

He wondered where these other BBC-obsessed people lived. Were they in other cities or other countries, or was there a chance there were others like him in Manhattan?

He navigated to a clip of regular interracial porn scenes that had been recut to focus on the penis. His fingertips grazed across his nipples. They stiffened, and his dick stood to attention.

He moved to a clip of a stripper who was dancing to a rap song in his own front room. He'd kill to know who this dude was, it was one of his favourite scenes. The guy was naked except for a baseball cap. As he danced, his long, erect dick bounced left and right. Mitch imagined kneeling in front of him, feeling the thick piece of meat slapping him in the face. After a few minutes of dancing, the stripper approaches the camera, pinches his nipple and cums. As he'd done many times before, Mitch imagined the stripper was unloading in his mouth.

His cock became even more erect. He touched the tip of his dick and transferred the warm, slick wetness to his tongue.

He reached for his toy and teased his pussy.

He watched a clip that featured a woman who conjured up a fantasy about a college basketball team finishing practice. The players headed to the locker rooms. Sweat glistened on their dark skin as they began to shower.

Mitch inserted his dildo. "Fuck, I love having whiteboi sex," he exhaled.

The woman in the clip described the scene as the basketball players showered, and how their practice session had gotten them so horny that they needed some oral relief from a thirsty whiteboi.

Mitch moaned, imagining himself on his knees in the shower, warm water splashing across his face as he serviced the college team's huge cocks. He pushed the plastic in further.

The woman in the clip talked about how the players were so horny that a mouth wasn't enough for them anymore. They wanted access to the whiteboi's backdoor.

With one hand, Mitch pistoned the dildo in and out of his hungry pussy, and with the other, he teased his nipples. He imagined one BBC in his mouth, one in each hand, and another forcing its way into his tight hole. An image of the dude from the coffee shop entered his mind. He remembered how he felt when he was underneath the table retrieving his spoon. He remembered gawking at the outline of the dude's cock. And he remembered the humiliation he felt when the guy called him out.

Mitch lightly teased his dick as he fucked himself. He felt his sphincter twitch and he came all over his stomach. He scooped it up and ate it, imagining the guy from the coffee shop had nutted on his face.

He came down from exquisite bliss. He sucked in a few deep breaths, tasting his own semen in his mouth. He let the feeling of his orgasm wash over him, bathing him in ecstasy. He let the dildo fall out of his pussy.

He snapped into action. First: put the towel away. Second: wash the dildo in the bathroom sink and dry it. Third: bury it at the back of his sock drawer. Fourth: delete recent browsing history. Fifth: take a shower.

He'd eaten dinner at a nearby chain takeout restaurant and was sitting up in bed reading a book when he heard Trina's key in the door. "Hey babe," he heard, followed by the sound of his wife's heavy heels hitting the floor. "Wait a second," she said, "need to split the whisker." She peed with the bathroom door open, and Mitch heard the cascade. He had no idea what Trina's night involved, but he was worried that she was about to jump on him, demanding sex. She tidied herself up and greeted her husband. "How was your day? Did you get up to anything interesting?"

Mitch's mind whirred. "Nup, not really. Had a quiet one. Caught up on some work," he lied. "How was your night?"

Trina began to verbally unload. She'd been out with work colleagues since mid-afternoon, and a quiet afternoon turned into a louder evening. She began telling Mitch all about her day, but he was already miles away.

Mitch glanced at his wife. By regular standards, she was hot. He knew other men checked her out, and they probably hit on her from time to time, but he didn't care. He didn't even care if she fucked other men. He had no reason to suspect she did, but it wouldn't matter to him either way. She droned on and on, and her husband nodded in all the right places.

*

Mitch had recently arranged with his office to work one day each week from home. There was no particular reason for his request other than wanting some relief from the grind of heading downtown five days a week. His office had no problem with granting the request; Mitch was good at his job and he had a strong work ethic. They knew they could rely on him. His wife Trina was already working from home one day each week herself, but on a different day.

It was Mitch's first day of working from home since the pandemic ended, and he had the apartment to himself. It was around 11am, and he'd already been logged on for a couple of hou. He'd just made himself a coffee and was bringing it across to the dining table where his work laptop was open. He had a pad and a pen nearby, and a headset for calls. He felt so much more productive working from home -- there was no time wasted in transit or in pointless meetings.

He sat back down and was just about to turn his attention back to his work when the intercom buzzer rang. He wasn't expecting anyone. He took a sip of his coffee before standing up again. He walked across the room and picked up the intercom handset. He heard a deep voice.