Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 03

Mitch had finally sucked his first big black cock, and it was everything he'd ever dreamed it would be.

He was hungry, and he wanted more.

He fucked himself in the ass as often as he could, dreaming about being spit-roasted by two masculine, dark thugs. He always ate his own cum after whiteboi sex.

He hadn't said a word about any of this to his unsuspecting wife. She'd noticed he'd felt a little distant from her lately, but she assumed there was something weighing on his mind, like work stress. She assumed that whatever it was, it'd be temporary and fleeting, and that it'd eventually pass. She remembered feeling that Mitch was a little vacant last time they had sex, but she didn't read anything too serious into it.

Friday night rolled around, and Mitch came home from the office. Trina emailed him earlier that afternoon to announce she was staying downtown for a few post-work drinks with the girls from the office. Mitch knew she'd be home late. Once again, he had the apartment to himself for a few hours. The temptation of staying home to fuck his handpussy to BBC porn was always there, but tonight, Mitch felt like going out.

He caught the train uptown to Harlem and found a bar. He was led to a booth and he ordered a beer. He heard rap music jumping out of bass-heavy speakers, but nobody was dancing -- the vibe was chill. He was on his own, and he didn't know what to expect to happen. He'd brought a book in his bag, just in case the evening turned out to be flat. The most likely result was he'd read a few chapters, drink a few beers, maybe watch some of the sports on TV, then head back home, hopefully before his wife arrived. He opened his book and began to read. He tried to dress street, but suspected he might look a little out of place. The book probably didn't help.

He ordered a second beer and some wings to nibble on.

From two booths away, he heard a familiar voice. A deep, booming voice that struck fear into his soul, yet at the same time lit it on fire.

Fuck, was that who he thought it was?

He lifted his gaze and peered across to the booth where the loud voice was coming from. He saw Leroy and Tyrone, the two thugs from the diner who'd mugged him a few weeks ago. Later that night, they'd each sent Mitch a picture of the enormous black anacondas they kept inside their boxers. Mitch lay in bed that night as his wife slept by his side, teasing and tugging his nipples. He quietly fucked the bedsheets as his mind swam with images of thick, dark meat. Eventually, he climaxed.

He tried to shake the memory of that night from his mind. He put his head back down and tried to keep reading, but he was so distracted he read the exact same sentence nineteen times before he noticed that the words on the page weren't going into his brain anymore.

It looked to Mitch like the thugs were enjoying a quiet beer and an innocent conversation. They just happened to have loud voices and dominant personalities.

He wondered if they'd remember him. Probably not. He hadn't heard from either of them since that night. He knew they both had his number.

He tried to keep reading.

"Hey!" boomed the voice.

Mitch jumped a little, but he assumed the call wasn't directed at him. He continued reading.

"Hey! Whiteboi!"

Mitch looked around the room. There weren't too many other Caucasians present.

"Hey! Whiteboi! How's your wallet?"

'Oh, fuck,' Mitch thought. He looked up from his book to where the deep voice was coming from. Tyrone was looking directly at him.

"Yeah, you!" Tyrone boomed. "I'm talkin' to you. It's Mike, ain't it?"

"It's Mitch, actually." He waved weakly.

Tyrone shrugged. "Mitch, Mike, don't fuckin' matter to me. Whatcha doin'?"

Mitch gestured towards his book. "Uhh ... I don't know ... I'm just reading a book and drinking a beer, minding my own business."

"Get the fuck over here, whiteboi. What's wrong wit' you. Don't keep me hollerin' at you from across the bar."

Mitch closed his book and stood nervously, legs shaking. He put his book into his bag and carried it, along with his beer, to Tyrone's booth.

"Have a seat," offered Tyrone. "You remember my boy Leroy, don't you?"

"Yeah ... I do," Mitch stammered. "Nice to meet you again." Mitch sat on Leroy's side of the booth, opposite Tyrone.

Mitch joined the party of two but remained silent. He wasn't sure what to say or do in the presence of these ultra-masculine bodies. He felt intimidated and nervous, yet at the same time, he felt incredibly aroused. His gaze was fixated on the table, but he briefly glanced up at Tyrone. He was wearing a baseball cap and a Chicago Bulls basketball singlet. Both of his arms were tattooed from the shoulder to the wrist. His biceps looked sculpted and firm, and Mitch could only guess what his pecs might look like. Dreads cascaded down from the back of his cap, and his left ear was pierced in three places.

Mitch stole a glance at Leroy, sitting next to him. He wore a ball cap backwards and a tight black t-shirt, with a gold chain dangling around his thick neck. His fingers and the backs of his hands were tattooed, and his forearms looked strong and muscly. Mitch noticed a tatt of a dollar sign on the side of Leroy's neck, and a silver hoop piercing adorned his right nostril. Leroy's lips were plump and wet. Mitch fixated on his juicy mouth, imagining kissing him.

They both had long, thick fingers, and you already know what they say about dudes with long, thick fingers. Mitch already knew what their dicks looked like. No way was he ever gonna delete those photos.

Leroy entered the chat. "You don't live around here, do you, whiteboi?" His thighs were spread wide under the table, and Mitch knew why. Mitch held his own legs close together to give Leroy the room he needed.

"No sir. I live near the 77th street subway station on the east side." Mitch gazed at Leroy's nose piercing. So fucking hot.

"That's right, I remember." Leroy stroked the stubble on his chin in thought and looked across the table at Tyrone. "Whiteboi had some cash in his wallet, if I recall correctly."

Mitch remembered there were no bills left in his wallet when it was returned to him. "Thank you again for ... umm ... finding my wallet that night," Mitch said.

"No problem," Leroy replied.

There was a short pause in the conversation. "So if you don't live around here," Tyrone asked, "whatchu doin' up in our 'hood?"

Mitch couldn't tell the truth. "I'm ... waiting on a friend," he lied. He glanced at his phone, pretending to check the time. "He's running late, I guess."

"Hang wit' us until he shows up," said Leroy. It wasn't a question.

Mitch watched Leroy's fat lips break into a smile. He wanted nothing more than for him to lean across the table and jam his juicy tongue in his mouth. The situation terrified him, but at the same time, his mind was on fire. "Thanks," he whispered.

A waitress came over. "Bring us three more brews," Tyrone boomed. "We got us a guest at our table."

The waitress smiled knowingly. 'Whiteboi's gonna have a good time tonight,' she thought to herself. She brought three beers and three shots. "Spirits are on the house," she said.

Tyrone lifted his shot glass and poured the liquid into his mouth before slamming the glass back onto the table. Leroy did the same. "Drink up, whiteboi," they commanded.

Gingerly, Mitch lifted his shot glass to his nose. He sniffed. It didn't really smell like anything he knew. "Whatchu fuckin' sniffin' it for?" asked Leroy. "Just drink the motherfucker."

Mitch downed the liquid in one gulp, and it felt like his face was on fire. He coughed and gagged. "What the fuck was that?" he spluttered.

"Gasoline," Tyrone laughed. Leroy high-fived him across the table.

"Fuck ... what?" Mitch spluttered.

"Premium high-octane," whooped Leroy. "Nothin' but the best."

"Nobody light a match," Tyrone hollered. "Whiteboi over here gonna go up in flames."

Mitch looked panicky.

"Nah, nah, we' just messin' wit' you, whiteboi," said Leroy. "Stay chill. It was vodka. We' jus' foolin' around."

Mitch still felt anxious. He took a slug of his cool beer and he felt the heat wash away. Alcohol began to accumulate in his blood stream. As he placed the pitcher back onto the table, he could've sworn he felt Leroy's leg brush against his own under the table. Just once, and just lightly. It must've been an accident.

Mitch noticed Tyrone's basketball singlet and he asked his first question. "You like the Bulls?" His nerves began to recede as the alcohol took effect.

"Like is an understatement. Fuckin' love the Bulls. The Bulls are life. You into b-ball, whiteboi?"

Of course he was. Mitch loved watching basketball on TV. He fucking loved watching those tall, sweaty, athletic black dudes running around. "Yeah." He puffed himself up. "Used to play a little myself. In college."

Leroy and Tyrone exchanged glances of disbelief. They could imagine Mitch as the towel boy, but not much more.

"I wasn't very good, though," Mitch explained. He imagined Leroy and Tyrone playing on a street court, sweaty muscles on display. His head swam. It was like a drug.

"What do you do for work, whiteboi?" Leroy asked.

Mitch invented another lie. "Umm ... I work for the postal service." He didn't want to tell them he was a lawyer for a major multinational company. He took a long gulp of beer.

"And you said you live near 77th street? How can you afford that on a shitty postal service salary?"

The web of lies grew thicker. "I work in middle management."

Leroy stroked his chin, pretending to believe him. No way did this dude work at the post office. He looked way too preppy. His first guess was that Mitch was a corporate accountant.

"And where do you guys work?" Mitch asked.

Leroy and Tyrone glanced at each other. "We don't 'work' as such," Leroy answered. "We're independent businessmen."

Tyrone chimed in. "Entrepreneurs of the street, if you will."

Fuck, that could mean anything. Mitch guessed it partly involved mugging unsuspecting strangers and then shaking them down, but he wondered what else they got involved in.

"Yo, whiteboi," hollered Tyrone, "where's yo' friend? He still comin' to meet up wit' you?" He drained the rest of his beer.

"I'm not sure. He should've been here by now." Mitch pretended to check his phone again. "No messages. I'm not sure what happened."

Leroy looked at Tyrone. "Maybe he got mugged." Tyrone laughed and high-fived.

"Then if yo' friend ain't comin', whatchu say we get some more beers?" asked Tyrone. "I know I could use another one." He leaned across the table towards Mitch. "You don't have to be anywhere else right now, do you, whiteboi?"

Mitch thought about Trina. She'd still be downtown with her colleagues. Part of him considered standing up and heading home, but he knew if he did, he'd regret it. He had no idea what tonight had in store for him, but there was only one way to find out. Even though the alcohol was taking effect, Mitch was still sober enough to recognise that the situation he was in could be dangerous. Anything could happen.

He decided to ride his luck. He turned and looked dead into Leroy's dark brown eyes. Fuck, that nose ring was so fucking sexy. "I don't have anywhere else I need to be right now. Except the bathroom, that is. I'll be back in a second." Mitch stood and walked towards the back of the bar.

Tyrone waved the waitress over. Three fresh pitchers of cold beer landed on the table.

*

Mitch found a vacant cubicle and locked himself inside. He took a few deep, settling breaths of rancid, stale air before unzipping. He pulled out his four inches, pushed hard, and got a stream going. He stared blankly at the bright white cubicle wall as he pissed, thinking hard. He zipped up, left the cubicle, washed his hands, and returned to the booth. A fresh beer was waiting for him.

He sat back down. "This for me?"

"Sure is," Tyrone answered.

Mitch took a deep, satisfied slug. The alcohol was going to his head. "Feels like you sexy dudes are trying to get me drunk."

Fuck. He panicked. He'd just called them 'sexy.' There was no immediate response. All Mitch could hear right now was the sound of rap music booming out from the other side of the venue, and the sound of his blood as it pumped through his brain.

It was the worst possible thing he could've said. He had the situation all wrong. He waited for these thugs to escort him outside into the alley. He expected to have the shit beaten out of him. He braced for violence and prepared to run.

Leroy lowered his voice. "You just say what I think you said, whiteboi?" He moved a forearm closer to Mitch. "Did I hear you right just now?"

Was this a threat? Was this where the night turns violent? Was Mitch about to die? He tried to backtrack. "Sorry ... I'm ... umm ... just a little ... no, that's not what I meant to say ... maybe I'm a little drunk ... umm ... I'm married ... I ..."

"It's all good, whiteboi," soothed Tyrone. "We know you' into us. We remember the night we found your wallet. You was starin' at our junk pretty fuckin' bad. You might be married, and if I remember correctly, yo' bitch got some fine ass titties, but that don't mean you ain't into black dick. Most whitebois are, but only some have the balls to admit it."

Mitch gulped.

Tyrone whispered across the table. "You into BBC, ain't you, whiteboi? You' fuckin' obsessed with big black dick, ain't you?"

Mitch couldn't deny it. Lust and submission were written all over his face. "Yes."

"Say it," said Tyrone. "I want to hear you say it."

"I love big black cock," Mitch whispered.

Leroy grabbed one of Mitch's hands. He guided it underneath the table and placed it on the outside of his pants. "You feel that, whiteboi?"

Mitch's head began to spin. "Fuck." He gazed into Leroy's dark eyes and bit his bottom lip. "It's so big."

"You wanna touch it?" Leroy asked.

"Yes," Mitch breathed. He wanted to more than to just touch it; much, much more. His heart was pounding like it was about to leap out of his chest. He could barely breathe right now.

Leroy smiled. "Go 'head then."

Mitch unzipped Leroy's pants. Leroy wasn't wearing boxers, and Mitch's fingers quickly found his thick, heavy shaft.

"Pull it out."

Mitch did as he was instructed. Leroy's balls were still inside his pants, but his long, flaccid shaft was on the outer. "It's so warm."

"Give it a little stroke."

Almost imperceptibly, Mitch felt Leroy's BBC begin to grow in his hand. He wanted to kiss him so bad.

The feel of his hand on Leroy's cock, and the thought of his tongue in his mouth ...

"Fuck," Mitch whispered. He felt it coming, it was written all over his face. He tried so hard to hold it back. "Fuck ... fuck ... oh, no ..."

Tyrone leaned across the table. "You just nutted in your pants, didn't you, whiteboi?"

Mitch nodded shamefully.

Tyrone couldn't suppress a laugh. "We' gonna need to get you outta here and get you cleaned up. My crib is on the next block. Finish your beer and we'll go." He scooted out of the booth and walked over to the register to settle their tab. The waitress rung up the transaction. "Don't hurt him too much," she pleaded.

Tyrone smiled sweetly. "Aww, now you know we can't promise that."

*

The thugs led their willing, eager, submissive prey out of the bar and onto the street.

"Where are we going?" Mitch asked. He looked disoriented, but it was more from the intense shame he felt from cumming in his pants in public than from the alcohol. The street was loud and busy.

"We' goin' to Tyrone's," Leroy answered. "Not too far. Just around the corner."

They walked in silence as the city hummed and pulsed around them. Mitch's pants were a wreck.

Trina was a million miles from Mitch's thoughts right now. All he could think about was these two sexy thugs walking on either side of him, and their big black cocks. He didn't even think about texting her to tell her where he was. Right now, she didn't even exist to him. As they walked, he glanced down at Tyrone's crotch. He could clearly see it through his pants. It was fucking massive.

They approached a residential building on 122nd street and Tyrone opened the exterior door with a key. He called the elevator, and they rode up to the penthouse on the 16th floor. Tyrone unlocked his apartment door, and they walked inside. He fired up his sound system. The speaker cones vibrated as hardcore rap filled the air. "Have a seat, whiteboi," he said.

"Can I go to the bathroom first?" inquired Mitch.

"Yeah, fo' sure. You need to clean yo'self up. Yo' pants are a mess."

Mitch locked the door behind him. He took his shoes off and pulled his pants down. A white stain was clearly visible in the crotch of his pants. He tried cleaning the fabric with some cold water from the faucet, but all he achieved was making his pants even wetter. He needed to put them back on, he couldn't walk out into Tyrone's living room wearing just a pair of underpants. Besides, his briefs were stained, too.

He walked back into the living room where Leroy and Tyrone were kicking back with a fresh beer. Tyrone sat in an armchair while his boy Leroy was flopped back on the couch. "How you feelin' right now, whiteboi?" asked Tyrone.

"Nervous as fuck."

"Good answer," Leroy said. "You want another beer? They're in the refrigerator, help yo'self."

Mitch shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm good." He paused for a moment before speaking again. "What's gonna happen?"

"Nothin' much," Tyrone replied. "We' just gonna chill and kick back to some beats. That sound good to you, whiteboi?"

The thugs were silent for a minute or two, absorbing the music. Mitch mentally undressed them.

"I'm sorry for ruining your evening," Mitch apologised. "It seemed like you two were having a good time at the bar, and my ... umm ... accident ... has dragged you away."

"No need to apologise," said Leroy. "Come sit down wit' us."

Mitch sat on the couch next to Leroy. "Sorry about my pants. Couldn't get them clean."

"That's cool," Tyrone responded. "I can loan you a pair. Wait here." He disappeared into his bedroom for a moment. Mitch sat in silence. He looked at his hands, too frightened to glance up at Leroy's beautiful face.

"You can wear these, if you like." Tyrone handed Mitch a pair of basketball shorts. They were tight and skimpy.

"Thanks, but ... I don't think they'll fit."

"They' gonna fit perfectly, whiteboi," Leroy concluded. "Go 'head. Put 'em on."

Mitch stood and began walking towards the bathroom. "No. Put 'em on right here," Tyrone commanded.

Mitch gulped. "Here? In the living room?"

"Yeah."

Mitch couldn't disobey. He pulled his wet pants off and put the basketball shorts on. As he suspected, they were tight as fuck. His dick was shrivelled.

"Whiteboi got a nice ass, Leroy."

"Yeah, he's pretty sweet."

"Take a look at this." Tyrone pointed to his dick. "Whiteboi's pussy is gettin' me hard."

Mitch was speechless. His jaw nearly bounced on the floor. He could see it slowly growing inside Tyrone's pants.

"Well, if you're gonna leave yo' mouth hangin' open like that," Tyrone suggested, "at least put it to good use." Tyrone pulled his pants down, exposing ten long inches of erect black meat.

Mitch fell to his hands and knees and crawled over to where Tyrone sat. "Can I?" he pleaded.

"Fuck, bitch, I ain't askin' you twice."

'Is this a dream?' Mitch wondered. 'I'm gonna wake up in a second,' he thought to himself, 'with a huge puddle of cum on the sheets. This can't possibly be real.'

Mitch got up close to Tyrone's BBC. He'd jacked off to a picture of it before, but he'd never seen it in the flesh. It smelled like soap. He sucked the head into his mouth and licked it, getting it wet. Fuck, it was huge. He spat into his palm and spread the wetness over Tyrone's shaft.