Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 04

Mitch woke up on Saturday morning feeling like someone had crashed a truck sideways into his asshole at high speed, and his throat felt like someone had force-fed him a concrete pipe.

He felt used and abused. He'd always wanted to know what it'd feel like to wake up after being destroyed by a pair of big black cocks. He knew exactly what it felt like now. He was sore, but it felt fucking unbelievable.

He lay in bed, tingling with the afterglow of last night's sex. And then he tried to get up.

His asshole screamed, his thighs refused to obey his command, and his knees began to buckle. He walked unsteadily and bowlegged, like he was recovering from invasive bowel surgery. And in a sense, he was -- he'd just had his guts rearranged.

Whenever he fucked himself, he knew how hard to push, and when to slow down, back off or stop. He knew his limits. But last night was the first time he'd given his pussy to another man. Not only did he surrender to Leroy's thick dick and firm grip, he told him to leave it all out on the park. He wanted to be pounded into submission, and that's exactly what he got.

He made it to the bathroom and did what he needed to do, then desperately crawled back into bed. Trina was lying next to him, and she woke up briefly as he pulled the sheets back up over his body.

"Morning, babe," she said. Her eyelids fluttered as she went back to sleep. She didn't get a response from her husband. Mitch wasn't thinking about her. He was still thinking about last night.

He'd made it back to bed without his wife noticing his physical discomfort, but he knew he wouldn't be able to hide it from her all day. He needed a credible, believable answer for when the interrogation inevitably began. He dreamed up a response and mentally filed it away before drifting back to sleep.

He couldn't tell her the truth about last night. Not ever. He couldn't tell her that he'd just had the wildest sex of his life, being systematically wrecked by two fit, muscly black men. And that moment when Leroy kissed him after ruining his asshole ... when he felt his fat gangster tongue in his mouth ... the tongue that moments earlier had been eating his pussy ... that feeling of total submission ... looking up dreamily into Leroy's sexy, dark, penetrating eyes, and that beautiful fucking nose ring ... he remembered that kiss, the best kiss he'd ever experienced in his life.

He remembered what Leroy's deep kiss did to him. He remembered feeling his weak load dribbling uncontrollably down the inside of his leg. How many times did they make him cum last night? He'd lost count.

Trina woke about an hour later. She padded to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. Mitch couldn't resist the aroma, and his nose dragged him out of bed towards his morning fix.

She noticed Mitch was moving strangely, like every step was an effort. "Are you OK, babe?"

Mitch played dumb. "Huh?"

"You're walking really weird, Mitch. Like, it looks like you're in pain."

"Oh, *this*?" He gestured innocently towards the lower half of his body, trying not to wince in agony. "I'm fine," he replied.

"But ... you look ... uncomfortable. You look hurt. Do you need to see a doctor?"

"No, there's no need for that." It was time for Mitch to roll out his alibi. "Maybe I should explain, babe. While you were out last night, I went for a run."

Trina nearly laughed out of sheer disbelief. "You? You went for a run? Like, what? You took some exercise? Last night?"

Mitch puffed his chest out. "Yeah. I mean, come on. Gimme a break. I'm not getting any younger, am I?"

For the moment, she was prepared to take her husband's claim at face value. "Where did you run?"

"In the park."

"You ran in Central Park? In the darkness?"

"Yeah, babe, it's totally safe. Haven't you ever been there at night? It's all a myth. Besides, it wasn't completely dark while I was out."

"OK, so tell me why you're walking like I need to buy you a coffin on ebay? Don't tell me you got mugged again?"

"No, babe. Maybe I just didn't stretch enough beforehand. Simple explanation."

Trina couldn't decide whether she bought his story or not. She thought back to last night. Sure, she was a little drunk when she got home, but Mitch gave her every impression he'd spent the entire evening in the apartment doing absolutely nothing, like he usually did when she was out. And she didn't smell any sweaty sports clothes when she came home, either. But on the other hand, maybe he was telling the truth. He spent a lot of his daytime sitting at a desk, so maybe he was worried about getting fat. He wasn't a prime physical specimen, but he wasn't out of shape either -- maybe he just wanted to maintain what he had. He was only about thirty years old, but Trina wondered if these were the early warning signs of a midlife crisis.

After their morning coffee, they headed out to their favourite café for breakfast. This was their regular Saturday morning routine. Usually, they'd take a brisk stroll, but today, their progress was slow. Trina felt like she was walking with a fossil.

They reached the coffee shop and were led to a table. Mitch sat down very gently and carefully. His wife ordered a plain croissant, some toast and another coffee, but he ordered a full breakfast -- eggs, sausages, bacon and hash browns. A heart attack on a plate.

Their food arrived, and Trina tried to reconcile Mitch's apparent sudden health-kick with the plateful of hot cholesterol sitting under his nose. She said nothing.

That afternoon, Trina put on a load of washing. She opened the hamper and discovered Mitch's pants from last night. They were wet, and she noticed a prominent discolouration at the crotch. She wasn't sure what it was, and she wasn't sure how to treat it. "Hey, Mitch," she called. There was a tone of uncertainty in her voice.

Mitch was sitting uncomfortably on the couch, thumbing through a magazine, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his ass. "Yeah?"

"Can you come here for a second?"

'Oh, fuck,' Mitch thought to himself -- 'she's in the laundry hamper.' He slowly made his way to their small laundry nook. It was barely big enough to accommodate a washing machine, a small clothes dryer, and a sink.

"I'm just curious, babe, but what happened to your pants? You were wearing these ones yesterday, right? For some reason, they're all wet." She held them up to show her husband.

Like an arrow, Mitch's mind shot back to last night. He remembered touching Leroy's huge BBC under the table at a bar in Harlem, and how it made him cum in his pants. No way could he tell her. "Yeah. I know, babe. Sorry, I should've told you what happened."

Trina impatiently placed her hands on her hips. "Told me *what*?" she sighed.

"When I was out running last night, I took a bottle of water with me, and I spilled it."

"Wait a second. Let me get this straight. You spilled water ... on your pants ... while you were running? Like, how the hell does that even happen? Were you rehydrating through your dick?"

"I wish I could clearly remember exactly the exact sequence of events," he bullshitted, "but I can't. Must've been all the endorphins flowing through my system from the run."

Trina wasn't done. "And these aren't the type of pants people usually go running in, either. Most people run in sports shorts or track pants. These are chinos. You wear these pants to the office. Nobody goes running in a pair of tailored fucking chinos." She didn't wait for an answer before continuing her line of inquiry. "And what's this stain on the front? Looks a little like cum to me. Were you so horny while you were jogging that you stopped to jerk off in the park? Or did a pigeon shit on your dick while you doing crunches?"

Mitch felt cornered. His wife was acting like a total bitch. He felt like he was being cross-examined in the witness box. He felt anger beginning to rise, but he checked it. He took a deep breath; the last thing he needed right now was an argument. "Come on, babe, that sounds crazy."

She stared at him defiantly, and he gazed back. She fucking knew he wasn't being straight with her. She felt exasperated. She knew he was hiding something. "Fuck, Mitch ... sometimes ... fuck, whatever, don't worry about it." She sighed and threw the pants into the washing machine, along with the rest of the laundry, and started the cycle.

Mitch walked slowly back to the couch and very carefully sat down again. He felt pissed at his wife. She was all up in his face for some reason, and he needed her to back off. He was more than capable of washing his own clothes, and he would've gotten around to doing it in his own time. He was grateful that Trina offered to take care of his laundry, but she didn't need to, and he resented her line of questioning.

It was a quiet Saturday night in their apartment on the upper east side. They ordered in some dinner, but conversation was strained. Trina put the washing in the dryer and folded it, leaving Mitch's clothes in a neat and tidy pile on his side of the bed. She checked his pants; whatever the hell that stain was, it was gone now.

*

Trina was required to work on Sunday, and she was mentally exhausted before she even got out of bed. Her current project was way behind schedule and seriously over-budget. The client had called a crisis meeting, threatening to take their business to a competitor if their concerns weren't addressed. She tersely explained the situation to Mitch last night. It was one of the few things they'd said to each other all evening.

Mitch didn't mind. Yesterday's post-sex aches and pains had dissolved. He visited the mega-mall at Columbus Circle and grabbed a strong coffee and a bite to eat before he went shopping.

Trina arrived home from work around 5pm. She was tired to the bone, yet knew she had five more days of heavy grind ahead of her before next weekend. She'd been working too hard, but she'd also been partying too hard. She needed to slow down, though right now, work seemed all-encompassing.

She hadn't spent enough quality time with her husband lately, and she was looking forward to a quiet night in. Perhaps they could order in some ubereats before curling up on the couch to watch a movie with a bottle of wine.

She felt stressed as she opened the apartment door, but she hoped to unwind.

She found her husband sitting on the couch wearing a Chicago Bulls basketball singlet, an expensive pair of track pants, and a pair of high-dollar gym shoes. He looked up as she walked into the room. It took her a few seconds to notice his radically unusual wardrobe.

"Hey, Mitch," she started, "sorry I took so long at work, but ... fuck ... umm ... sorry, but what the fucking hell are you wearing?" She blinked in disbelief, noticing the shopping bags and packaging. This was a significant change from the Ivy League look Mitch regularly rocked, and she was mystified as to why he was wearing shoes inside.

"I went shopping and bought some new clothes, babe."

For a moment, she was stunned into silence. "But why? You've got a wardrobe full of clothes. We just bought you six new polo shirts and three new pairs of slacks." She stopped for a moment to take in *exactly* what her husband was wearing. "And since when are you into basketball?" she spluttered. "I've never seen you watch sports in your life."

"I've been watching some basketball lately, on TV, like, while you've been out at night. I'm learning about it. I thought we might go to a game together one night." Any excuse to watch some heavy balls bounce.

She shook her head, unsure how to respond. "But ... you're wearing a Bulls singlet. You're aware we don't live in Chicago, aren't you? Did you buy the wrong team? Or were the Chicago singlets reduced?"

Mitch knew Trina was stressed about work, but there was an insulting undertone to her question. He chose not to dignify it with a response.

She noticed something else. Something different. Something unusual about Mitch's face. His nose. It looked ... red. She moved a little closer. "Oh my fucking god, Mitch. Is that what I think it is?"

He pointed innocently towards his right nostril. "You mean this? Yeah. I got my nose pierced today."

Trina was apoplectic, nearly screaming. "What the fuck? You got your fucking nose pierced? What the hell for?"

Mitch shrugged. "I just wanted to see what it'd look like."

"I'll fucking tell you what it looks like," she spat. "It looks *fucking* ridiculous. Take it out."

"Why?"

She was beside herself. She couldn't find the words. "Because ... because ... because it makes *you* look ridiculous. Like I said, fucking take it out. Please."

Mitch was defiant. "No, babe. I'm not taking it out. It hurt like fuck when they did it, and it *still* hurts like fuck, so I'm not touching it. Besides, I think I like it, and I'm gonna let it heal. Maybe you just need to get used to it."

This was all so out of character for Mitch. A basketball singlet was strange enough, but ... a fucking nose ring? She couldn't make the pieces fit. Words flew out. "But what about work? What are your colleagues gonna think when you show up at work tomorrow with a piece of steel stuck through your bright red nose, Rudolph? Are you gonna tell them you were in some kind of artistic industrial accident? You're a corporate lawyer who went to fucking Harvard, why are you trying to look like a hustler? Don't you care about your professional reputation?"

Mitch choked down anger. "It's the 21st century."

Trina had reached the end of the line. "I can't fucking look at you right now." The quiet Sunday night she'd hoped for was shot to pieces. She stormed away. Her work project was in the toilet and her career might not be too far behind it, and now she comes home to find her sensible, preppy husband has pierced his fucking nose? This was batshit insane.

She texted Ellen and Stacey from work. She needed a serious drink and a serious vent. She arranged to meet them at a bar near Times Square. She knew she needed a good night's sleep, but she knew she wouldn't get one tonight. Her stress levels were through the roof.

Mitch heard the door slam behind her as she left. He booted his laptop, lay down on the bed, and turned off the lights. He was so totally addicted. He knew he was too far gone. He knew there was no escape.

He closed his eyes, surrendered his soul, and fell down the BBC rabbit hole.

He found a clip where a mistress counted down her top ten male black pornstars. As if she was delivering a cold, dry college lecture, she outlined their backgrounds and articulated their measurements as she described where they grew up and how they each first got into porn. She showed grainy closeups of their cocks. Mitch's favourites weren't on the list, but it didn't matter -- he impregnated his handpussy by the time she got to number 4.

He wasn't done yet. He hadn't fucked himself.

He found a clip where a girl-scout with big natural tits knocked on a door, selling cookies. (Don't fucking pretend ignorance, you know the scene I mean.) Five well-endowed black dudes answered the door, sizing her up. Yeah, they wanted her cookies.

Mitch crossed the threshold. He pushed the dildo in and sighed, wishing he was her. He wished he was on his knees, surrounded by five heavy, massive black cocks. He wanted two in his face, one in each hand, and one -- the biggest, thickest one -- pounding his sissy pussy.

He fucked himself, moaning so loud the neighbours probably heard. Thick ropes of cum splashed down upon his stomach.

And then the front door opened.

Fuck. Trina was home.

He pulled the dildo out of his ass, but he wasn't sure where to put it. He needed to clean it. But how? He couldn't sneak into the bathroom. He heard his wife throwing her shoes off. He hid it under his pillow. It was a gamble.

She'd left in a huff earlier this afternoon, confused at her husband's new wardrobe and repelled by his new nose piercing, but he knew she'd been out on the town with friends. Maybe she'd calmed down a little.

His torso was covered in cum. He reached for the box of tissues on his bedside table, but it was empty. He pulled a dirty t-shirt over his shoulders to hide the incriminating mess, and the fabric began soaking up his load. He found his underpants. He violently pulled them on and willed his dick to go soft. He closed the lid of his laptop, turned on his reading lamp, and grabbed a book.

He tried to project an image of calmness, but he was breathing like he'd just run a marathon.

She came into the bedroom and looked at him with disgust. "Fuck, you've still got that piece of metal buried in your face."

Mitch owned his truth. "I like it. I think it suits me."

She sighed in exasperation. "I don't know what's wrong with you," she said. "You know what? Fuck this shit. I'm so fucking tired right now. I'm sleeping in the guest room tonight." She closed the bedroom door.

Mitch waited a few minutes. He tiptoed out and listened at the guest room door. He heard his wife snoring.

He washed and dried his fat black dildo and put it back into his sock drawer, he threw his cumrag t-shirt into the hamper, and he went back to bed.

He wasn't tired. Neither was his laptop. He found his headphones and plugged them in.

He found a clip where a femdom mistress teased him about his whiteboi inadequacy. She told him he'd never get pussy again. He didn't deserve it. The only men who deserved pussy were fit, muscled black dudes with big dicks. She teased him about his tiny white dick. She talked at length about the pleasure she felt whenever she got railed by a thick BBC, and Mitch whimpered at her words. She teased the camera with her ass. "You can't ever have this, whiteboi. You don't deserve it. The best sex for you is whiteboi sex."

Mitch nodded in submissive agreement. He loved having whiteboi sex.

"Black is better," said the mistress.

Black is better.

She stroked her pinky finger in front of the pussy whitebois like Mitch could never have.

He was hypnotised. If his wife walked into the room right now, he wouldn't have even noticed her.

Black is better.

She opened her mouth, teasing the camera with her pierced tongue.

Black is better.

She stroked her pinky finger again. "Black is better," she said.

"Black is better," whispered Mitch. "Black is better."

He closed his eyes as he felt his orgasm approach. He stroked himself as slowly as possible, wanting to prolong the buildup for as long as he could.

"Black is better," he whispered.

He opened his eyes for a split second. He saw the femdom mistress stroking her little pinky finger in front of her pussy and he came, his warm load dribbling all over his hungry handpussy.

"Black is better," he said.

"Black is better," said the mistress.

"Black is better," Mitch replied. His mind was gone. "Black is better."

He ate the cum off his hand before cleaning himself up and shutting his laptop down. He turned his reading lamp off.

He lay on his left side so he wouldn't disturb his nose piercing. It still felt raw and tender, and he expected it to feel that way for a week or two.

He went to sleep knowing he never wanted pussy again.

All he wanted were those two Harlem thugs. Their muscled, athletic bodies, covered in tattoos. Their strong, masculine pecs and shoulders, and their sexy, delicious, insanely kissable thighs.

Their superior attitudes, that confident, cocky swagger, their juicy, kissable lips, and their beautiful smiles.

And their glistening pieces of thick, dark meat, hidden away from view.

*

Mitch was in the office on Friday afternoon, concentrating hard. It had been a long week. He was working on a task he wanted to finish before the weekend. He'd told his supervisor he'd be able to get the job done by close of business, and he was looking forward to a couple of days of downtime.