Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 07

Leroy saw Mitch as he was walking out of the building. He was very surprised to see the Upper East Side whiteboi at this time of the day, especially on a Monday. He wondered why Mitch was in Harlem, instead of getting ready for work. "Wassup," he said, waving a hand.

Mitch felt just as surprised to see Leroy as Leroy felt to see him. "Hey."

"Whatchu doin' here?"

Mitch didn't answer. He'd had a coffee and was buzzing a little, but even so, he wasn't thinking clearly. Surely Leroy must've been able to guess where he'd just come from, but he'd only learned just last night that Leroy lived in his own apartment. Until last night, he thought Leroy and Tyrone lived together, and when he came back up to Harlem at Tyrone's invitation yesterday, he thought he'd be hanging out with both. He looked sheepish as he tried to avoid the question.

"I' just been out grabbin' a cup of mornin' joe." Leroy continued, pointing to the takeout coffee he'd bought from the street. "This' my usual mornin' thang. Can't get my shit started without some strong beans." He looked at Mitch and frowned in confusion. Why was he here? "It's Monday mornin', whiteboi. Ain't you got mail to sort?"

Leroy didn't know that Mitch was taking the day off work. He also didn't know anything about what happened yesterday afternoon, when Mitch went back home after staring down that insane gunman. Fuck, that was just yesterday? Leroy stroked his chin in disbelief. It felt like longer ago than that.

They stood in the lobby, facing each other. Mitch looked uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"You OK?" asked Leroy.

"Not really. Married to a hellbeast. Had to get out of the apartment last night."

Leroy looked concerned. He already knew there was trouble in whiteboi paradise, and after what he just heard, it couldn't have been any clearer where Mitch spent last night. "Fo' real? Shit, what happened, dude?"

"It's a long story." He wasn't sure if he had the emotional energy right now to tell it again, especially not in the lobby of an apartment building. "Tell you later."

"Sho' 'nuff." Leroy nodded before leaning in a little closer. "Have you checked yo'self in a mirror lately?" he asked.

"Why?"

"There's a ... there's a mark on your neck. Like ... a bruise."

"Oh, this?" Mitch pointed to the place on his neck where Tyrone nearly sucked an artery out of him last night. "Yeah. I know. Is it noticeable?"

Leroy laughed. "Fuck, whiteboi, I'd be able to see that from space."

"I think I got bitten by something yesterday," said Mitch.

"Yeah, vampires are pretty bad in Harlem," Leroy joked. "Gots to watch out for them Blaculas." He leaned in for a closer inspection, and Mitch could feel Leroy's warm breath on his neck. "Unless it was yo' hellbitch who did this to you?" Leroy looked a little closer. "Looks tender, whiteboi. Does it hurt?"

"A little," Mitch replied.

"Then you best come upstairs so we can treat it. Come wit' me. Fuck yo' mail duties."

"I don't want to interrupt your morning coffee, Leroy ..."

"You ain't interrupting shit," Leroy replied. "Not 'less you count me watchin' some nasty ass porn while I jack my shit off."

Mitch would've loved to watch that. His mind drifted. He imagined Leroy, kicking back on his bed, fully naked, his laptop to one side of him, porn rolling (he wondered what kind of porn he was into?), his huge, wet cock growing slowly in one hand, with his other hand squeezing a nipple ... his juicy, kissable lips ... his thick, muscled thighs ... fuck ... his delicious BBC just kept getting bigger and bigger ... Leroy moaning as semen slowly oozed out of the head of his beautiful black python, spilling down the side of his fat shaft ... that thick, delicious black cum going to waste ...

"Come wit' me, whiteboi," Leroy continued. "You' in safe hands."

Mitch snapped back to reality and they walked toward the elevators. A car opened and they stepped in. Leroy pressed the button for the 10th floor and the doors closed slowly.

Mitch felt nervous. Five minutes earlier, he was leaving Harlem to head back to his apartment; but now, he was in the elevator on the way back upstairs. "You ain't been up to my crib before, have you, whiteboi?"

The elevator doors opened on the 10th floor. Mitch shook his head in response to Leroy's question and walked silently behind him, still wondering what porn was stored on Leroy's hard drive.

Leroy turned the key and invited Mitch into his apartment. "You want something to drink?" he inquired, sipping his coffee.

"I'm good," said Mitch, "but thanks." He'd consumed a strong brew before leaving Tyrone's apartment, and he felt wide awake.

Leroy left his coffee in the kitchen. "Coo'. OK, come wit' me to the bathroom. Let's see if we can get that nasty bite on yo' neck fixed up." Leroy flicked the light switch, and they heard the quiet hum of the ceiling extractor fan as it sprang to life. He rummaged around in his medicine cabinet. "Got some topical cream in here," he reported, "jus' lookin' for it." He eventually found the tube he was looking for and examined the date. He glanced at Mitch apologetically. "Shit. Expired."

"That's OK. Thank you for trying, I appreciate it. Maybe I should go now. You've got stuff to do."

"Wait a second, whiteboi. Don't be so hasty. Sometimes, home remedies can work. Sit yo' ass down on the edge of the toilet seat. My momma always tol' me there ain't nothin' that can cure skin problems better than saliva. It's good for bug bites, so it might work for ... whatever the hell this is."

By now, Leroy thought he knew where the mark on Mitch's neck came from. He didn't have it yesterday, and it was obvious he was leaving Tyrone's crib when they bumped into each other in the lobby earlier. Unless Mitch knew someone else who happened to live in the same building? Unlikely.

Leroy spat onto his fingers and began to lightly smear his thick spit across Mitch's hickey. "That feel a lil' better?"

They heard the extractor fan whirring. Mitch's tiny cock was growing fast under Leroy's wet, sexual touch. "Uhh ... yeah. I think so."

Leroy continued methodically rubbing his saliva into Mitch's neck for a few more moments. "Wait a second, whiteboi. I'm so stupid. Here I am, rubbin' my saliva into your neck with my fingers tryna make yo' swellin' go down when I could just lick yo' bruise instead."

Mitch knew that if Leroy licked his neck, the swelling in another part of his body would only increase, possibly to the point of eruption. "Well, OK," he trembled. "I mean, if you think it's best."

"Stand up, whiteboi. Imma fix you up."

They faced each other, and Mitch felt Leroy's hands wrap around his waist. He felt a thick, fat tongue licking his neck for a few seconds before he felt Leroy's entire mouth on his throat, sucking hard. His knees nearly buckled. "Ohh ... fuuuuck, Leroy ..."

"Like I said, you' in good hands right now. Imma suck that nasty fuckin' bruise right off yo' neck."

Mitch knew Leroy was only going to make his hickey look twice as bad, but he couldn't give a fuck. It felt so fucking good feeling his heavy, fat tongue sucking on his neck.

Mitch whimpered as he tried not to cum in his pants.

Leroy took his mouth away from Mitch's neck. Mitch gazed up into Leroy's sexy brown eyes and his plump, juicy, kissable mouth.

"My clitty is so fucking hard for you right now," Mitch confessed.

"Come wit' me," whispered Leroy. The rest of his takeout coffee was forgotten, cooling on the kitchen counter. He led Mitch by the hand into his bedroom and laid him down on his bed. They lay on Leroy's mattress, kissing deeply. Mitch closed his eyes as he felt Leroy's dominating hands on his jaw and neck, pulling him in. He felt Leroy's tongue exploring his mouth, and he felt his dicklet leak.

How the fuck did Mitch end up in this situation? He didn't know, and in this moment, he didn't care either. He'd mulled the situation over in his mind many times by now without ever reaching a logical conclusion, and right now, his brain was way too fried to think. The only thought that pulsed through his mind was how badly he wanted to feel Leroy's BBC in his hands, in his mouth, and in his ass.

He took the initiative, reaching down to grab Leroy's crotch.

Leroy broke the kiss. "You want my big black dick?"

"Yes," whispered Mitch.

"Go 'head," said Leroy. "Take it out. Play wit' it."

Mitch's hands fumbled with Leroy's zip, and after a few seconds, he gripped Leroy's huge dark meat and he fished it out. He held it in his tiny white hands, feeling its warmth and potency.

"Can I ... can I suck it?"

"Sure you can, whiteboi." Leroy pulled his pants down and lay on his back, anticipating being serviced. This was way better than his regular morning porn routine -- a live, wet mouth always felt better than his own hand. He relaxed, placing his hands behind his head in a repose of superiority. Mitch barely noticed; all he wanted was a fat black cock to choke on. His wet mouth bobbed up and down on Leroy's dick, his fist stroking it to full length. Leroy would've been happy enough to pop a load down Mitch's throat before moving on with the rest of his morning, but Mitch wanted something else. He wanted Leroy to fuck him.

Mitch took his pants off and wiggled his ass at Leroy. "You want some of this?"

Leroy knew Mitch would've sucked a load out of him if he insisted, but Mitch's pussy looked good. "Yeah, whiteboi," he seethed, sitting up, gripping his cock in his hand. "You gon' get some of this fat black pipe up in you right now. Imma get my mornin' nut inside yo' whiteboi pussy."

Leroy's fingers and tongue began exploring Mitch's hole, and he couldn't help noticing something was different. His ass was slightly looser than he remembered, and perhaps a little pinker than he expected. Either Mitch had been practicing with his toys, or he'd been penetrated very recently. Leroy put two and two together. "You hung with my boy Tyrone las' night, right?"

Mitch nodded, admitting this was true. "How can you tell?"

"Well, firs' of all, I see you in the fuckin' lobby of our building at dawn o'clock on a Monday morning, but secondly, yo' pussy looks like it's been in an accident."

Mitch couldn't lie. "Tyrone fucked me last night."

"And he's the reason you' got this fat hickey on yo' neck?"

Mitch nodded. "Does that matter?"

Leroy had suspected this was what happened, but hearing it confirmed hurt just a little, and he was surprised at how he felt. He couldn't explain to himself what he was feeling. Was it jealousy? Wordlessly, he manhandled Mitch up onto all-fours, gripped his hips, and fucked him hard. He slid in a little more easily than usual, and as he ran his dark, heavy, tattooed hands up and down Mitch's back, he heard him moan.

"Fuck, Leroy, your fat, beautiful cock feels so good in my pussy."

Leroy wasn't in the mood for a slow, long fuck, he just wanted to get his nut and move on with his day. "Gon' shoot up in you."

Mitch looked back over his right shoulder. He wanted to watch Leroy's face as he unloaded inside him. He felt the big black dick in his ass began to thicken, stretching his anal walls, and he knew what was about to happen. He reached back to cup Leroy's balls, and he felt them begin to tighten in his palm. "I'm so addicted to your dick, Leroy."

Mitch's words failed to register. Leroy roared as he fired millions of ghetto babies into Mitch's hungry pussy.

As Mitch felt Leroy's dick flood his guts, he touched his clitty, whimpered like a girl, and delicately sprinkled the bedsheets.

Leroy pulled out, and they lay still on Leroy's mattress for just a few moments. Mitch tried to catch his breath. There was no conversation or intimacy.

The carnival was over. "You' bes' be goin' soon now, whiteboi," Leroy announced.

Mitch knew he'd served his purpose. "Yeah ... OK ... can I use the bathroom first?" he asked.

Leroy knew why. "Sure you can. Then, like I said, you' bes' be goin'. I got shit to do."

Mitch's head was spinning. He'd been warmly invited up to Leroy's crib, but now, after being this morning's receptacle for Leroy's load, he felt unwelcome in his day. He climbed off the mattress and stood up, feeling a thick, warm liquid dribbling down his thighs. What had changed? He headed to the bathroom, locked the door, and forcibly shat as much of Leroy's load out of his ass as he could. He sat on the bowl for a second or two, recovering, trying to work out whether Leroy's attitude toward him had changed after he said he spent last night with Tyrone.

It had, but Mitch didn't know why.

After wiping his puffy, gaped ass, he stood up and looked at his reflection in the mirror. There was no way to hide the vicious bruise on his neck. After Leroy's intervention, it looked twice as nasty as before. He knew people would notice it on the subway, and while he was prepared to be the subject of stares, at least he knew he wouldn't get questions. But he knew he'd cross paths with his wife sooner or later, and he knew she'd have questions of her own.

He dressed and prepared to leave Leroy's crib. His host leaned in for a quick, friendly hug, but there was no further discussion of any significance. Leroy gave the impression of having things to do and people to meet, and that even though he'd invited Mitch up to his crib, he'd served his purpose, and was now a minor inconvenience to be swept aside.

Mitch closed the door behind him, feeling a little numb. Something had changed, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He wondered if things might've been different if he and Leroy didn't cross paths this morning. He shrugged, knowing that hypothetical questions only ever led to hypothetical answers.

He called the elevator and rode down to the ground floor. Stepping out onto the street, he heard the bustle of Harlem surround him. He stopped at a nearby café and ordered a coffee and a bagel, sitting down a little gingerly. His freshly-fucked pussy still felt tender. He wasn't working today, so he had nowhere to be and nothing to do. He took his time. He ate his breakfast while flipping through yesterday's copy of the Times, occasionally looking up from the printed page and out into the street, watching the people and the traffic.

He finished his bagel and drained his coffee, preparing to head back to his apartment. He didn't think of it as 'home' anymore. His apartment no longer felt permanent, and neither did the person he coinhabited with. Something needed to change. He still loved his wife as a friend, but he didn't think of her as his partner anymore. In Mitch's mind, they were housemates now; friends who happened to share the same bed out of necessity. Their days of cohabitation were numbered. Either Trina needed to move out, or he did.

As he walked down 125th street towards the station, he passed a tattoo parlour. He stopped for a moment outside, thinking. He looked up at the awning and read the name of the business.

'Black Ink.'

Fucking perfect.

He thought about the tattoos Leroy and Tyrone wore on their skins. How sexy their permanent markings looked; how they glistened in the sweaty heat of a warm day; how much they made him stare at them, wanting to feel their fat, juicy black dicks inside his BBC-obsessed holes.

He'd never considered getting a tattoo before, but then again, he'd never considered getting a nose piercing either. Trina still hated that, but he didn't care about her opinion anymore.

He went inside. He already knew what he wanted. A Jack of Spades tattoo, in the middle of his right ass-cheek.

He knew exactly what it meant: a marking that would forever identify him as a submissive male who was devoted to serving superior, black alpha men with big black cocks.

This was his life now. He was owned.

He picked out the design he wanted from a booklet before discussing the size and position of his tattoo with the artist. He explained that this was his first ever tattoo, and he asked a few innocent questions about what he could expect. Twenty minutes later, he was lying face down on a cot, his ass cheek shaved and disinfected. A stencil of the design he wanted was overlaid on his ass, and his pants were pulled down to just below the bottom of his cheeks. He thought again about how many tatts Leroy and Tyrone wore, and how sexy they looked. He'd heard tattoos hurt, but surely they couldn't hurt *that* much. In any case, he thought the pain would be worth it.

The tattoo artist asked if Mitch was ready. He thought a Jack of Spades was an unusual choice for anyone on a sober Monday morning, especially for someone's first ever inking, but he shrugged, remembering that the customer is always right. The man with the needle was straight as a gunbarrel; he had no interest in examining Mitch's ass any more than what was required to get the task done.

All Mitch could smell right now was heavy chemicals.

The tattoo artist asked Mitch to try to hold still, knowing that as soon as his needle his Mitch's tender, sensitive skin, there'd be recoil.

The last thing Mitch remembered before the onslaught of pain began was hearing Rage Against The Machine.

It felt like someone was slowly and methodically scraping the top layers of Mitch's skin away. It hurt so fucking much, but he tried hard to feel calm and to lie still. This was the most intense pain Mitch had ever felt in his life -- those searing spanks Tyrone and Leroy delivered to his ass a few weeks ago were nothing on this. But the process had started, the first few lines of black ink were underneath his skin now, and he knew he had to see it though. Ain't nothin' more shameful than an incomplete tattoo, especially following a weak tap-out. He needed to be brave.

Fifteen excruciating minutes later, the needle was taken away. "Phew!" exclaimed Mitch. "You're finished?"

The tattoo artist casually explained that all he'd done so far was the outline. Fuck. Mitch braced for more pain. 'If that was just the outline,' he thought to himself, 'imagine what it's gonna feel like when ...'

The tattoo artist went back to work and the searing pain recommenced. Mitch breathed deeply, trying to think about something else. He tried thinking about work, he tried thinking about where he grew up, he tried thinking about his most recent vacation, he tried thinking about all the math he learned at school but had since forgotten, but it was impossible to think about anything but the sensation of a million tiny needles visiting his flesh with perpetual agony.

The tattoo artist took a short break to refocus. "Could I have some water, please?" asked Mitch. He wasn't particularly thirsty, even though his mouth was dry; the motivation for his request was to seek a short reprieve from the pain. A staff member brought him a plastic cup of water. He looked up at her, 10 o'clock on a Monday morning, the chemical smell of the studio invading his nostrils. She was young; she couldn't have been any older than nineteen. Maybe she was learning the craft. He counted ten facial piercings and six or seven tattoos on her, but he suspected there were more of each covered by her clothing. He wondered if her clit was pierced, and he wondered if he'd feel more inclined to fuck Trina if she was ... pierced ... down there ... but no, this was fucking insane ... he'd gladly give this nineteen year old chick the most disappointingly anonymous semi-flaccid fuck of her life, but he knew she had no interest in him, and that's exactly how he felt about Trina: he didn't want her anymore either.

But he couldn't get the fantasy out of his mind -- he wanted to fuck this nineteen-year-old chick so badly, even though he knew it'd never happen. He knew she wouldn't be into thirty-year-old men, especially not ones who were getting the Jack of Spades tattooed on their ass. But as the skin of his ass cheek was battered into submission, he looked up at her. Something about his ass cheek being hammered relentlessly into bloody submission made him feel horny as fuck. She locked eyes with him and licked her lips, as if she wanted to suck his dick.