Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 10

For the first time, Jada's facial expression softened. "Not to them, you ain't." Her brow furrowed again. "And you' best think better of yo'self, whiteboi. You' right, these boys are kings o' the mo'fuckin' streets, and if they got you in their sights, you be sure you' a li'l bit more than nothin' and nobody."

Mitch smiled. "Thank you, Jada," he said, calling the waitress by her first name for the first time. "I don't know what to do next."

"I'll tell you what to do next, whiteboi. This gon' be hard, but listen closely. What you do next is nothin'. You stay out of circulation. You let them get a fresh grip on their emotions. You let them recover."

"What if they don't?" worried Mitch.

"They' gonna," Jada smiled. "I' known 'em longer 'n you. I' seen this shit befo'; only thing different this time is yo' fat ass is in the frame. Shit's gon' work out, whiteboi. Just give them time and space. They' gon' work it out. Truss me." She paused for a moment before heading back to work. "Oh, and one other las' thing. The longer you keep yo' distance, the more they' gon' fuckin' want you."

Mitch felt nervously optimistic. It felt like the author of his life had started writing a new chapter, one without Trina in the foreground. All he could do right now was trust in Jada's unexpected advice. He stood to leave. "Thank you so much for what you said. Can I have a hug?"

"Sure you can, whiteboi." She stood and embraced him. "One las' thing befo' you go. See a fuckin' doctor, I'm worried about yo' sperm count."

Mitch smiled, not committing either way. "Thank you for everything you said."

"And also for the blowjob, right?"

Mitch laughed. "Especially for the blowjob."

"My mouf pretty fuckin' fine, ain't it?" Jada laughed.

"I've only got one other mouth to compare to, and yeah, you're way better than Trina."

Jada laughed. "Yeah, you need to fuck her fake-ass titties instead of her mouf. Get the fuck outta here, whiteboi. Shit's gon' work out. Just give it time."

Mitch left the bar, feeling unusually clear-headed given how much alcohol he'd consumed. He strode across Harlem towards the subway, but paused after a couple of blocks. He looked back at the building where Leroy and Tyrone lived, in separate apartments. He wondered what they were doing and feeling. He felt for them, barely able to imagine the emotional pain they were experiencing right now.

With a heavy heart, he caught the express train back down to 86th street. He grabbed some takeout Chinese from a street vendor before heading upstairs. He turned the air conditioning on, sat on the couch and watched some TV, just to hear some background noise while he ate. After a quick shower, he climbed between the sheets.

He lubed his ass up and turned his laptop on. He logged on and found one of his favourite scenes. A chick with ridiculously huge fake plastic tits was on her knees, surrounded by ten BBCs. He forced the dildo into his tight pussy, feeling the intoxicating combination of pleasure and pain that came with anal penetration. He began fucking himself, but he couldn't get into the mood. There was way too much on his mind. He felt intense waves of sadness for two people he'd begun to care about deeply. He had no idea his innocent story would land so hard.

He squeezed the dildo out of his ass and lobbed it onto the floor. He'd clean it up in a second.

Mitch struggled to make sense of what he'd learned tonight. Sure, he'd accepted that the relationship between Tyrone and Leroy wasn't the emotional paradise it appeared to be. Like anyone in a close relationship, they each experienced mood swings, and they fought. But what Mitch observed tonight wasn't a fight. In a moment of terror, he thought the situation could turn to fire, but instead it froze over. There were no angry words; instead, Mitch saw avoidance and withdrawal.

Did that point to a strength in their connection, or to a weakness? Mitch reflected on his own relationship with Trina. He didn't enjoy arguing with her, and when Trina stepped forward in confrontation, most of the time, he stepped back. Did that make him a stronger person? He doubted it. Projecting his own perceived weakness onto his Harlem buddies, he wondered just how strong they truly were inside.

Jada had told him that they weren't gay. Mitch had heard the same thing from them, more than once. But neither of them seemed to have any reservations about fucking *him*, so how the fuck did *that* add up? Mitch wasn't hung up on labels. He knew he wasn't straight: he was deeply addicted to hot black dudes. But he wasn't totally gay either: while he didn't want to fuck his wife anymore, he was still attracted to the female form, and his most recent sexual encounter had been with Jada's juicy mouth. So what did that make him? He didn't care, and it didn't matter to him, but maybe identity mattered to people like Tyrone and Leroy. Maybe the hood they lived in was a factor. Maybe their jobs were part of the story: from the little he knew about their line of work, they had personas to uphold.

Mitch cleaned his dildo and took a quick shower before returning to bed and switching out the light. He stared at the ceiling for an hour, lost in thought about where his life had been, where it was right now, where it might lead, and what he could do to bring Tyrone and Leroy closer together.

After tonight's events, his mind was far too active for sleep, and he needed to find a way to wind down. He reached across to his bedside table and grabbed his phone. After scrolling through a few audio hypno clips, he found the one he was looking for and pressed play.

A seductive voice began to tease and tickle his auditory senses. As the hypnotic suggestions began to land, Mitch's breathing slowly became deeper, fuller and smoother. He enjoyed feeling his mental state begin to slow down. He exhaled deeply as the anxiety he'd stored up earlier in the night began to leave his body.

He drifted into a trance, and as he followed the suggestions in the audio, he found himself completely fixated on big black cock. His mind cycled through a mental portfolio of BBCs he'd seen in porn that he'd love to suck in real life. He picked one at random, imagining the pornstar as a tall, muscly dark-skinned basketball player having just come off the court following a tough game. He imagined kneeling down in front of him. In his trance, he smelled fresh, masculine sweat as he pulled the dark imaginary cock closer to his face. He opened his mouth and felt a thick, weighty fullness on his tongue. He felt the awkward sensation in his jaw as it stretched wide to accommodate the length and girth of the beautiful imaginary penis. He heard the sweet, satisfied moans of the imaginary basketball player standing above him, and he felt his eyes beginning to water with the effort required to fellate a penis of this size.

All five of his senses exploded as the imaginary BBC shot its sweet, sticky ghetto babies into Mitch's mouth.

Just before the audio clip ended, Mitch jacked himself to a sweet climax. The last thing he thought about before falling asleep was the scent, feel and taste of a thick, sweet load being fired onto his eager, outstretched tongue, and all over his face.

It was still hot outside, though his apartment was crisply cool, and Mitch fell asleep as his weak emission dried quickly on his stomach. He woke up a few hours later, desperate for a pee. It was still dark outside, sunrise was still a few hours away. As he stood over the bowl, emptying his bladder, he scratched flecks of dried semen off his stomach, watching them flutter down.

He went back to bed, eyes still groggy.

He dreamed.

He dreamed he was sitting on a wooden bench, facing a gray slab of concrete squeezed between two high-density residential buildings. He was the only person around, and he wasn't sure why he was here. White lines had been painted on the concrete, but he wasn't sure what they signified. He looked around the area, but saw nothing of interest.

Looking back at the concrete, he noticed a one-on-one basketball game was in progress. He couldn't make out who the players were, but they weren't exactly playing for keeps -- the game seemed informal and friendly.

Something in his dream told Mitch that the game had been in progress for some time and would shortly come to an end. Both players had worked up a serious sweat.

Both dudes were wearing caps. One player was wearing a Bulls singlet, with long dreads threaded through the back of his cap. Each of his arms were tattooed from the shoulder to the wrist. His biceps looked sculpted and firm, and Mitch had a strange, dream-like premonition that his nipples were pierced. The other player had removed his t-shirt, and Mitch could see the gold bling bouncing around his neck and off his naked chest as he moved around the court. His forearms were muscly, and even from a distance, Mitch noticed his nose was pierced.

The dude in the Bulls singlet had sweated so heavily the fabric was stuck to his chest. Sweat was pouring off the pecs of the shirtless guy -- maybe this was why he'd taken his top off and thrown the fabric courtside.

It slowly dawned on Mitch that he was somewhere in Harlem, watching Leroy versus Tyrone in a friendly game of street basketball. They talked as they played, but even though Mitch could hear their voices, he couldn't make out what either of them were saying to each other.

Tyrone had the ball, lazily dribbling it as he considered how to evade Leroy's guard in his drive towards the hoop. His back was facing toward Leroy, which hid the ball from his opponent, but it also gave him a close-up view of Tyrone's ass.

Leroy moved in, getting as close to Tyrone as possible. The aim was to block and physically intimidate his opponent as much as possible without committing a foul.

Leroy reached out and grabbed his opponent's ass, squeezing his cheek. In his dream, Mitch knew this was a clear foul, but the game was informal, and Tyrone continued dribbling the ball.

For the first time, Mitch heard dialogue. "You' gon' need to do better than that, my bruh. You ain't gon' beat me just by gropin' my ass."

Leroy laughed. "Good thing we ain't got a shot clock, dude, feels like you' been dribbling for fi' fuckin' minutes. You gon' take a fuckin' shot before the sun sets, or you jus' gon' keep dribblin'? Because if you ain't gon' take a shot, Imma keep gropin' you' ass."

"You hear me complainin'?" Tyrone replied.

Leroy reached around to try to steal the basketball from Tyrone's possession, but failed. Tyrone's back was still facing Leroy, who couldn't see his opponent's wide grin. "Go 'head, do that again," taunted Tyrone. "You ain't gon' get it, bro."

It was an informal game between two good friends. Not only was there no shot clock, but there was no referee, and Leroy decided to resort to some unprofessional tactics.

He grabbed Tyrone's shorts at the waist and yanked them down to his ankles. The basketball bounced away and off the court.

Leroy's opponent turned around in complete surprise. His fat ten-inch penis hung low, almost as low as his knees.

From the wooden bench, Mitch watched on.

Leroy sank to his knees and swallowed the entire length of Tyrone's cock.

Mitch looked down at his groin. He pulled the waistline of his pants down just far enough so he could jerk off.

When he looked back up at the court, Tyrone and Leroy were completely naked, lying down on the concrete in a 69 position, their sweaty black cocks buried in each other's mouths. And it wasn't only Leroy who was a sword-swallower; Tyrone sucked his bro's nine inches deep enough into his throat that his tongue was able to lick the underside of his balls.

Mitch watched, masturbating furiously to the sight of these sweaty, sexy, huge-dicked basketball players, sucking each other off on a public basketball court in the middle of Harlem, not caring who saw them.

Their climaxes came quietly and simultaneously. They nutted in each other's mouths, grateful to eat each other's seed.

In Mitch's dream, he dribbled a watery load over his knuckles.

In reality, his orgasm was violent enough to wake him up. He threw back the bedsheets to see what he'd done.

He'd cum so hard he'd painted the sheets a crisp, milky white.

Mitch's mind was still reeling as he recalled imagery from his dream of Tyrone and Leroy sucking each other's sweaty black cocks, desperate to eat each other's nut. With two fingers, he scooped some of his own cum off the sheets and sucked it onto his tongue. It was thick, creamy and delicious.

He remembered the last time he dreamed about these two sexy black thugs, and how hard he nutted. Tonight, it happened again. He couldn't work out why his 'real life' loads were so weak and pathetic, but lately, whenever he climaxed as a result of a dream, his load was full and thick, rich with potent sperm.

It was a question for another day.

Fuck, he was tired. His balls felt empty.