Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 12

Brontë took Mitch by the hand as he opened the door to paradise.

Brontë's bedroom was dark, but there was enough light bleeding in from the street for them to still see each other. They stood side by side, next to Brontë's king-size bed.

"You sure you want to be here right now, Mitch?" asked Brontë.

"There isn't anywhere on earth I'd rather be. Why, don't you want me?"

Brontë felt conflicted. "I just need you to know, Mitch, before we go too far, that... well... I can be quite dominant in bed."

Dominance was exactly what Mitch wanted. He wrapped his arms around Brontë's neck. "You fucked my face in the bathroom at MoMA like you wanted to poke a hole in the back of my neck, and then you fucked my skull just as hard in some stinky Midtown alley. Did I complain? Do you think I'd be here if I didn't want this?"

"Yeah," breathed Brontë, "I know what you mean, but it's easy to treat someone like a ragdoll when you don't know them." He took a breath. "Things are a little different now."

Mitch moved his lips to Brontë's. They kissed, and Mitch's tongue forced its way deep into Brontë's mouth. Their kiss ended, but a thin string of saliva connected their mouths. "I agree with you," Mitch said, his eyelids droopy with lust. "Things are a little different now."

Brontë waited.

"I want you inside me so fucking bad, Brontë. Please. I want you to fuck me."

They kissed again, slowly and languidly, yet forcefully. Mitch grabbed Brontë's stiff cock through his pants. He sank to his knees, unzipped Brontë's pants and extracted seven and a half inches of meat. He took Brontë's BBC into his mouth, but only just to get it wet.

Mitch looked up with hungry eyes. "You got any lube?" he asked.

"Sure. Wait a second," said Brontë. "But are you sure you can take me? Like, I know I'm not small."

"Let's find out," Mitch teased. "I took you in my mouth, so I think I can take you in my pussy." Mitch thought about Leroy's nine inches and Tyrone's ten, plus the numerous times he'd fucked himself with his plastic BBC that was slightly bigger than Brontë's fat cock. He didn't want to boast; he didn't want to say 'I've had way bigger'. That would've destroyed the mood. He kept his past anonymous. "We're all good, dude. But just go slow. You're big, but I think I can take you."

"Can I eat you out first?"

"Oh my god." Mitch couldn't believe this was happening.

Brontë lay Mitch down on his mattress, slowly undressing him from the waist down. He noticed Mitch's sexy stripy femboy socks. "These are cute, Mitch," he said. "I love your socks."

Mitch whimpered.

Brontë took Mitch's femboy socks off, but only because he wanted to suck on his toes.

Mitch lay on his back. His dicklet was tingling.

Brontë looked at Mitch's dick. It was tiny, but cute. He gave Mitch's small ballsack a light hug and he heard Mitch gasp in response.

He started with Mitch's little toes, sucking them into his mouth, teasing them with his fat tongue. Nobody had ever kissed Mitch's feet before, and he wasn't sure how to feel or react. He enjoyed the sensation, but his soles were ticklish, and he was trying hard not to laugh or squirm. But by the time Brontë mouth and tongue had made it up from his feet to his thighs, Mitch was losing his mind. His cock was semi-erect, and a thick pool of precum had formed.

By the time Brontë lifted Mitch's ass up off the mattress and jammed his tongue deep into his pussy, he couldn't help himself. His dicklet spasmed and twitched as a small watery load of cum dribbled out of his tiny penis. As he looked down at Brontë's face buried in his ass, he moaned.

"By the way, I love your tattoo," Brontë said, touching Mitch's spent white dicklet.

Mitch wanted to hear him say it. "What do you mean?"

"Jack of Spades. I know what it symbolises," Brontë replied, "and I know what it implies. It implies subservience, but to me, it just means you're into black dick. I think it's beautiful. And you don't ever need to feel subservient to me." Brontë's tongue gave Mitch's marking a loving kiss before returning to his hole. "Fuck, your tender white ass is so fucking delicious and fat." He gave Mitch's cheeks a loving slap.

Mitch knew his ass was getting fatter, though he didn't know why. "It's all yours," he whispered, "if you want it."

The next thing Mitch felt was seven and a half inches of big black cock tunnelling deep into his hungry pussy. It sank into him slowly, like molten lava. He knew he'd taken bigger slabs of meat, but there was something perfectly indescribable about feeling Brontë's BBC penetrating him for the first time.

As Brontë kissed him, Mitch felt like he was losing his anal virginity all over again.

Their eyes met in the darkness, and they felt each other's breath.

Mitch felt the warmth of Brontë's fat black dick inside him... he felt Brontë's torso lean forward on top of him, enveloping him, suffocating him, weighing down upon him... he felt drops of Brontë's sweat landing on his chest... he felt Brontë slowly beginning to piston inside him, getting deeper and deeper with each thrust... he felt Brontë's mouth sucking hard on his neck... "uhh, fuck, Brontë, you feel so good"... "fuck, Mitch, your pussy is so sweet"... "fuck me slow, Brontë"... "it's so hard, babe, you're gonna make me lose my shit"... "dude, your cock feels perfect inside my cunt, just hold it there"... "I can feel your hole pulsing around my shaft, dude, have you done this before?"... "I'll tell you later, Brontë"... "fuck, Mitch, I can't hold it back, I think I'm gonna cum"... "do it, cum inside me, Brontë, I want to feel you nut up in my pussy"...

With both hands, Mitch grabbed Brontë's frame and pulled it down on top of him, holding him close, kissing him deeply. He felt Brontë's body twitch and collapse as he shot load after load after load of potent sperm way up into Mitch's digestive tract. It felt so fucking good. If Mitch was female, they'd be having triplets in nine months.

Mitch was so fucking close, but he didn't quite get there.

Brontë breathed heavily, weighing down on Mitch before rolling off. "That felt so powerful, dude," he said. He'd never fucked someone slow like that before.

Mitch held Brontë close to him. Even though he didn't cum again, the feeling of connection more than compensated for his lack of a second orgasm.

And then he felt a hand wrap itself around his shaft... and then a mouth.

Brontë's face was impaled on his tiny dicklet. For a moment, Mitch stopped breathing.

Mitch felt the pressure build immediately, like the wall of a dam about to crack.

"No, Brontë, stop, wait, take your mouth off..."

It was too late. Mitch's cock exploded in Brontë's mouth like a firehose going off. The first rope felt like a stream, like he was literally pissing cum into Brontë's throat. Brontë coughed and gagged in response as Mitch's load began to spill out of his gaping mouth. Mitch's cock kept twitching and pumping, eventually drenching Brontë's face and mouth with six, eight, maybe ten thick pulses of fluid.

As Mitch's unexpectedly powerful orgasm subsided, he felt the need to apologise. "Fuck, Brontë, I'm so sorry." The bedsheets were completely soaked.

Brontë coughed and wiped his face with a nearby towel. He couldn't work out how balls that small could shoot that much nut. He'd never seen anyone cum that hard or that much, like, ever. Not even in porn. "Dude, you could've warned me!"

"Fuck, Brontë, like... I honestly didn't expect that to happen. Usually when I cum, it's thin and watery. Just like earlier when you ate my pussy. I came, but it was a weak dribble. I only ever cum hard in dreams."

Brontë blew his nose -- there was semen in his nostrils.

"This must be a dream," Mitch continued.

"If it's a dream," Brontë replied, "I'm not sure how much I liked that last part." He blew his nose again.

Mitch looked down at his tiny, flaccid dick. He could barely even see it anymore. He couldn't understand what just happened. Neither of the two Harlem thugs had ever blown him, but he wondered what might happen if they ever did.

"Lemme rephrase that last part, Mitch. I loved spending time with you tonight. I loved kissing you, I loved fuckin' your beautiful pussy, and I loved eating you out. Everything apart from getting drenched at the end was perfect. But next time I put your dick in my mouth, Imma have an umbrella handy."

Mitch smiled wide. His heart was on fire. He didn't want to leave, but he had work tomorrow. "I have to go."

"Wait, dude, wait," Brontë urged. "Was it something I said just now?"

"No, Brontë. Everything you said was beautiful. It's just that I need to be back in the office tomorrow morning."

"You could stay here? I mean, if you wanted to, that is?"

"I don't have any office clothes with me," Mitch replied. "Dress standards are a little relaxed on Fridays, but not to the level where I could rock up wearing my DMC tee."

Brontë understood. "Well, if you have to go, that's cool. Can I ring you?"

Mitch grinned. "I'd love that. Call me anytime. The three day rule no longer applies."

Mitch got dressed and they hugged goodbye.

"Oh, wait a second!" Brontë said. "Before you go, I got somethin' for you. Think of it as a present, but don't open it until you get home." Brontë handed Mitch a parcel, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string.

"Thank you," breathed Mitch.

Mitch walked to the subway station and caught the train home. It was close to midnight, yet the subway was still crowded. New York City never slept.

He held Brontë's gift close to his chest.

He made it home and took a quick shower before opening the parcel.

It was the triangle from the art gallery. It came with a handwritten note: 'This is so you never forget tonight. -- Brontë'

Mitch shed a tear. He picked up his phone and texted Brontë. 'I'll never forget tonight. Thank you so much for the gift. It's perfect from every ANGLE.' He added a red love-heart emoji and didn't for a second regret his terribly unfunny joke.

'No sweat,' came Brontë's reply.

Mitch climbed into bed and slept a sweet, peaceful sleep. He'd hang the triangle on his wall tomorrow night after work.