Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 13

Brontë couldn't help looking in the direction of the bathroom door, but he sensed this was an important conversation. "About last night. I just wanna tell you I couldn't believe how much you came. I've never seen anything like that before."

"I know!" Mitch agreed enthusiastically, nearly jumping off his stool. "Me too! I mean, you've seen how tiny my dick is and how small my balls are ..."

"They're not tiny or small," Brontë interrupted, "they're cute."

"...so I can't understand how I came so much last night. Where the fuck did it all come from?"

They sat silently for a moment. Neither of them had an answer.

Mitch took a mouthful of his Harlem River ale before beginning his confession. "Sometimes, I have dreams about big black cocks. Like, I'm completely fucking obsessed with black dick. I watch a lot of BBC porn, and I think you might need to know this about me. I've probably already mentioned it, but if I haven't, I guess you know now. You've seen the tattoo on my ass, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. I have a lot of whiteboi sex when I'm at home. You know what that is, right? I fuck myself while I'm watching BBC porn or listening to BBC audio hypno clips, imagining I'm being destroyed by someone like Mandingo. I spend hours fucking myself in the darkness. Your dick is big, but I've got some long, fat dildos hidden in my sock drawer, which is probably why I can take you. I'm not gonna say Delta could park their planes in my ass, but I guess I've done my homework. I climax every time I fuck myself, but my loads are thin, watery and small. I've tasted myself more than once, and I taste like nothing. My cum has less flavour than water. But like I said, I have dreams, and some of them have been vivid and intensely sexual. And in my dreams, my loads are immense. Either I cum inside my dream, or I wake up, jerk myself off, and absolutely drench myself. Like, there's so much cum that most of the time I need to take a shower and change the bedsheets. But it only ever happens when I'm dreaming about big black cocks, except for last night. Even though last night felt like a dream, I knew it was real."

Brontë listened quietly, taking it all in. "When you ... umm ... exploded in my face last night ... it didn't taste like water. Like, not even close to it. I can't explain what it tasted like, but if I had to guess, I'd say you tasted like a rainbow."

Mitch blushed. He had no idea how to respond. The bar continued to pulse and move around them.

Brontë cleared his throat. "I don't know how you shot so much rainbow cum out of your cute penis - *not* tiny or small, but cute -- but I'd love to experience that again."

"Did I taste better than the sprouts?"

Brontë grinned. "The sprouts were good, but ... yes."

Mitch moved a little closer. "You said you were gonna take me to a movie tonight, right?"

Brontë checked his watch. "Well, yeah, I guess that was the plan, but it's half past nine, we've had dinner, we've had a few beers, and I reckon the cinemas would've already started their final sessions for the night by now."

"No problem," said Mitch, "and I promise I won't sue for breach of contract. But just out of curiosity, what movie were you going to take me to?"

"I hadn't thought that far 'head," Brontë confessed. "To be hones', all I wanted to do was to spend a couple of hours in the dark with you."

Mitch's jaw fell open in surprise. He finished the rest of his beer and began to gather his belongings. "Can we leave soon? I know Harlem is a long drive from here, but I'm paying for the cab. Please take me to your place. I need you to fuck me tonight."

In the middle of the bar, Mitch leaned across and buried his tongue in Brontë's mouth. Brontë's immediate reaction was shock, followed by surprise, followed by 'is it OK to kiss a man in public in a bar in the Financial District?', followed by 'I don't give a fuck, I'm kissin' this fine-ass sexy whiteboi anyway.'

Brontë reached down to gently stroke one of Mitch's legs.

The waitress noticed the two men kissing. She thought the sexy femboy with the stripy tights was cute, and she knew he was gonna fuckin' get it tonight.

Brontë settled the check and they left. After a few short minutes, they found a taxi. They sat on the back seat, behaving themselves quietly and politely as their cab headed north.

Everyone who ever sat on the back seat of a New York City taxicab has a story, and Mitch had a killer.

*

It wasn't hard for Tyrone to find a cab. Harlem was still buzzing, and people were on the move.

He barked his directions at the driver. "218th and 9th."

The driver looked over his shoulder at his passenger. "Are you fuckin' serious?"

Tyrone held up $150 in cash. "You want this? Then drive, motherfucker."

The cabbie floored it, muttering something his passenger couldn't hear. Tyrone stared out the window, watching his neighbourhood fly by.

Half an hour later, he arrived at his destination. He threw the bills at the driver and slammed the door. The car sped away. He heard the muted hum of traffic on the expressway on the other side of the river, but other than that, everything was quiet. The evening was warm, but the air was still.

"Leroy!" he hollered, and he heard his voice bouncing off walls and buildings. There was no response. He began walking east, toward the river. "Dude!" he yelled. "It's yo' boy, Tyrone!" His deep, booming voice reverberated. "Where's you at, mo'fucker?"

Still no response.

"Leroy!" he boomed once more. He whistled loudly.

In the distance, he heard a male voice. "Hey!" It must've been a block away, but he wasn't sure yet if it was Leroy's voice. Tyrone turned to follow where he thought the voice came from.

It was dark, and Tyrone stumbled a little as he tried to find his way, almost tripping over a fence. "Leroy?" he yelled. "Where the fuck are you?"

"Over here." Leroy couldn't see shit. His eyes were still red and puffy from crying, but eventually he heard heavy footsteps approaching.

Tyrone sat down next to him. "Hey, dude." Through the darkness, Tyrone noticed Leroy was wearing a cap and some chains around his neck. He logged Leroy's strong, muscly forearms, encased by the tight black t-shirt he was wearing.

"Hey," Leroy replied. He glanced across at his bruh. It was dark, but he could tell Tyrone was wearing his favourite Chicago Bulls basketball singlet. Leroy noticed Tyrone's firm, sculpted biceps, and the sexy, thick dreads that cascaded down his back. "Thanks for comin' so fuckin' far uptown," he said, "I 'ppreciate it, tho' I don't know why you're here."

They could hear each other breathing. Their bodies didn't touch in any way.

"If you came up here to say g'bye," Leroy continued, "that's coo', and I get it. But we can't be friends no more." He paused for a second. "You know that, right? We can't be friends no more. Not after last night."

"Yes we can, dude. I's been worried about you all fuckin' day. I called you a thousand fuckin' times, goddamn it."

"You don't need to worry about me," Leroy said. "I'm good."

"Don' you fuckin' lie to me, dude," Tyrone exploded. "We' known each other fo' too fuckin' long for bullshit like that. I can fuckin' tell you ain't. I mean, why's you all the way up here at the river? I was worried you' be doin' somethin' fuckin' stupid."

Leroy gestured toward the Harlem River. "If I was gon' kill myself tonight, I could think of more dramatic ways to do it than by wading into that fuckin' cesspool and waitin' patiently for an ear infection to kill me."

He knew he was lying, both to Tyrone and to himself. Suicidal thoughts had definitely crossed his mind tonight.

They sat silently, side by side for a few moments. Leroy looked at the patch of earth beneath him, running his fingers through the grass. "Like I said befo', I don't know what the fuck you're doin' up here, Tyrone."

"I don' know what you' doin' here either," Tyrone replied. "We' both got somethin' in common, we' both a long fuckin' way from home right now, ain't we."

"Like I said," Leroy continued, "we can't be bros no more," said Leroy. "After what I said las' night, and after yo' reaction ..."

"Course we can, dude," Tyrone interrupted. He threw an arm around Leroy's neck. "And I feel the need to revise last night's intemperate remarks."

Tyrone pulled Leroy closer and kissed him gently on the lips.

Leroy was stunned. "Wait, no."

"Wait, yes," Tyrone replied. On a nondescript patch of earth on the banks of the Harlem River, adjacent to the subway depot, two thugs kissed each other again, tentatively, on the lips. "You still love me, bruh?" whispered Tyrone. His breath was close and sweet. "You said you did las' night. Please don' fuckin' let me down."

Leroy felt uncertain. "You know what I meant by what I said last night, right?"

"Yeah, dude," Tyrone whispered, gazing into Leroy's eyes through the darkness. "I know exactly what you meant. An' there ain't no mistakin' what this is no more."

Leroy pressed his lips against Tyrone's, and he melted as his bro opened his mouth wide to accept his fat tongue. He dragged his plump, juicy lips down to Tyrone's neck, sucking hard on his sexy tattoos.

"I regret what I said las' night about whiteboi," Tyrone continued, nervously beginning to ramble. "I shouldn't have said that shit. I ain' got no feelins for him, and I don' know why I said I did. I guess I was in denial 'bout you. If I never see whiteboi 'gain for the res' of my life, I don't really give a fuck. It ain't easy for me to say I got feelins for a close brother, 'cuz I ain't never felt like this befo' in my life 'bout anyone else, an' I'm sure it wouldn't have been easy for you to say what you said las' night, but fuck, dude, I mean ..."

Tyrone couldn't bring himself to say the words just yet.

Leroy waited silently, giving Tyrone all the time and space he needed. He felt this was about to become the most important conversation of his life.

"I ain't never loved nobody in my life except my own fuckin' mom," continued Tyrone. "Never said 'I love you' to nobody. I ain't never had no bitch. Never wanted one. Fuck, dude, why would I, when I got this ten-inch cannon in my pants, and erryone knows what I'm packin'? Why the fuck would I ever wanna let myself get tied down to one bitch when I' got exclusive fuckin' VIP access-all-areas to all the fuckin' pussy I could ever want? But you were 100% correct last night, my special bro. Holes ain't love, and I fuckin' knew that since forever. Somethin's been missin', an' I think I figured out today what it was."

Tyrone paused. Leroy's heart was about to burst.

"It's you, my sweet dude. You' been missin' from me. I ... I fuckin' love you, bro, you' my fuckin' soulmate, and we be inseparable. I thought all day today what my life would be like without you in it, and truth, dude, I'd prolly be up here contemplatin' the very idea of existence too, 'cause shit don't make no fuckin' sense without you."

"I spent today throwing up," Leroy confessed. "Well, that's not completely true. Most of the day was spent comatose in bed, but the room spun when I woke up."

"Was that 'cause of me?" asked Tyrone.

"Well, 'cause of vodka, mostly. But las' night was the most painful shit ever."

Tyrone kissed his bro on the cheek. "And now?"

Leroy faced Tyrone, grinning so hard he could've lit up all five boroughs. "Dude, don't ask me to put how I feel right now into words. Lemme just say my heart feels like it's burstin' into flames."

Tyrone kissed Leroy once more. "Yeah," he whispered. "I know. An' I be feelin' it too."

Tyrone stood and helped Leroy to his feet. "I totally meant what I said last night, dude," Leroy reiterated. "I fuckin' love you. Ain't fuckin' nothin' ever gon' change the way I feel 'bout you."

"I know those feels, dude," Tyrone replied. He turned his cap backwards and pounded his fist over his heart before wrapping his muscly arms around his homeboy's waist. "We' on the same fuckin' page in the same fuckin' book in the same fuckin' library. I love you too." He pushed his tongue into Leroy's mouth as he reached down to grab his bro's cock. It was the first time either of them had touched the other's cock. Sure, they'd tag-teamed more bitches than they could count, plus whiteboi, but they'd never touched each other's body in any sexual way.

Leroy's dick felt big in his hands. For the first time, Tyrone wondered what it might feel like to ...

... his mind wandered ...

"C'mon, let's get a cab," Tyrone said. They walked the short distance back to 218th and 9th, waiting for an aeon at a taxi stand for a cab to arrive. A car eventually pulled up, and the two thugs piled into the backseat. The driver instantly felt nervous. "West 122nd street," Tyrone commanded. "Trip's worth $200." He showed the bills. "Jus' fuckin' drive. An' keep yo' eyes on the fuckin' road, mofucker."

The driver watched the road and did his job. In the back seat, Leroy and Tyrone sucked face the whole way back to Harlem as they fondled each other's massive black cocks.

"I love you so fuckin' much, bruh," whispered Tyrone.

"I love you too, dude. And I think you jus' saved my life."

"You' still alive, and we goin' back to Harlem right now, bro," whispered Tyrone. "We' goin' home."

Leroy's heart was full of love for his lifelong soulmate. He knew they'd never be apart ever again.

*

Mitch and Brontë jumped out of their taxi. Mitch looked around. "Which street is this?"

"West 118th," Brontë replied. Horns honked in the near distance. "Why?"

"Just curious," Mitch replied. "No reason." He did the mental math -- they were four blocks closer to Central Park than the building Tyrone and Leroy lived in.

Brontë led Mitch up to the 12th floor. He checked out Mitch's ass in the elevator mirror. He could've sworn it was getting bigger. "I love your sexy ass, Mitch," he blurted. He opened his apartment door and they stepped inside.

The door closed. "You can give it a little squeeze if you want," Mitch teased, shaking his hips.

Brontë's hands latched onto Mitch's fat ass cheeks and all hell broke loose. Their faces mashed together and their tongues looped around each other. Mitch moaned into Brontë's mouth. "I want you so fucking bad."

"I've been hard for you all fucking night," Brontë confessed.

"We should've gone to the bathroom, then," winked Mitch.

Brontë grabbed Mitch's hand and led him to his bedroom. They kissed beside his bed. He yanked Mitch's cargo shorts down, and the thick, dark fabric pooled around his ankles. He gazed at Mitch's dicklet poking a tent in his tights. He reached out to touch it and sucked it through the fabric for a few moments.

Brontë turned Mitch around and bent him over.

The next thing Mitch felt was Brontë's hands pulling his tights down just a little. He knew what was about to happen.

Brontë's tongue began exploring Mitch's crack. He pulled his fat cheeks apart. "Fuck yeah, Brontë," Mitch moaned. "Eat my hungry pussy. Eat me out."

Brontë's face got so far up into Mitch's pussy that he struggled to breathe. Mitch's fat ass cheeks nearly smothered him, and he couldn't remember the last time his tiny whiteboi cock felt this hard. "Oh my fucking god, Brontë, you don't know what you're doing to me right now."

Brontë couldn't get enough of Mitch's sweet, delicious ass. His cock was still straining against the zipper of his pants. Mitch's ass looked plump as fuck in the elevator mirror, but it felt even bigger now.

"Please, Brontë," whimpered Mitch, "I need to feel you inside me." He reached back and pulled his cheeks wide apart, exposing his pulsating hole. Brontë nearly came in his pants.

Brontë wanted to face Mitch while they fucked. He placed him on his back and pulled his ass to the edge of the mattress. He was going to fuck him while standing up.

Brontë watched Mitch's irises enlarge and his jaw fall open as he began to slowly penetrate him. He felt Mitch grab his butt cheeks as if pulling him into him. "You're so big," Mitch praised. "I love your cock so much." He reached up to touch Brontë's well-built chest. Mitch pulled Brontë's face down towards his own, and he tasted echoes of his own pussy in his mouth as they kissed.

Mitch noticed a bead of sweat appear on Brontë's forehead. What he didn't know was that Brontë was trying incredibly hard not to cum. He wanted to make this last as long as he could.

"It's OK," Mitch nodded, reaching up to place a palm on Brontë's neck. His ass felt full. "You can cum in me. I want you to. Give me your load." His bit his lower lip.

Brontë couldn't hold back anymore. His big black cock grew inside Mitch's fat pussy unti waves of cum exploded inside Mitch's ass with a force that nearly sent him backwards. Semen poured out of his hole just as quickly as it pumped in -- after being hard for so long, Brontë's load was so immense that even Mitch's fat, elastic pussy couldn't accommodate it.

Mitch moaned as he released a weak, watery load of cum in response.

The bed was drenched, but this time, Mitch wasn't to blame.

Brontë pulled out and lay down beside his date. "Was that good?"

Mitch's mouth fell open as he stroked Brontë's face. "I can't explain how perfect your dick feels when it's inside me."

Brontë looked down at Mitch's weak emission. "Yeah, but I don't understand."

"I don't either," Mitch replied. "My dicklet is a total fucking mystery. My pussy knows exactly what it wants, but I'm not sure if my dicklet does."

Brontë began tickling Mitch's balls. "Let's find out." He licked Mitch's watery load before sucking him into his mouth. He pulled Mitch's tights back up and began sucking him through the fabric again. He felt Mitch's cock began to pulse, and grow, and twitch, until Mitch arched his back as if he had no control over his own spinal column.

A rainbow of cum poured through the fabric, smashing into Brontë's tonsils like a violent tsunami crashing onto a placid beach. Again, Brontë coughed and spluttered, but he gulped and swallowed hard because Mitch's load tasted so fucking good. Eventually, the pulsing began to subside, and Brontë, feeling completely stunned, let Mitch's dicklet escape from his mouth. He tenderly stroked Mitch's sexy femboy tights.

"I'm so sorry," Mitch whispered. He really liked Brontë, but this was too fucking weird, and he didn't want to scare him away with his sexual abnormality. He began to cry. He was going to fuck this up, he just knew it.

"What for?" At least this time Brontë had swallowed most of it. No golf umbrellas were required.

"Because ... I really like you, but my dick is weird ... you fuck me so good and I dribble in response, and then you suck on my penis and I nearly drown you ... I can't work it out, and it scares me."

Brontë's mouth still tasted like a rainbow. "Why does it scare you?"

"Because, like I said, I really like you, Brontë, and I don't want you to be put off by my ... unusualities."

"That's not a word, Mitch."

"What isn't?"

"Unusualities. It's not a word. At least I don't think it is, Maybe it is, but whatever. The dictionary is beside the point. I don't think you're unusual, Mitch. In fact, I think you're unique. That's one of the many things that draws me to you. There's nobody else like you. When I walked into a bar earlier tonight to see you surrounded by suits and ties, to find you in your own little world listening to music on your sexy fuckin' headphones, drinkin' your beer and rockin' your own look not giving a fucking damn what anyone else thinks about you ... well, I think that's sexy. You're fucking hot, Mitch. At least, you are to me."

Mitch blushed, unsure how to respond. "I've spent most of my adult life thinking there was something wrong with me, and then I settled for a psychopathic bitch because I didn't want to be alone, but also because I didn't think anyone truly worthwhile would ever want me. I feel like I've finally found someone cool."