Starters Only

Author's quick note: Been a long time since I posted anything. Too FUCKING long! So, here I go once again. Hope I pull you along with me.

*****

My initial transgression

Me first…

My name is Diane Chapel. I am 36 years old and at 5’ 9”, 150lbs, I consider myself to be a tall and willowy drink of water. Others might say I’m a skinny stork and, in fact, others have, with my father being foremost in using that derogatory term… to my face.

I am not what would be considered pretty by today’s standards, yet I am not ugly, either. I have a long face and rather large, watery blue eyes. I wear reading glasses perched near the tip of my prissy nose for reading and doing needlepoint. By prissy, I mean that have the classic English nose; long and pointed with high-cut (or elongated, if you prefer) nostrils. My hair is a dry, mousy-brown, thick, medium long, and brushed out so that the curled-under ends rest on my shoulders. My complexion is a sort of milky white and I am liberally freckled all over—head to toes. My lips are thin and, without lipstick, are a washed-out pink.

Below my slender neck, I am just as plain. My arms are long with stringy muscles, though my hands (my best feature) would be considered delicate; graceful fingers, each tipped with a painstakingly manicured nail. I have spent hours on the couch, in front of an ignored TV, shaping and polishing my fingernails. I’ve been told that they are perfect for scratching an itchy back.

I am a leggy woman; meaning my legs are split high, though they would never be seen as being well turned. The muscles beneath the tight skin, however, are taunt and well defined from running four miles, three days a week, on a high school track—rain, shine, or a normal snowfall. A full-blown blizzard is justifiable grounds for interrupting this semi-strict routine. A tornado warning also qualifies. My feet are too big and I am also polydactyl. This means that I have too many toes. There are 6 toes, instead of the customary 5, on my left foot.

My torso, I’m afraid, is just as uninspiring as both above and below it. However, I will try to make my description of my “more intimate” details at least sound desirable. I am wasp-waisted and my hips are wide-flared, yet my buttocks are almost skinny; tight and taunt, with little in the way of feminine cushioning. This is a less than desirable by-product of my near religious jogging. My breasts are 34 B-cupped (more like upended teacups, than swollen bee stings) and my nipples are a dusty-rose, longer than normal (measured at a good inch) and are constantly engorged with hot blood; meaning they are always hard and distended. A metaphor put forth by someone “intimately” close to me has my aroused nipples resembling “hot brown” .38 caliber cartridges set on a pair of overturned speckled teacups. This is a simile that never fails to tickle me. Although, age—not a major problem, as of it; Thank God—plus Newton’s inevitable Law of Gravity are combining to make what little I do have sag a might. Not that they ever “stood right there”, even as a teenager.

The pelt between my legs is thick (but not unruly so), the same mousy-brown as the hair atop my head, but hardly ever is it in a state of brittle dryness. The slit/gash/split between my labia is a sort of washed out pink and my clitoris is a pearlessant marble of super sensitivity. My cunt (the hot, moist honey-hole up inside my puffy, lust-swollen pussy lips) is more of a fiery pink and runs liquidy at the mere thought of sex. This wasn’t always the case, however, I am not only happy, but actually proud that I am forced to wear a sanitary pad at all times, otherwise my knickers would be thoroughly saturated with my vaginal flow before I even left the house in the morning.

My anus is pinkish-brown and has become reflexively so sensitive that, with the slightest touch, my sphincter—while retaining its elasticity—will (of its own accord) quickly relax in order to present a “more receptively accommodating” circumference for any sort of intrusion. You see, through constant use by my numerous lovers (whom I will eventually introduce to you) my asshole has become an eagerly accepting innie, as well as being the more customary outtie (for defecating) orifice nature initially intended it to be. Now, that might be considered crude, crass and disgustingly tasteless, but I do think, for a stuffy English Lit teacher, that it was at least mildly humors. Don’t you?

And so, taken as a whole, I seriously doubt that I would be judged an object of any great sexual desirability. This outwardly uninspiring aspect of myself being granted, I am a firm believer that laying in wait beneath this superficial exterior is where the human sexual animal lives and breathes. A woman’s libido lays within her mind, in her heart, in her enthusiasm. In a woman’s willingness to accommodate and please a combustible ecstasy awaits those with the will, and the skill, to pry open that Pandora’s Box of fiery lust. I will agree that this is equally true for the male of our species, but only if you will concede that a man’s sexual beast lays much closer to the surface and, therefore, requires far less effort for a sexual partner to set it loose.

With this (probably too-detailed) description of myself dispensed with, I believe that a paragraph or two (quite possibly several more paragraphs since I have a tendency to run on) of personal history is called for before I get to the “real” meat of this story/biography/confession.

I was born in England, near Avalon—the home of the Bard, William Shakespeare. I was educated at Cambridge University, where I taught for one year after graduating, before emigrating to America 15 years ago on a teaching visa. I now teach freshman and sophomore English Literature at a small four-year Community College in the heartland of your expansive and diverse country. For liability sake; meaning that I do not wish to suffer the same vindictive slings and arrows Grace Metalious had to endure for penning that utterly scandalous bit of pure fiction ‘Peyton Place’, I believe it best if the name of the particular school where I’ve taught your children, as well the name of state in which it is located, are both left unspecified.

For those of you who require some sort of specificity in which to anchor your fantasies, I will make up an appropriate sounding name for the township. Summerset has a nice, nonspecific, rurally bucolic Midwestern ring to it, so this is what I shall use.

As I continue with this story, I think you will come to agree that this cautious elusiveness on my part is more than justifiable.

A year after coming to your country I married a man 20 years my senior: Dr. Edwin Cromwell, a lifelong resident of Summerset and a tenured Professor at a major college in the next town. In retrospect, this was done more to gain my U.S. citizenship than any romantic notion of love on my part. My husband is a most uninspiring man and this is not regulated simply to his boring profession, nor to Edwin’s personality (which is lackluster, at best) but to his sexual nature, as well. Five times a year (Christmas Eve and New Years Eve, my birthday, Edwin’s birthday—if he’s in the mood, and our anniversary) is, for all intense and purposes, the extent of our lovemaking. This consists (without much variation) of 3 to 4 minutes of foreplay—dry kissing, some brief, pedestrian mauling of my breasts, and some exploratory groping beneath my nightgown. I’m convinced that this last is more to check my state of lubrication than any attempt to arouse me.

All of this “arousing” foreplay is followed by 3 minutes (rarely any longer) of his barely-erect penis inside of me; jerking, huffing and puffing on his part; a shudder and a weak whimper; then a squirt or two of watery semen. Two minutes later (without fail) there is a gurgled snoring from his side of the bed, leaving me to slip out of bed, locked the door to the adjoining bathroom behind me, and attempt to bring myself some sort of satisfaction with my fingers.

My dismal (more like abysmal) sex life aside, my husband and I could live quite comfortably on our combined teacher/professor salaries. However, the shrewd investments Edwin has made over the years allows us to live comfortably above just being comfortable. We have a large split-level house in an upscale neighborhood. It has three bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs—the master bedroom has its own private bath, the other one is for guests, and there is a convenience water closet (a half bath with only a sink and toilet) under the staircase. Downstairs, there is a large living room, a modest formal dining room, a very well appointed kitchen, a den and a separate (Edwin’s) study. There is also an attached three-car garage. Our house is tastefully filled with many nice things… over indulgent, expensive trinkets, if you prefer …several of which I may even show you as this “story” progresses.

Now, having given you a look at my physical self and the way I live, I shall shortly begin putting what has changed me in less subtle terms. In other words, with less “proper” use of the King’s English, I will graphically tell you how I was transformed from a drab English Lit teacher/sexually unfulfilled wife into being a harlot, a shameless hussy, a scarlet woman, a strumpet.

Since I said I would begin putting this in more graphic terms, why don’t I just put that the way things truly are for me now; I am an ecstatic, enthusiastic, extremely well fucked, very well-taken-care-of slut. And it is all because of an insane, and insanely played, game.

Over the years I have taught at this school, I have become a big fan of your football. Futball, in my home country, is what you call soccer over here. It involves a lot of running up and down a much larger playing field, with a minimal amount of scoring. Uninspiring! Your football, on the other hand, be it high school, college or professional, is a far more exciting game to watch. Put to a classical score, it is a haphazardly choreographed ballet, with maniacal mayhem its prerequisite dance steps. It is the intricacies and savagery of the game that holds my rapt attention; the intertwining patterns of the fleet-footed receivers, the accuracy and precise timing that is required between them and the quarterback in the passing captures my mind, whereas the pounding brutality of the ground game tightens my stomach and makes my heart race. All of those hard, sweaty, well-toned male bodies slamming into one another with wild abandon, grappling heroically to stop the other man in his tracks… I love it!

I only wish that it could be played in the nude. Some enterprising network executive should really look into this concept. Think of the much larger female audience football would draw if those superbly conditioned, dynamically proportioned male athletes were sweating, straining and slamming into one another stark naked. Certainly this far more stimulating game would have to seen on Pay-Per-View, but consider the profit margin before you dismiss this novel concept as being either too risqué, or, more importantly, prohibitively costly. Why, the “revealing” posters that women would be hastening to their nearest sports store to purchase of their “favorite” players alone might very well cover the necessary increase in player’s salaries.

Anyway, my transformation to slut is a direct result of my infatuation with this game of yours. Well, it was a contributing factor. My long-submerged libido was another. And, the amazing “boys” that you seem to produce over here was the capper.

…and my Initial Transgression

During a night football game with a rival school, one of our players was ejected from the game for (according to the blind referee, and apparently completely missed by his seeing-eye dog) three consecutive roughing the passer calls and sent to the locker room. The ejected player—only a freshman, but our starting left defensive back—angrily shook off the conciliatory shoulder pat he received from the coach, and as I watched this player dejectedly stomp off toward the gymnasium, something wildly untamed welled up inside of me. Unbidden (I assure you), graphic images of what I had been wallowing in on the Net of late insinuated themselves into my mind. Naked men. Naked black men, to be more precise. Naked, young black men, to be totally accurate—hardly more than teenagers—with their hard, black cocks so proudly displayed. Added to this, the fact that those hard black cocks always appeared so out of proportion to their lathe bodies, I simply had to find out for myself (in person) whether those inspiring pictures I was literally drooling over were, in fact, real. Or, had they been doctored.

Excusing myself from the other teachers I was sitting with to visit the loo (restroom, to you) I purposely turned right, instead of left to the girl’s restroom after entering the gymnasium and, quiet as a mouse, snuck into the guy’s locker room. There on a bench in front of a row of lockers sat the object of my compulsive curiosity. He had removed his jersey and sat there with his shoulder pads still on, his bare black midriff exposed, and the front of his football togs undone. The crotch of my knickers (panties) became wet, not merely moist with my vaginal secretions.

As I watched, he threw one leg over the bench and opened his locker. On the inside of the door I could see a picture of a girl; a very pretty Caucasian girl that I recognized as being one of the cheerleaders named Julie. Only, she wasn’t wearing her short-skirted cheerleading outfit. She wasn’t wearing anything at all. Julie was semi-reclining on a rumpled bed, cupping her breasts and pinching her pink nipples, smiling at the camera between knees that were drawn up and spread wide. The photo being taken from the foot of the bed, her flaxen-haired pubic region was fully on view, to the point that her outer vaginal lips were parted and the gash between them glistened wetly pink. She was so lewdly exposed I knew that, if I got close enough, I would actually be able to see into young Julie’s dark-pink vagina. Inexplicably, my panties became even wetter.

I saw D’bone—as this good-looking black guy was known to his peers (his real name is Darnell) dig in his football togs, fumble around in there, then extract the hard plastic protective cup from his athletic supporter, scowl at it, and toss it in the locker. He then did something that took me completely by surprise. Looking at the lewd picture of the suggestively splayed–out white cheerleader, as if in fond remembrance, he undid his togs further and dug his penis out of his jockstrap. In that shocking instant, my curiosity was answered… and in full. The pics I had been viewing had not been doctored… not in this young man’s case. Jutting straight up out of Darnell’s football togs was a penis to be truly proud of.

No, I take that back; Darnell did not possess a mere penis. The interracial porn sites I had been visiting more properly termed such an “impressive” male member a dick or a cock. I myself preferred cock; it just has a stronger, more powerful sound to it, and “dick” always makes me picture an obnoxious, pimple-faced boy from my youth who, even as a grown man now, still wouldn’t have more than a pitiful, little white dickey; the exact opposite of what this young black man possessed… and in inspiring quantity.

Ergo, D’bone had a cock. A real cock… even for a grown man. Eight inches (an initial estimate that later proved to be an inch too long) of hard, black cock that even my long, thin fingers might not be able to encircle completely. I found the sight of a hard black cock (in the flesh) to be very nearly a religious experience. My pussy literally gushed in my already wet panties at the sight of it.

D’bone took this hypnotizing black cock in his fist. “Liked this black cock, didn’t ya, Julie,” I heard him chuckle as he stroked his captivating black cock. “Way you sucked me off and swallowed all my load, ‘fore you begged me to fuck you in the ass… Yeah, that told me you never had anything tasted better than black cock in you rich, white bitch mouth.” Was D’bone fantasizing, or had what he was saying to the nude picture of Julie actually taken place? I knew in my gut that it had happened, and just the way he was describing it. And I was envious of the young cheerleader who had freely given herself to Darnell. No, I was suddenly goddamned jealous of the little slut.

What was I thinking! This young black man, sitting there wanking (jacking) off to a nude picture of one of our cheerleaders, was half my age, still a teenager. Although, him being over the age of legal consent—18, anything sexual between Darnell and I wouldn’t be considered child molestation, so little would happen to Darnell—a suspension at most, which his Assistant District Attorney father would have rescinded before his son ever reached the front doors of the school. But I would be humiliated, publicly disgraced. The cavernous age gap between us aside, Darnell being black, and me being white (possibly the most serious taboo in your uptight Bible Belt), the scorn I would receive would be unbearable. At the very least, I would surely lose my job and my innocent husband and I would be forced to leave town.

If this was high school, instead of college, I could go to prison on charges of statutory rape, for God sake!

However, the image of D’bone’s hard, black cock now etching itself in my mind, I was helplessly being consumed by my own escalating lust. In what I can only ascribe to being some sort of hypnotic trance, I stepped away from my hiding place and walked toward D’bone on quaking legs. He heard me coming and with his eyes wide in shock, a look of sheer terror came to his youthful black face as he quickly tried to stuff his hard cock back into his togs. My mind screamed, “NO!”

“Mrs. C… Chapel, I… I…” D’bone stammered. “You… you shouldn’t be…” His voice was still strained, but became a little firmer. “This is the guy’s locker room, Mrs. C… Mrs. Chapel, and you really shouldn’t in here.”

He was failing miserably at hiding his cock from me. It was so hard, and so big, that there was no way he would be able to get it back inside his togs until it had gone down… considerably. “Don’t put it away on my account, D’bone,” I said in a much stronger voice than I thought I could muster at that moment. “I want to see what you’re doing.” I gave him what I hoped was a friendly, understanding smile. “I really do.” By this point I was standing with my shins touching the bench. I sat down, bunched my dress between my legs and straddled it like he was. “I want to watch you do it, D’bone.” I leaned forward. “I want to watch you do it up close,” I added with his hard black cock only about a foot away from my face. I could smell his musk and it made my elongated nostrils flare. “Possibly watch you stroke your beautiful black cock even closer than this.”

D’bone’s startled attitude changed… and, as far as I was concerned, it changed for the better. He held his impressive cock by the thick base and aggressively aimed it at my face. “Like what you starin’ at, Mrs. Chapel?” he asked in a harsh tone. “This black cock gettin’ you all wet, Mrs. C?”

My eyes were locked on his cock; so black, so hard, so young and virile. It would take a conscious effort to pull my enraptured gaze away from it. I didn’t want to do it. I couldn’t do it. A long, drawn-out, “Yeeeeesssssss!” was all I could manage to wheeze out.

“You like it so much, why don’t you stroke it for me, then?” He took my hand and wrapped my long fingers around his cock. My fingertips barely met. “Get a real good feel of what’s makin’ you wet, Mrs. C.” He released my hand and reclined back with his hands on the bench behind him. “I know you wanna jerk off my black cock…” He thrust his hips up, causing his hard black cock to slide obscenely in my white fist “…so go on and do it.”