Leasa Ch. 05byLeasaJ©
When I arrived home from visiting my father, Andy had a million questions for me:
“So, did you and your Dad have a good time?”
“Yes. I think it was good for both of us,” I answered, slyly.
But very quickly our conversation went sour. Andy had found some pornographic magazines that—I’m ashamed to say—I bought at a porn shop, depicting older black men masturbating.
I couldn’t believe he would go through my bureau drawers snooping on me. But he did. He found these crude magazines that I had resorted to during the time that Amos stopped pursuing me at work. I’d needed something to get myself off. I’m ashamed to admit that my husband wasn’t up to the job, and that these magazines could do what he couldn’t: satisfy my need for older black males.
“This stuff is perverted,” he screamed at me, “What’s wrong with you?”
“I really don’t care to discuss it!” was all I could fire back at him, and then storm out of the room. I was embarrassed and humiliated that I had used these magazines to satisfy myself with, but I wasn’t about to give them up either.
The pictures were crude, but a tremendous turn on for me. They showed much older African American males stroking their gigantic organs and spurting thick jets of semen all over themselves and their surroundings. For a young white woman, few things could be more animalistically erotic than an aging, black bull cumming with such power and in such volume.
I would get light headed looking at the photos, playing heatedly with my clitty, dreaming the black male in the pictorial was taking me, and hosing my womb with the bucket full of jism he was unleashing in the pictorial.
I was becoming addicted to black men and their powerful sexuality.
I knew I needed to see Amos again—and soon.
That first evening home, I found myself with Andy again in our futile, pathetic attempt at a sex life.
Andy lay down on the side of the bed naked. I sat along side him, also naked. Looking down on his genitals, they appeared even smaller than I’d remembered. They seemed, over the last few weeks of my involvement with Amos, to be literally disappearing.
As I had over the past weeks, I tried to play with Andy’s little nub of a penis by first clasping it between my thumb and forefinger and gently pulling on it. I would almost start laughing as I did this, because the way the little thing would stretch reminded me of old cartoons of a bird trying to pull a worm out of its hole.
After pulling on it a little, to no avail, I would begin to flick it back and forth with my index finger. As I did this I could see his arousal building. His balls were now so little they seemed to be contracting into him. It was as if he had none any more.
Then came the grunting. I knew this meant he was cumming, but I saw no cum. Then quickly a drop flicked off the tip of the little peanut—all that was left of the strong young man I’d so recently married.
I took a single tissue from the box on the night table and dabbed up the drop of semen on Andy’s stomach. I touched the tip of his tiny nub with it also.
“All done,” I said.
“How pathetic,” I thought.
Andy hadn’t been able to mount me since the first night after he—I guess—figured out that Amos and I were doing more than just ‘lunch’. Amos’ seduction of me had reduced my husband to an impotent, white eunuch. I tried my best to fulfill my wifely duties by twice a week flicking away at the little burr that was his penis. But I am ashamed to admit, the act disgusted me. I felt more his mommy now than his wife. As he lay there after his drip of an ejaculation, I almost felt like I should be diapering him. I couldn’t wait to leave the room as soon as we—make that, ‘he’—was done.
I noticed after getting home that Andy had now begun to wear bikini bottom underwear. He also appeared to have put on a little weight and seemed smoother and more rounded than he used to.
In time, I began to notice that some of my magazines were missing from my bureau drawer. I wondered if Andy was borrowing them.
The next day at work, I called down to Amos’ department and begged him to meet me. All I could think of over the past weeks was that I needed to tell Amos I was pregnant with his child.
I had no idea how he would react. I hoped he would want me...and the child. I no longer even thought of how neighbors, co-workers, or even family would react over my leaving my husband for a 63-year-old, black janitor. I loved this beautiful black stallion of a man. I wanted him more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life. And I wanted to bear him a beautiful black baby.
Amos seemed to be making excuses to shuck me off. He clearly wanted to avoid the meeting. I felt that he wanted to be done with me. I was already conquered territory for him; he was ready to move on.
Instead of infuriating me, it made me want him more. I felt desperate to win him as the man of my life. I pursued him by phone, and after hours in the parking lot. I even drove by his home trying to get enough nerve to knock on his door.
When he began to notice me driving by his house, he agreed to meet me for a drink at a friend’s apartment that he was allowed to borrow for the occasion.
We sat together on the couch nervously at first. I was anxious to tell Amos what was growing in me from our coupling. But I wanted to go slow. I didn’t want to shock him and have him feel I was trapping him into a life with me.
After some brief small talk, I started in with the real reason behind wanting to meet with him:
“Amos, I think you know by the way I have given of myself...when we are together...that...well,...I have very special feelings for you...”
“Yeh, babe, I knows ya’ do. So do I, ‘n’ I keep ‘em right here,” he replied, crudely grabbing at his over sized crotch.
I smiled, good naturedly at his crude display, and continued to try to reach this man:
“Yes, honey, I know...but a woman can have deeper feelings than just sex...and sex can bring about things in a woman...it can have more important consequences...do you know what I mean? Do you see what I’m getting at, sweetheart?”
Amos smiled confidently, “Sounds like you horny fo’ me again, eh?”
“No Amos...well, yes I am...but no, that’s not what I was getting at. You see, hon...I’m pregnant!” At this point, I thought it better to just get to it.
“Amos, I’m pregnant with your child. I have your—our—baby growing in me.”
I watched his face carefully to see his reaction. A huge smile slowly worked its way over his face.
“Shit man, that’s great. You gonna name him afta’ me?”
“Well, if it’s a ‘he’, and if that’s what you want, yes.”
“Whoa!!!” he shouted. “Can’t wait to see the look on the faces of the bro’s down at work,” he spoke as if to himself.
“And yo’ hubby. Man, is that gonna be a hoot. To see him raisin’ my black little, babe!!!”
I looked at him with disbelief. I couldn’t grasp what he meant. I’d never dreamt of anything but divorcing Andy and marrying Amos. Only then, after the divorce, did I ever picture having, and raising, Amos’—and my—little black baby.
“What do you mean, Andy raising your little baby. You don’t think I’d have your baby...and not have you!”
A look came over Amos. I’d seen it before—in the back room at the bar where he’d first taken me sexually, and when he demanded I fellate him in the hallway at work. It frightened me.
“Let me tell ya’ what’s gonna happen, babe. You gonna have that baby, and yo’ white, limp-dicked husband gonna raise him. Understand?”
“But Amos, I want you too. Don’t you want me?”
“OK, time fo’ a little reality. I got me a rock-solid, honest, black wife. Got that, blondie? And I got six kids I already raised. They gave me a dozen grandchildren. No way I’m gonna throw all that away fo’ you.”
“But Amos...the way you pursued me...”
“Hey, you were da’ hottest thing in that whole fuckin’ company...maybe the hottest white woman I ever seen. But, hey, I got ya’. I’m done. And frankly, I was kinda surprised you was so easy. But you mine, now. But just because you mine, don’t go thinkin’ I’m yours.”
“No ‘buts’ ‘bout it. You my white pussy on the side. That’s all. And you gonna have my baby with a smile on ya’ face, lovin’ every minute that you laborin’ fo’ to bring forth another branch a’ the Jackson Family Tree. Shit girl, you should be proud and honored! You gonna help build a black nation!”
I sat stunned. He couldn’t mean what he was saying.
“What’s mo,’ is you gonna wear my ankle chain now. You gonna show the world you mine.”
He took out a thick metal chain. It was rusted somewhat and silver in color. It looked very old. It looked just long enough to fit loosely around a feminine ankle. The chain had the initials “AJ” on it. “Amos Jackson!” I thought to myself.
“Amos, sweetheart, you can’t...be...serious,” I asked in the cadence of a question. That look came back over Amos’ face.
“How many times do I got ta’ deal with that attitude you got, girl?”
I was frightened.
“S-s-sweetheart...I..I..I...don’t have any attitude with you...you know that...r-r-r...right?”
I was getting ready to flinch. I was afraid he would bitch-slap me as he’d done before. But suddenly he grabbed me by my hair and hauled me toward a hallway. He pulled me screaming behind him, into a bedroom and threw me on the bed.
I lay on the bed looking up at Amos. He looked down on me and began to unbuckle his belt. He drew the thick leather belt from the loops that held it in one sweeping motion. Then, gathering the two ends of the belt into one hand, he slapped the doubled over belt against his thigh.
“Only one way to get that attitude outta a woman. We just gonna have ta’ whip it outta ya’. Is that it? This the only language you gonna understand?”
“P-p-please, sweetheart...don’t...let’s talk about—“ he suddenly grasped my dress from the back neckline and yanked down on it, ripping it off the top of me, baring my bra. Then he yanked a second time, tearing the dress fully off of me, pulling my feet up in the air as the shredded dress was pulled off my ankles.
Amos continued stripping me, tearing off my bra as I feebly tried to fend him off. In a moment he had torn my panties off and I was naked on the bed crying.
He began whipping my thighs with the thick belt.
Whap! Whap! Whap!
God, it stung. I scurried across the big bed.
“Get yo’ ass over here,” he demanded, standing at the foot of the bed. “Don’t make me come over there or this gonna really get ugly, girl!”
The look on his face made me believe his warning. Slowly, I crawled back down to the foot of the bed where Amos waited for me, like a master, with his hands on his hips.
“Assume the position, girl!” I was afraid of what he meant by this.
“Now, girl!!!” he shouted.
I turned away from him on all fours. Slowly I lifted my ass in the air.
“That’s mo’ like it,” he said, satisfied.
Whap! Whap! Whap!
My ass stung from the whipping Amos proceeded to give it.
Whap! Whap! Whap!
God, I thought it would never end.
“Now what are you to me, girl?” he asked, then applied three more strappings to my reddened butt.
“Your slave girl?” I answered with a question. I wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear, but I didn’t want to displease him at this point.
“Damn right!” he said, and administered another two strappings.
“And what do you do when I tell ya’ you’re gonna do somethin’?”
Whap! Whap! Whap!
“Are you askin’ or answerin’?”
“Obey,” I answered affirmatively.
“Good girl,” he responded.
I waited, ass in air, head down, thinking more was coming. Then I felt his thick fingers slide along the lips of my pussy.
“Shit girl, you wet!”
I was. My clit felt very hard. Amos played with it. I groaned. My nipples, buried under the weight of my breasts which hung down and rested on the bed spread, were aroused and stiffened. Almost sore. I was so terribly hot. I was beside myself.
I could hear Amos behind me. His clothes were falling onto the floor. I heard change rattle and roll across the floor. Then I could feel the thick, bulbous head of his wonderful, gargantuan dick rubbing up and down along my swollen nether lips. It was like a ritual between two animals about to mate. Rather than sniffing each other first, Amos would always run the big head of his dick along my lips, then suddenly thrust himself into me, as if he were ramming his violent, powerful black vitality into my quiet, comfortable white life.
He pulled my hips to him and began penetrating me with more and more powerful thrusts. He was breaking my soft white body open with his hard black weapon, forcing me to accomodate him. I was impaled again and again.
I could hear the sticky sounds of my vaginal fluids coating, lubricating his huge dick, enabling it, encouraging it, to violate me further.
Amos came suddenly, screaming like I’d never heard him do before.
Then he began muttering:
“You mine...you mine...yo’ hot, white pussy all mine...yo’ whole white life, all mine now girl.”
I knelt my head down into the bedspread and whispered back, “Yes darling, yesssss...”
As I lay prone and naked on the bed, I could feel Amos getting up and then hear a soft clinking at the foot of the bed. I felt Amos fastening the ankle chain around my ankle. I didn’t resist. I felt that there was no resisting this man.
Laying there with Amos’ chain fastened around my ankle, I never felt so sexy or so secure in all my life. It was as if I’d waited for this moment all my life. I felt I was born to be this man’s slave. To serve his hard, black muscle was the destiny of my pliant, white flesh.
I welcomed my destiny with open arms, and with spread thighs.
In the following weeks, Amos and I met several times, purely for sex.
I would wear the ankle chain he’d demanded I wear with high heels and a choker he’d given me. It was a leather dog’s collar with a silver plate on it that read, “Property of Amos Jackson. Please return to:...” followed by his address.
The collar had a metal loop attached to it where a leash could be affixed to the collar...if necessary.
Wearing my ankle chain and collar, I would often find myself sitting on Amos’ lap as he played with me. I liked to turn myself facing away from him and hold his enormous shaft between my legs.
As I looked in the mirror we were facing, the huge black dick appeared to be mine as I’d hold it between my legs. I would run both my hands up and down it till it stood straight up at its full height. At this point, it would nearly reach my breasts.
It was terribly exciting to feel the power of holding and stroking the huge dick that I held beween my legs, as if it were mine. It stood up throbbing and oozing its precum, as if it were a viscious cobra readying itself to strike.
I could also see the big balls hanging beneath my imaginary dick. So big, so heavy. They made feel enormously potent.
If only I could be a man, I thought...a big, black man. What power they must feel, to be able to carry such large and powerful weapons between their legs each and every day.
I decided then that Freud was right—there is such a thing as penis envy. Women were jealous of men having a penis whereas they did not. But it was more, “Black Dick Envy.” Once any white woman could see, hold, and experience a black man’s size and sexual ability, she envied it, admired it, and would beg to possess it. If she couldn’t really possess his genitalia as an appendage, she would want to be some black man’s appendage—preferably in his bed.
Amos enjoyed watching me play with his big dick, working it like some big stick shift. Other times stroking it, my legs splayed wide, as if I were a black man stroking my own big dick and watching my huge balls jiggle as I did. How exciting!
Amos would play with my blonde hair, in almost a fatherly way, as I played with him. Strangely, along with the spiked heels, ankle chain, and collar, he would want me to wear ribbons in my hair, like a little girl.
As he played with my hair, I would—oblivious to the rest of him—focus all my attention on playing with his big dick, sometimes with legs spread, sometimes wrapping my legs around it as if I were riding a big, uncircumcised broom. I’d stare down at the sticky drooling head of it, and sometimes stoop my head to kiss it. When I’d look in the mirror again, my lips and mouth area would gleam with his fluids. It reminded me of being a little girl and licking the honey my mother would sometimes bring home. Little did I know then that I’d be having that same appearance some 25 years later, as I kissed and licked the head of an old, black man’s uncut dick.
When I wore Amos’s chain home, Andy was quick to inquire about, “What the hell,” it was. I told him it was a symbol of my devotion to a certain man. I thought we needed to have a final confrontation regarding my commitment to, and pregnancy with, Amos.
But Andy was quick to smile, and kiss me, saying, “Honey, how sweet.” Only then did I realize he mistook the initials “A.J.” for his: “Andy Jons”. At that point, I let it drop.
One day at work, Amos told me that although I’d never meet any of the rest of his family, he wanted me to meet his “dad”. I couldn’t believe he could have a father, but he told me that indeed he did, and that his father was just 80. He wanted me to join him and his dad on his father’s birthday.
I thought it was the nicest gesture he had ever made in terms of treating me as though I were really a part of his life. So I consented to meet them at his dad’s house that day after work.
Amos’ dad was very old and bent. He was tootheless and wore his pants up to his chest, held there by a thick pair of old suspenders. He had thick hair growing out of his ears and was slightly hard of hearing. I thought, maybe if he trimmed some of that ear hair he’d be able to hear better. But I thought better of offering up my helpful suggestions.
When I met “Otis”, I was wearing a short, black dress with a low cut top. I wanted to impress. I also wore Amos’ chain about my ankle. I knew better than to disobey, or to act too independent. Plus, secretly, I loved thinking of myself as Amos’ possession. It was as exciting to me as it was to him.
When I was introduced to Otis, I’ll never forget the look on his face. He looked me up and down as though he couldn’t believe I was his son’s woman. He glowed and seemed almost speechless at first. Then he just said aloud, to Amos while staring at me, “Holy shit, son...I had no idea you was talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ like dis!!!”
I smiled and turned red. I was pleasantly embarrassed. And then as the ancient man looked me over, my tits began their habit—while being ogled by older, black men—of swelling, lifting, and then having their nipples protrude.
Otis noticed. The ebony mummy before me began to lick his old, thick lips and, amazingly, I began to see his pants stick out.
Otis was big, like his son.
Just as he noticed me and my protrusions, I noticed his. We were both impressed with each other’s endowments.
Otis patted the couch next to him and asked me to sit down. I did. Amos then surprised me by excusing himself, saying he needed to go to the liquor store for some whiskey. Otis and I were then left together sitting on the couch.
He turned to me, telling me he thought I was, “a beauty.” As he turned, the huge spear that was his dick stuck up, stretching his pants obscenely.
I blushed and said, thank you, but I couldn’t help but sneak a glance at his endowment and wonder at its size—and staying power.
Otis told me of his life growing up in Alabama during the days of Jim Crow. How he had to use different rest rooms and drink from different water fountains. How he would often find himself looking at some beautiful white woman, but then have to avert his eyes when she looked back, fearing for his life if his look were taken for lust—which soimetimes it was.