First, thank you to everyone who sent me e-mails and letting me know that they enjoyed the story. I would especially like to thank those people outside of the United States for sending me a message.
I did not plan to continue this story. I never would have written the first one, but the cable went out and I didn't have anything better to do. But after receiving the many e-mails I decided I would write more if the inspiration came to me.
Many people wanted to know if the story was real. Well the answer is Yes and No. I am "Adam", but I am now in my 30s and no longer live in Chicago. I was and still am attracted to black men. Being young, blond, and fairly good looking in Chicago (well I was...) I had my ample share sexual experiences with these beautiful and dark men. I did meet one man in a bathroom on LakeShore drive and went back to his place and got a good fucking. I also met one man and after being fucked by him, his roommate then took me into his bedroom and had his way with me as well. There was not one sexual experience in the first story that was not real. I merely merged several different experiences into one. I promise to keep the sex real, but if allowed I will modify the story line a little to hopefully make it more interesting.
WARNING - This second installment does not contain much sex. It is just the set up for the third installment, which I have not written. There will be a big payoff (I promise) in the next installment but I just couldn't jump to the next encounter between Adam and his new "friends" without further getting to know Adam a little better. Fucking is great, but throw in a little drama and it can be awesome. I hope you enjoy it.
It was a Sunday afternoon and my mother and I were returning home after a shopping trip to the mall. It had been a good day for the most part. My mother did not get a chance to spend much time with me lately as I was often running about with my friends. She enjoyed getting caught up on what was happening in my life. I had also had a pretty good day as the car was now packed full of the new clothes that I would be taking with me when I headed for college in a few weeks. It was a good trade off. My mother got to hear about what movies I saw with my friends and I got clean underwear.
"So, you never did tell me about that fight you got into last week. Who was it with?" my mother asked, keeping her eyes on the road.
"Nobody you know," I answered, quickly trying to think of a way to change the conversation. My mother had noticed the red marks of my face the weekend before. I had lied and told her I had a fight with a friend. At the time she knew that I wasn't in the mood to talk about it, but evidently she had not forgotten and now wanted an explanation.
"Well, I don't like it," she said. "I didn't bring you up to get into fights. It's not like you."
"Mom, I really don't want to talk about it," I replied, not thinking of anything that might get her off the subject.
After a pause, "I realize you're a young man now and I can't expect you to tell me everything, but I've been worried. You haven't been yourself this past week. You've been up in your room every night. You normally come down and spend some time with your dad and I, but you haven't all week." She wasn't going to let this one drop.
"Mom, really, everything is fine. I just had a little problem last week but now everything is OK. Trust me, everything is fine."
"It's a girl, isn't it?"
I had been sipping a soda and almost coughed up my spleen. "No Mother, I can guarantee you it wasn't over a girl," I answered while wiping the spilled Pepsi from my chin with my shirt and looking out the window so my mother couldn't see my eyes literally roll into the back of my head.
My mother continued to drive while I just kept my mouth shut. I knew she was still thinking about what might have happened to me last week that would cause me to hide away in my bedroom. There was no way though I was about to tell her anything close to the truth. How do you tell your mother that not only are you gay, but that also you enjoy getting fucked up the ass by big black men? Even if you send it with a gift, that story ain't going to play well with the folks. So I didn't say anything and eventually we were pulling onto the driveway and I sensed my ensuing escape. But it would not be a clean getaway.
"Well, if you want to talk about it you let me know," my mother advised me. "I'm not a boy, but I remember how boys your age acted when I was a girl. I know your hormones and juices and all that stuff kind of get in the way of your brain and normal thinking. So you just watch yourself, you understand?"
I was not having a conversation about "my juices and stuff" with my mother. No way, Jose. "Thanks Mom, I'll be fine. Trust me," I said and quickly got out of the car and headed up to my room.
"Well you know where you can find me if you want to talk!" my mother yelled as I headed up the stairs and to my room. Yeah, I knew where she was and I wasn't going there.
It had been a week and the piece of phone book with the phone number was still was on my desk. I had looked at it every time I entered my room. I couldn't help it. The memory of what had happened the weekend before was still seared into my head and the piece of paper brought that memory back like a tidal wave every time I saw it. I instinctively squeezed my ass cheeks thinking of the experience.
I had been sore for the first couple of days, but not nearly as much as I would have expected. That first night before I went to bed I wanted to feel my ass again to see how much it still hurt. I found some Vaseline in the bathroom and put some on my middle finger. Laying on my stomach I reached between my cheeks and gently dabbed the jelly onto my ass and then slowly rubbed around my ass ring. It was sore all right, but it was neither stinging nor extremely painful. It was feeling more bruised than anything else. I kept rubbing around the circle and then slowly started to insert my finger until it was up to the first digit. With my finger now inside I was able to feel around the rim of my ass. Again it was sore, but not painful.
I felt around a while, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be, and suddenly noticed that I had a raging boner. Closing my eyes I again replayed the image of being pinned to a bed and having two huge black cocks practically rip open my hole. During the actual experience my cock never even got remotely hard, but here I was now with my finger up my own ass and it had never been harder. How weird is that? When I was having the sex with those men my cock didn't even come into the picture, but afterwards there I was thinking about it and my cock was rock solid.
I quickly rolled over and pulled my legs up to my chest pretending that once again I was preparing to take a huge black pole up my ass. I repositioned my finger at my hole and started to finger fuck myself slowly at first and then faster. At the same time I started to stroke my cock to the rhythm of my finger fucking. Although it hurt a little because it was still sore I closed my eyes and tried to mentally get back to where I was that afternoon.
The term that I had given to the mindset that I had achieved that afternoon was "The Zone". I had used the same term before when I was working out. It was almost that same mental state I had when I was really hitting the weights hard or going that extra mile in a long run. It was the same, but it was different. When I was working out, getting in this "Zone" allowed me to do one more rep. When I was running it allowed me to run a little longer than I might have otherwise. When I was being fucked, getting in this "Zone" was something completely different. Even though it allowed me to do things I otherwise might not have been able to do, it was more spiritual than physical. When I worked out or ran it was just me. When I got fucked, there was someone else involved and they were pivotal in getting me in the state of mind where I thought I could do anything.
I stroked my cock faster and plunged my hole deeper with my fingers trying to get into that state of mind again. Although I was physically enjoying the pleasure and sensation I was giving myself, it still wasn't nearly the same as the real fucking I had endured the weekend before. I felt my cock getting close to orgasm and I roughly squeezed another finger next to the first. It hurt a bit because I had not put on any additional Vaseline, but it was enough to put me over the top as my cock exploded and I shot the biggest load in my life. The first shot landed high on my chest and the remaining two or three shots landed squarely on my stomach and did not dribble down the sides of my cock as they normally did.
I pulled out my fingers and went to the bathroom and got cleaned up and went to bed.
It had been a week since the encounter with the two black men and I had not picked up the phone. I had spent a lot of time thinking about what had happened and why I had allowed it to happen. Alone in my room I played the scene over and over again in my head. Why did I do it? Why did I let this guy take me back to his place and do those things to me? More importantly, why did I enjoy it so much? They were questions that had no answer and it would be some time before I came to terms with who I was and what I was becoming.
Several times I had picked up the phone and was in the middle of dialing the number, and then chickened out and hung up the phone. Was I fucking nuts? Was I really going to call this guy and let him pimp out my ass to strangers so he could make money? That was fucking ridiculous! Now that a week had passed the memory was starting to fade a bit into something like a dream. I knew it happened. There was no question about that, but I was starting to mark it off as just a strange experience - an adventure that would not be duplicated. "Really," I thought, "What in the hell was I thinking?"
I finally got up the nerve and took the phone number and got rid of it. I not only got rid of it; I burned it on the stove so that there would be no way for me to change my mind later. I knew that my hormones might try and trick me so I was taking no chances. This number was getting trashed and I was moving on with my life. End of story.
It was Sunday afternoon. It had been a week and a day. I was getting ready to head out of the house and go meet a friend to see a movie. I had cleared my head of all the thoughts about what had happened and I was going to go be a "normal" kid again. Yes sir, that is exactly what I was going to do...until I walked out the front door and saw Martin sitting in his car parked in front of my house.
I stopped, frozen in my tracks. This was not happening. The man who had practically raped me was not sitting in front of my house in his car smoking a cigarette. I turned around and saw my mother in the kitchen window baking something. She wasn't looking out the window, thank goodness, but any moment she would turn around and see this guy parked in front of our house. I knew my mother and she would not waste any time before investigating. The houses in our neighborhood were big and spread apart and no one just came and parked in front of one of them without having a reason. She would come out and ask him what he was doing.
Oh my God, I was in deep shit. I looked at the car, then my mother, then the car, then my mother, and back and forth several times before I started to get a hold of my senses. I casually walked up to his car - if you could call walking so stiffly that it looked like rigamortis was setting in - and bent down appearing to act as if one of my shoes were untied.
Without looking up I played with my shoelaces and whispered, "What are you doing here? You have to leave now or I will get in trouble. Please, just leave."
"Hey there little man. I've been waiting for the phone to ring, but it be silent so far. What's up with that?" He inhaled on his cigarette, leaned back in his seat, and casually blew a smoke ring across his steering wheel. He wasn't going anywhere. "I've been watching that fine women in there. That be your Mother little man? Yes indeed, she is mighty fine. I bet your papa is one happy man. Am I right? I say, am I right?"
"Martin, please, you really gotta go," I replied, still kneeling down pretending to tie my shoe. "If my mother comes out here I will be in so much trouble. Please, please, I beg you, just go."
Still staring ahead, Martin did not appear to hear a word I had said. "Why haven't you called me boy? I thought you and me had our selves a little deal. You do know what day it is don't you?" I didn't reply. "Well let me remind you, my little man. It be Sunday. More importantly, it be more than a week since we had our..." he hesitated a couple of seconds, "...our little ren-dez-vous." He punctuated every syllable as if pleased that he had thought of such a big word.
My initial plan of begging and pleading for him just to get the hell out of here was going nowhere fast.
"What do you want?" I asked urgently, looking back again to see that my mother was thankfully still pre-occupied with her baking. "We can talk about this somewhere else. Please just pull up around the corner and we can talk about it." I had had enough with this man and I was taking charge. I stood up and started to walk down the sidewalk hoping that he would just start the car and follow.
He honked his horn.
"I'm dead," I mumbled to myself, pressing my hands against my face.
I looked back at the car, and then at my house. My mother was no longer in the window and was no doubt heading to the front door to find out what was going on. I walked to Martin's window and leaned my head in. "Martin, my mother is coming. If you ever want to see me again, for any reason, I suggest you leave." I knew I was cornered and just putting forth the facts was all I could do.
"Well, Little Man, I'll make a deal with you," he said, flicking his spent cigarette out the window and onto the street. "You meet me at the park this afternoon at 5:00, near the bathroom where we first had our little encounter. If you don't show up I will be placing this here picture somewhere near where that pretty mama of yours can find it." He then reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a Polaroid. It was his roommate Jake on top of me, with my legs pinned to the bed, and his massive cock crammed completely up my ass.
Oh my god, when the fuck did he take a picture without me knowing about it? I didn't have a chance to think about that question before I heard the front door open and my mother, now looking quite serious, started to walk across the yard to where Martin and I now stood.
"5:00 Little Man," said Martin. He then started his car, put it in drive, and slowly just drove away leaving me standing in the road and looking at my mother, who was now standing on the sidewalk with her hands on her hips.
"Who was that?"
Think fast Little Man, "I don't know. He was asking how to get to Wrigley Field."
"He was looking for Wrigley Field my ass. What are you up to young man?" First I was Little Man and now I was Young Man.
"Really, he just asked how to get to Wrigley Field." I asserted, trying to act as if her assumption of me not telling the truth was absurd.
"Do you think I'm stupid? Is that it?" she responded.
"No," I replied, not sure where she was going with this.
"I saw what he pulled out of the glove box young man," she continued. "I'm not like all your little friends' mothers. I pay attention to my kid's life and I know when something is up, and something is definitely up."
Hopelessly caught, I decided to not even try to play the game anymore. I had lost and she had won.
"Okay, he wasn't looking for Wrigley Field." Although I would not lie to her anymore, I wasn't about to just spill the entire can of beans either.
"What was it pot? Cocaine? What was he trying to sell you?" she asked.
"Huh?"
"He was trying to sell you drugs, wasn't he?" she asked.
Maybe I wasn't so busted after all.
My mother, bless her heart, has always lived a very comfortable, yet isolated life. Like my father, she had grown up with money, attended private schools, and for the most part only associated with people just like herself. That being mostly rich and very, very white. She wasn't a snob exactly, but someone who hadn't experienced the "salad bowl" of colors and cultures that made up the world. I think she had a few Jewish lady friends, but knowing my mother that could be chalked up to plane old ignorance on her part, confusing the darker tint of their skin to either a good tanning bed, or regular visits to their vacation homes in the Virgin Islands.
Unfortunately when one is so secluded and protected from the real world, they tend to make their assumptions about how the "other people" live from sources other than the real world. In my mother's case, that would be the television. Not being someone who had any interest in situation comedies, she would often gravitate to the myriad of cop and detective dramas that flood the airways. An unfortunate byproduct of such selective viewing is that one gets the assumption that every Black, Hispanic, and Puerto Rican man was either a drug user or a drug dealer. Just as the rest of the world watches American television and believes that the majority of Americans live in 10 bedroom homes, with a swimming pool, and a maid, and dance to Britney Spears music, my mother believed that except for Bill Cosby there was no such thing as a black man who didn't have a desire to get the world hooked on drugs.
One time at a drive-thru restaurant my Mother was reaching out the window to pay the Latino teenager manning the cash register when the young man asked my Mother if she had a dime. "I don't think so young man," she responded harshly. "And you had better hope that by the time I get home I don't call the police." The cashier, looking surprised, handed her the change and we drove off.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
"Didn't you hear him? He asked me if I had..." she hesitated, trying to find the right word "...some Mary Jane."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, amazed.
"A dime bag, stupid! Weren't you listing?"
"Mother," I replied, putting the palm of my hand to my forehead. "The food was five dollars and ten cents. You handed him a ten dollar bill. He asked if you had a dime so he could just give you a five dollar bill instead of a bunch of change."
"You think so, Mr. Smarty Pants. Shows what you know. One of these days me and you are going to take a drive to South Chicago and I am going to show you exactly how these people live. Change my ass." Why a complete stranger would assume my mother had a "dime bag" did not occur to her. There was no arguing with her knowledge of how the world worked and I didn't try. I imagine her meeting Collin Powell one day and although honored to meet him I can picture her scanning his pockets with her eyes looking for the eight ball of coke surely hidden somewhere in his military jacket.
She was still standing on the sidewalk, waiting for an explanation.
"Okay, he wanted to know if I wanted to buy some..." I hesitated, trying to think what my mother would find truthful, "...weed."
She continued to stare me down with her eyes, not blinking, trying to see if I would snap. It almost worked before she responded, "Well...that sonofabitch is damn lucky I didn't get his license plate number. I mean, really, does that guy think anyone around here would want to buy any of his 'weed'."
"You scared him off, Mom. Good job." I tried to sound thankful that she had arrived just in time to save me from this stranger who surely wanted no less than to see me completely drugged out of my mind before the age of twenty.
"If he comes around here again, just stay away from him and come get me. You got that?" She started walking back into the house, stopped, then turned around. "One more thing. If I see you do something so stupid as to go up to a complete stranger's car again I will shove the heel of my shoe so far up your ass that you'll need to hire a professional spelunker to climb in there and retrieve it." She turned around and walked back to the house and went inside, closing the door behind her.
End of Part II
As always, send me an e-mail to luvblkmen@hotmail.com and let me know what you think. If anyone wants to include a picture of what they look like, or tell me of a special encounter they had, then please do. (Especially those black men who wrote me and let me know that they wanted a "turn" at that ass. Who knows, maybe we can arrange something...wink wink).