SUBURBAN PSYCHE
by
C. Lakewood
My name is Lauren Meredith. I am 30-something, fairly
well-educated (Radcliffe), and satisfactorily married for almost
ten years. Until recently, I have also been completely faithful
to my philandering husband. We are quite well-to-do and live in
an expensive house in an up-scale suburb. My husband, outwardly
devoted to his business affairs, has for some time been neglecting
me sexually, but I haven't really minded; I've had other things to
occupy my time: shopping, parties, concerts, theatre, PBS and NPR,
country club, gym, spa.... My urbane husband is a cad, but, all
in all, a rather considerate one...and an excellent provider.
Indeed, my life was very pleasant.
Then the serpent made his appearance.
We were in the process of having some extensive landscaping
done. The foreman was a big, muscular black man named Aaron. I
really paid little attention to him until late on the second day.
I was sunning myself in my "stealth" bikini -- flesh-colored and
scandalously brief. Stretched out on the secluded side patio,
I read "The Secret" for a while. It was my discussion group's
current book, and I was fascinated by its premise: that, if you
focus properly, you can achieve virtually anything you set your
mind to. Concentrate on what you truly do want in your life, and
rely on the "Law of Attraction" (the principle that you attract
whatever you focus your energy on...relationships, possessions,
goals). In effect, you shape your own reality....
An intriguing notion, but I wasn't sure how much I believed it.
I'd put the book down and was just lying there, drowsing, when
I heard Aaron talking angrily on his cell phone. (Apparently he'd
come around the side of the house to get some privacy from his men
and didn't see me lying there, partially screened by a hedge and
low stone wall.)
He was snarling, apparently at a girlfriend, about her less
than satisfactory sexual performance. I knew it was wrong to
listen in, but it WAS loathsomely fascinating.
"Listen, 'ho, you don' gimme no 'scuses. When I gets home,
you jus' better be naked, with yer cunt drippin' wet and yer
mouth real hot to suck my cock...." At that point, he snapped
his phone shut and turned...and stopped dead, looking right at me.
But he didn't hesitate. He walked right over and stood,
leering down at me, close enough for me to smell his Negroid
body odor. I started to stammer something indignant, but he
just shook his head, and I shut up. I cringed as he shamelessly
eyed me up and down. The whole scene was unsettling...and
strangely arousing.
"Nex' time," he said, with a crackle of authority in his voice,
"leave off the bikini." He stared at me until I nodded, then he
turned on his heel and swaggered back the way he had come.
I immediately dashed into the house, stripped, and sank into
an orgy of masturbation.
******************************
I spent the next day -- Wednesday -- inside the house, naked.
For a while, it was amusing to pass the time sipping sherry,
playing with myself, and peeking through the curtains, trying
to imagine what the various workmen might look like naked.
Afterward, however, I became annoyed at having been cooped up
all day by the boorishness of that ape. I resolved to put him
in his place the following day.
Accordingly, on Thursday morning I packed paté, brie, biscotti,
prosciutto, scones, some nice Danish butter, several wine coolers,
a jug of iced coffee, and a few other necessities. I put on the
same bikini and carried hamper, ice chest, sunscreen, portable
radio, and everything else out to the patio, where I was prepared
to settle in for as long as it might take.
About noon, Aaron appeared. Lying there with my eyes closed,
I could sense that he was staring at me, even while again berating
his girlfriend. I began to tremble, and, when he snapped his phone
shut, I opened my eyes.
"Up!" he barked, gesturing with his thumb.
What could I do? Blinking at him through the sun-dazzle, I got
to my feet with as much dignity as I could manage. I tried to look
him in the eye and tell him off, but no words would come, and I
self-consciously dropped my gaze.
"What'd I tell you about that fuckin' bikini?" he rasped.
"To...to l-leave it off...."
"Well?"
My stomach lurched. I felt I HAD to...to obey. I reluctantly
wriggled out of it and stood naked before him in a half-crouch,
trying to cover myself with my arms.
"No foolin' around, now, actin' modest. Stan' up straight,
Princess, witcher arms at yer sides."
My mind was in a whirl. I should have been angrily telling him
where to go...asserting my social and economic superiority...but
instead I was meekly following orders. I stood at attention,
hardly daring to breathe. Where was my outrage? Where was my
disdain?
He fetched his pruning shears out of his hip pocket, snipped
a slender sucker growing up from the roots of a nearby crabapple
tree, and, cautioning me not to cry out or break position, he
proceeded to give me a thorough switching -- on my bottom and
the fronts and backs of my thighs. I twitched a little and
cried a lot...but stayed silent and at attention.
When he was finished, he eyed me and asked, "You wet?"
"Y-yes, sir," I murmured and slid my legs apart to show him.
("SIR"? I called him "SIR"? He was no better than a baboon!
Why was I acting this way? It was so unlike me.... But he was
so dominating, and I was so...needy.)
He reached out and snaked a thick finger into me...and then
another. Oh, god! It was so dirty, so demeaning.... And so
thrilling. I clamped my...well...my CUNT down onto his fingers
-- if I was going to be a shameless slut, I might as well use
the appropriate terms. He twisted his hand around so that he
could tease my...my asshole with his thumb. And no man had
ever been allowed to touch me THERE.
After a moment, he pulled his fingers free and pushed down on
my shoulders. "Lemme see how YOU suck cock," he ordered.
"But...out here?" I whined, even as I crouched in front of him,
unzipped his pants, and fumbled out his cock (which was big -- and
rapidly getting bigger). The shaft was chocolate brown and the
bulbous head fuchsia. It stank of sweat and pee and musk. I had
never sucked a cock before -- and had never even seen a black one
-- but I avidly worked this one over with my lips and tongue. I
should have been revolted.... But it tasted delicious!
I was moaning and slobbering, licking and sucking, hoping to
make up in enthusiasm what I lacked in technique, for it was
important that I please him. I desperately wanted to show him
that I was better than his 'ho girlfriend.
It seemed to work, since soon he ejaculated a series of what
I considered large, thick blobs of semen -- cum -- down my throat.
I looked up at him to find that he was gazing down at me with
an expression of possessiveness, of ownership. No one had ever
looked at me like that -- my husband was too cool and most other
men too intimidated. I licked my lips and murmured, "Thank
you...sir."
And the feminist inside me shriveled and died, shrieking.
He looked inside the hamper and then lay down on my lounge
chair. He spent almost an hour reclining in the shade, lunching
on the delicacies I'd packed. I knelt, sweating, in the sun as
he fed me tidbits, which I nibbled eagerly and licked his fingers
afterward.
It was most surreal. This man was not physically attractive
(though he did possess a certain animal magnetism). He seemed
to be cunning enough, but not what I would call intelligent --
or clever or witty. And he was certainly not anywhere near my
socio-economic class or level of sophistication. Yet I was
practically groveling for his attention....
He stretched and smacked his lips. "Tasty, but not real
fillin'.... What time's yer ol' man get home?"
"Tonight? Well after 10:00, sir. He's...'working late' to
prepare for an out-of-town 'business trip' this weekend."
"Good enuff. After we quit for the day, I'll stop by the house
for some supper an' 'nother blow job. Whatchu fix that's good?"
"Tossed salad...lasagna...croissants...cheesecake?"
"Ho-kay. And beer, none of those pissy little wine coolers."
"Will you...would you...f-fuck me, please, sir?"
"Maybe...if yer a real good 'bad girl.' Know what I mean?"
"I think so. You want me to...be a-a slut for you."
"C'mere." He beckoned and I responded. Again, he cork-screwed
two fingers into my drooling cunt and played with me until I was
weak in the knees. "Don't cum now, bitch. Wait'll I fuck you
later. Ever been cornholed? Butt-fucked?"
"Oh, god! No!" I gasped. "That's so...so.... Do you...WANT
to...butt-fuck me? Would you?"
He grinned, displaying a gold tooth. "Ask me, real per-litely,
an' maybe I will."
Though could feel my virgin asshole cringe, I said, "Please,
sir, please b-b-butt-f-fuck me.... But please, be gentle."
"Shee-it! You gonna be my slut, you take it any way I wants
to give it to you. Right?"
"Yes, sir." I was scared, but still on the verge of cumming.
He nodded and pulled his fingers out, raising them to my mouth
so I could lick them clean. Why was being such a slut for this ape
so exciting? And it WAS exciting; my clit was throbbing and my
cunt aching to be filled. "Any way you want...but please do it
soon," I murmured. It was quickly becoming clear that I was not
just some rich bitch acting like a slut. I WAS a slut.
He swatted me on my sore bottom. "Now git in the house an'
start fixin' supper. Stay naked. An' don' wash -- yer startin'
to smell like a real woman. No playin' witchersef, neither.
That cunt belongs to ME, now. Right?"
"Y-yes, sir. My cunt belongs to you...a-and my asshole, too."
I scampered into the house, fantasizing about the lurid things
that were going to happen later.
******************************
As I busied myself in the kitchen, my hot cunt kept calling
for attention. It smelled and itched, and keeping my fingers
away from it almost drove me crazy, but I HAD to obey orders.
While the lasagna was baking, however, I tremblingly gave myself
an enema. I wanted to be nice and clean for my first "cornholing."
Apart from than these distractions -- or maybe because of them
-- the time seemed to pass with unnatural speed, and soon the work
crew was gone, and Aaron was at the door.
******************************
He seemed to enjoy the meal; he ate like a starving barbarian.
Afterward, he sniffed me all over and expressed his satisfaction
on the way my womanly odor was developing.
Then came the after-dinner entertainment. I gave him another
"bad girl blow job," but just long enough to get his cock fully
erect and covered with saliva. He was going to need more lubricant
than just my spit, so he utilized the last of the Danish butter.
He took me outside, into the gathering dark, and bent me over
a low stone wall. "Spread yer ass-cheeks an' push, like yer
constipated an' tryin' to take a shit...."
He slid two greasy fingers into my asshole to lube it up.
That didn't really hurt, but they were much thicker than the
enema nozzle, and I knew that his cock was thicker still.
Would it actually go in without damaging me? His fingers
seemed to be about the limit I could reasonably take.
But "reasonableness" had no part in this. When he pulled his
fingers out, I was more aroused than I can ever remember. I felt
empty, and I needed to be filled with his cock. I NEEDED to be
butt-fucked, and I trembled at the realization.
My train of thought had distracted me from what was going on
behind me, and, by the time I was aware of it, Aaron had his cock
inside me and was sliding it in and out, his belly slapping my
buttocks in a remorseless rhythm. My asshole was actually being
fucked! By a black laborer! Without a condom!
And it was almost unbearably exciting!
I growled and began humping my butt back at him. It was hot
and humid out there in the dark, and we were both soaked with
sweat, rutting like two primitives. As I gasped for breath, my
mind whirled off into all sorts of fantasies -- all involving a
dominant black stud and a more-than-willing white woman.
I don't know how long it lasted, but I had two orgasms along
the way. Finally I felt him stiffen...and his cock pulse. A
warm wetness filled my bowels.
And that triggered another orgasm -- the most volcanic yet --
which left me practically delirious.
After I had recovered somewhat, he herded me back into the
house with several sharp slaps to my backside. After I washed
off his cock, he took his leave, warning me to "get ready to
party this weekend."
I wandered through the big house, re-living what had happened
and speculating on what was going to happen. My feelings were a
stew of satisfaction, apprehension, loathing, and curiosity. I
fixed myself a drink -- a screwdriver -- and settled down, hoping
to make some sense out of it all, but my thoughts were disturbed
by what sounded like a woman shrieking, far distant, but rapidly
coming closer....
******************************
"Ooh!" I sat up, dazed at first. Even so, I could tell that
it wasn't a scream; it was a siren on a passing fire truck or
police car. Then, as reality gradually intruded, I discovered
WHERE I was: in my lounge chair on the little side patio, dressed
in my bikini. Then I realized WHEN: late afternoon...late TUESDAY
afternoon. It had been a dream? It HAD been a dream...and -- oh,
god! -- a WET dream, at that, judging from my very soggy crotch.
I heaved a grateful sigh. Thank heavens! What a disgusting
experience it all would have been, if it had been real. But it
was just a dream, and I was myself again! I was so relieved that
I actually laughed out loud. But then I remembered something I'd
heard in a Psych 101 lecture years before: "What does a chicken
dream of? It dreams of grain; it dreams of that which it most
desires."
I shuddered.