Date: Sat, 21 Oct 2006 11:17:46 -0700 (PDT)
From: Robin Reed <any_mouse2003@yahoo.com>
Subject: Moving In (interracial)

This is a fictional story that features sexual
relations between adult males, and if the laws of you
nation forbid it, or you are under the age of 18, you
are expressly forbidden to read further. Stop it. Go
away.

If you read on, remember this is copyrighted material
and you can only download it to store on your computer
for personal use later, at night, when no one is
looking.

Moving In

He called late, from some club, and told me he was
going to come by and see me.

Of course I said "OK." What choice did I have? I take
him when I can get him, and his pals would not
understand us being together. He is a big masculine
man, and I am slight of stature. They say I look like
an academic, which is not far from the truth, at least
when I am working.

It is when I am not working that I get to be what I
am, really.

I am white, and he is black. I am out, though not a
flamer, and he is not. Defintely not. But I am working
on that.

We met quite by chance.

I had a moving crew bring my stuff to my current
place, a little row house not far from Fells Point. I
like the inner harbor area. People are genuine, and
they let you be.

The crew was black, of course, husky young African
Americans, and it was pretty exciting. The eye-candy
was extraordinary.

They were decent guys, though of course playing polite
in the hope of getting a fat tip. I was wondering if
they were stealing me blind, not caring that much as I
thought about the fat tips that were swinging free
under those baggy three-quarter gangsta shorts. They
were working hard and sweating, and I was getting weak
in my own knees at the pure male aroma they produced
as I helped them position something carefully.

I do like white cock, too, for the record, though that
is more a case of any port in a storm. and I can
always close my eyes and imagine anything I want. It
was a black man who brought me out, long ago, and
black dick that I have dreamt about ever since.

At the aquarium I have a pal who is a young and quite
lovely woman; southern Spanish by ancestry birth, and
she must have some Moorish blood in her. She tans
dark.

She goes out with a stud who is black as night, and he
has her dressing in street fashion. She changed before
leaving one afternoon into a tight top that showed off
her pointed breasts that pout with ease-sized nipples
and left her midriff bare to show off the tattoo and
the ring in her navel. Her jeans hung low on her hips,
and she wore platform boots. She loves to hang on his
arm, smiling that smile that lets you know that once
you go black you never go back.

She even has her lustrous black hair semi-frizzed to
look more ethnic.

She could almost pass, going the other way, and I wish
her well on the journey! I wish I could do that. I
just waved from my cubical as she sashayed by my
cubical on the way out.

She winked at me as she went, and I knew she would be
in those clothes only briefly. I often imagine myself
as her, my ankles up over her boyfriends shoulders,
getting the pumping of my life with that massive black
rod!

Ooh, the thought makes me quiver. I think she knows,
but I am shy or I would ask her if she has met any
players who might like to fuck me the way her
boyfriend does her, but that is something that has not
come up at our staff meetings. I would try to hang out
with her, but I don't want that big black man to get
the wrong idea.

I mean the other wrong idea, of course.

I am a retiring fellow, though I know what I want. The
bar scene makes me a little nervous, particularly the
places where I would like to meet the kind of men I
would do anything for. It might be that I would have
everything I didn't want get done to me, and not get
the anything I needed.

I became pretty aroused when the moving crew was
handling almost everything I owned, and I came up with
a plan. Once everything was in place, I would ask the
crew chief to come back and look at something that had
been mishandled, and then I would just ask if I could
mishandle something of his, just for the road.

What is the worst that could happen? He could call me
a fag and walk out, or he could hit me, though I
thought that was unlikely, considering it was a
business encounter.

I liked the two younger guys on the crew, they moved
like cats, muscles rippling. The crew chief was a few
years older, and tall. His hair was neatly trimmed,
and the white of his eyes and teeth were in brilliant
contrast to his ebony skin. He was trim, but solidly
built, and he wore a thick gold chain under his khaki
work shirt.

The tag on his shirt said "Albert," and I did not
presume to call him "Al" when I went out to the truck
at the curb. The young men were folding packing
blankets and the two-wheel carts on the truck.

"Albert," I said diffidently. "There appears to be a
discrepancy in the manifest. Could you come in and
check it with me?"

He gave a small frown, thinking he was done with this
run, and already on the next one in his head. He
followed me up the four stairs on the low stoop and
into house. He did not close the door behind him. I
walked through the living room and across the small
dining area to the kitchen, where we could not be seen
trough the front window. Two tall china crates were
stacked with the list on top. A crisp fifty-dollar
bill lay across them.

I turned as he came in. I gestured at the papers but
did not pick them up.

"Well," he said. "What seems to be the problem?
Anything broken that you want to put a claim on?"

"I just wanted to privately tell you how much I
appreciated your courtesy and efficiency on the move,"
I said. "And the fact that I would love to find a
personal way to thank you. Anything at all, if it is
really personal." I didn't know how he would react,
and wondered if I had been too subtle.

I shouldn't have worried. I think movers get a lot of
attention, particularly from people who watch them
muscle their most intimate things around. Albert was
handsome, and he knew it. A wide smile spread across
his face. "If you mean anything, we need to be running
along. But there is something you could do, if you got
on your knees."

I just about fainted with relief, and slid immediately
to a position on the linoleum floor in front of him.
His grin went ear to ear and he reached to zip down
his fly. "You little fags all love a black cock, don't
you! I thought I had you made for one!"

I looked up with anticipation, and licked my lips. I
kept my hands on my thighs, waiting for the prize.

"Now, work quickly, boy. I have things to do besides
stick my dick in your mouth."

He fished in his trousers and brought forth an ebony
shaft that was already starting to thicken. I leaned
forward as he let is fall free, arcing to the right. I
opened my mouth, leaning over to catch the tip on my
tongue.

I licked it, tentatively at first, and then closed my
lips around the massive cornice. I began to tongue him
rapidly, swirling my tongue around, smelling the
essence of his working body. It made me feel giddy,
and I closed my eyes in deligiht.

"Look up at me, fag. I want to see your blue eyes
above my fat black cock."

I mumbled something that might have been "Yes, Sir"
around his massive member and looked up at him, his
face beaming. I began to lubricate his shaft as best I
could, leaning in. I tongued him and swirled around
him until he grunted in pleasure.

"You go, you little slut. Suck that cock. Yeah."

I worked him steadily, always looking up as commanded.
He became hard as a rock, and I managed to get him all
the way to the back of my throat with comfort. Still,
inches of him remained, and I wanted to bury my nose
in his black pubic hair.

"That's nice, soooo nice," he said. Then he reached up
with his right hand to stroke the shaft, pumping
rapidly as I sucked and licked him. He grunted, and
his eyes closed and I knew he was close. Three more
hard strokes and he plunged himself into me, gripping
the back of my head.

It almost choked me when he climaxed, thick ropes of
warm man-juice jetting almost directly down my
esophagus and into my stomach. After five hard jolts
he held me still, obviously very sensitive. Then he
let me go, and I eagerly lapped up the last strands
from the tip of his spear, savoring them on my tongue.

He let me clean him for a moment as he softened. Then
he pulled himself from my mouth and stuffed himself
back into his pants, hiking them up as he sipped.

"Now you call if you need any moving assistance in the
future, you hear?" He chuckled as he said it, and I
scrambled to me feet, breathing hard. The slime of his
balls was on my lips and the musky smell of him filled
my head.

"Here is something for the crew," I said, handing him
the fifty. "Maybe they could get lunch. I enjoyed
mine."

"I know you did, you little pervert." I might have
blushed, but I don't think so. "I wrote my cell number
on the bill. Copy it down before they spend it. I
would like to do that again."

"Just might," He said, stuffing it into his pocket.
"You have a nice soft mouth."

Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen,
whistling a snatch of some song I did not recognize.

That was the start of it. He did not call for a few
weeks, and I thought my boldness had put him off. Then
the cell went off one afternoon at the Aquarium, and I
peered at the unfamiliar number. I answered, and the
voice I remembered asked if I was the little fag that
liked black cock.

I answered that I certainly was, at least for the
right black man, and that I could be available just
about any time. The voice on the other end chuckled
and told me that around Miller Time I could expect
something to drink.

"Yes, Sir," I said, and I think my pal in the next
cubical heard my tone, because a wad of computer paper
came flying over the divider.

"You be careful," she said. "Or if you can't be safe,
be good."

I am such a slut. I think I did blush.

***********

Albert showed up just after five, coming back from the
depot on his last delivery. I got him a cold beer, and
he drank it standing as I serviced him on the same
spot I had before. He let me work a lot longer this
time, since he had nowhere to go, and he let me stroke
him after nearly a half-hour of pleasuring him. I was
hard as a rock myself, but I had no desire for
anything except his hot seed in my mouth.

He belched as I licked him clean, and he laughed.
"This is just about perfect," he said. "Cold beer
after a hard day, and a hard dick in a warm mouth. I
could see this being a regular thing."

I assured him that would be just fine with me, too,
and that is how it went. He began to stop by several
times a week on his way home. He was married, he told
me, but lived his life on his own terms. Sometimes I
would cook for him, and have a plate of finger food
with a cold beer on the side table next to my
comfortable chair in the living room when I serviced
him.

He seemed to be content with that, since he was the
passive and very top participant in the evolution, and
I was the hungry cocksucker.

*************

It took me almost six months before I could get him to
fuck me. That was a special day, and I made a plan. I
was nude from the waist down and in the kitchen. I
cleared the little butcher-block table off, and placed
a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil on one corner. When
I heard him hit the door I bent over it face down,
with my legs spread.

"I don't smell nothing cooking," he bellowed as he
came through the living room. He stopped dead as he
looked into the kitchen, seeing me as vulnerable as it
is possible to see someone. My rosebud winked at him
from between my outstretched cheeks.

My head was sideways on the wood, and my arms cradled
the table. "I was thinking that you might enjoy
something that starts cold but heats up," I said.
"Maybe drizzled with oil."

I was afraid that he might think this was too gay for
him, but I heard him chuckle and the sound of his belt
unbuckling and his pants sliding to the floor.

He picked up the bottle of oil and unscrewed the cap.
I waited for the cool liquid to hit the top of the
crack of my ass, and my bud tensed instinctively as
the oil ran down over it.

He was not particularly gentle when he penetrated me,
but he was patient, pushing hard to pop the tip of his
massive cock through my anal ring. I gasped at the
sudden pain, and then he stopped, and I felt him pour
more oil. He pushed in a little, and withdrew, and
then pressed again. The oil worked its magic, and I
could feel myself warming and responding. The
discomfort turned to something else, warm and
fulfilling and quite wonderful.

Then he drove all the away in, his bulb massaging my
prostate, and I groaned with delight. Then he began to
stroke in earnest, and the table creaked with the
impact of his thrusting. His balls slapped my ass and
somewhere along the way I came in waves, jetting over
the side of the table. A while later, I don't know how
long, he came as well, grunting hard in pleasure.

When he softened, he pulled out suddenly. I lay there,
delirious and empty, feeling the loss of that mighty
fullness and completion. I heard him rip a paper towel
from the roll, and wipe himself. Then the sound of a
zipper, and the buckling of a belt.

"Damn," he said. "You are one sly little faggot." Then
I heard his footsteps leave the kitchen and later the
door slam shut.

I did not hear from him for a few days. I think he
might have questioned whether fucking me was different
than having me suck him off, and if it meant he was
going queer. If that was the case, he never mentioned
it. It took him seventy-two hours to work it out and
he was back.

I had locked the door, since I did not know if he was
ever coming again. I unlocked it and opened it wide.
There was beer on his breath as he stood there, and I
began to unbutton my shirt.

"What are you doing?" he said suspiciously.

"Anything you want, Albert. Anything at all."

**********

Once he started fucking me, the intimacy went to a new
level. Fucking me from behind was, of course, only the
prelude to his fucking me on my back. It was only a
step from that until he had his tongue down my throat,
and once that happened it was only a question of time
until he just stayed right where he was, cock buried
in me, and stayed the night.

This morning I woke early, the sky still black
outside, the room dark, and was spooned up against my
strong black man, left hand around his waist, gently,
so gently, grasping his sleeping manhood.

Testosterone levels are supposed to be the strongest
in the morning, that and the pressure of the bladder
can stimulate the organ into rampant erection while
the mind is still in dreamland, the proud cock rising
to the occasion.

"Need to piss," he mumbled, feeling himself thicken,
and he started to rise.

"No, Baby, I'm here, remember?"

"Um," he grunted, and turned on his back. Half hard,
his giant snake arced upward. I found it in the
darkness, and my lips trembling with anticipation as
they cover the silken smooth helmet, and my tongue
pushes deep against his piss-slit.

My strong black master moaned a bit, and tensed. I
know what is coming, the coppery taste of the first
urine of the day, and I clench my mouth around him to
ensure that no drop leaks out on the bedclothes.

Not that it would matter. He would just fuck me on the
wet spot, and I will do the laundry for him today
anyway, dreaming of his hardness buried within me.

His flow started slow at first, and I encourage him
with gentle suction. He doesn't need much, my
stallion. His urethra relaxed and his flow mounted,
almost to all I can take, gurgling down the warm acrid
fluid. The smell of it rose in the back of my mouth
and up through the passages to my nose, and it is both
horrible and wonderful, this most intimate and basic
of services.

I took all of him that I could, and this small act of
subservience, drinking his piss in our bed, completed
something deep in me. My stomach churned with his
warmth as his flow declined to a trickle. I nursed
like a babe against Albert's proud cock, ensuring that
all of him in safe within me, and then I begin to
probe his slit with my tongue, and began the
transition from his relief to building his first
pleasure of the day.

He placed his hands on the back of my head, and he
moaned, telling me what a good piss-drinking, cum
sucking white bitch I am, and how he will feed me that
smaller, but more precious load of man-cum, if I just
keep licking and sucking him.

"You fucking bitch, you are a trip."

I nodded against him, reluctant to take my mouth from
the source of his mastery and strength. I loved his
hands on my head, and the way he tugged insistently on
my ears, driving his now-massive shaft into the back
of my soft palate.

I hoped that if I got him close enough he would turn
me over and fuck me hard, and then allow me to clean
him off with my eager lips.

I knew exactly what I wanted for breakfast, and I got
lucky.

His warm sperm was still leaking down my legs when I
fixed him breakfast. I like to fix him a good
breakfast, with fried eggs and bacon, before he heads
off to his day.

I don't know if he will ever be comfortable being seen
with a white faggot like me, academic or not, but so
long as he feeds me what I need, I'm happy to be his
bitch.

Considering how far I have got him to come in the last
year, I'm cautiously optimistic, you know?

Copyright any_mouse2003
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