Gay Erotic Stories

At one time the house on every lot touching on ours, on either side and along the back, was occupied by university couples. We serve in different departments, though, and both a university football team assistant coach and the women’s basketball coach are living in the neighborhood, so our neighborhood gatherings aren’t quite as stilted and inbred as our required-attendance departmental functions. On the whole, other than the women’s basketball coach living with another woman, however, we’re a pretty dull, vanilla bunch, full of pomp and circumstance and stuffy academic dignity.

Ours also is a pretty “in for the duration” neighborhood, university positions here being coveted and safe enough that, once acquired, they are not often given up. We’ve lived here nearly a decade now, and we are the next-to-newest residents for a block in any direction. It was the recent turnover in the house backing on the south side of our property that threw my world off balance.

When we moved in, Wilfred Singleton lived in that house, a brick Dutch colonial with little back yard to speak of at all, which, however, was so overgrown when we moved in that we couldn’t even see his house from ours—nor did we hear anything from that direction, even though we had a screened garden pavilion almost abutting the fence between the side of our lot and the back of his. So peaceful and inviting was the pavilion, which overlooked our flagstone garden, with a fishpond and trickling fountain, that I immediately claimed it as my writing study during the warmer months of the year. The pavilion had electricity, with Wi-Fi connection, a grouping of comfortable patio furniture at one end, and a table at the other end big enough for me to lay out my laptop and all of the research material I might need. We lived in the lower middle south, so I could work, sometimes until 3:00 am, in the pavilion with just the sound of the fountain, crickets, the frogs in the pond, and the ceiling fan lazily whop, whop, whopping overhead.

Singleton had been an economics professor at the university—quite a well-known one too. I had heard of him before we came to the university. But he was retired and was a recluse—and obviously had done little or nothing to keep up what had once been an extensive rock garden, teeming with azaleas, rhododendrons, hemlocks, and Japanese maples surrounding his house. I was actually surprised he was still alive, as I hadn’t heard anything about him for several years before we moved in.

I was told that he had resigned his professorship and become a recluse some five years earlier, when his wife, a Spanish literature professor, had been hit and killed while she was out for an evening walk by a car on the winding, narrow road in front of their house.

I did see him now and again, standing among the clutter of his back yard, blinking his eyes and looking a bit lost, and we did exchange brief pleasantries on some of those occasions. I think he knew who I was, but he was always vague enough that I wasn’t sure. My pavilion was set high enough off the ground that I could clearly see over the wooden fence separating our lots.

Last year about Christmas time, though, I heard sirens on his street. It was cold enough then that I was working in my study on the second floor, which had a window overlooking his lot. I could see the flashing red light on top of an emergency vehicle through the trees and, both curious and concerned, I walked around the corner to see what was happening.

Singleton was sitting on the tailgate of an ambulance and several other neighbors had already gathered around him. He was wrapped in a blanket, but I could tell that he otherwise was naked. He had the vacant stare of someone who just wasn’t there.

“My husband called 911,” a neighbor, who was the director of the university press, was telling a small group of people when I walked up. “Wilfred was just out on the street, stark naked, and screaming for a car to run him over. Poor dear. It’s happened before, but never this bad. I guess now he’ll have too . . .”

I retreated, having heard what I needed to hear and not wanting to intrude any further into Singleton’s melt-down or the grief he never had seemed to be able to recover from. I thought this was all very sad, but I knew that the neighborhood would be relieved—that Singleton had become much too shocking and unconventional for the comfort of the community and that now, naturally, he would have to be put in a nursing home.

The house sat vacant until the late spring—and quiet except for the three weeks in the last part of March, when a couple of middle-aged couples—probably Singleton’s daughters and their husbands, went through an orgy of filling a dumpster in the house’s driveway with what looked like perfectly good items. I remember nearly hyperventilating one day when standing at my study window and watching them toss in Singleton’s extensive collection of books. I was sure that a small fortune in research material—and most likely the makings of a core library for an economics department in some university—was going to the landfill. But the couples were from out of state and I’d never seen them there while Singleton was alive. So, I guess their lives and interests had not intersected with the professor’s for some time.

I didn’t think more about Singleton or that house until mid summer. We always went to either England or France in May and June, officially to continue our own studies, but really because we loved being in Europe so much. We crossed the Atlantic together, but often, once in Europe, my wife, Joanne, and I went our separate ways. We weren’t a close couple, but we were compatible; we liked and respected each other and our careers bolstered each others. We were both professors by the time we met, and both were people more focused on our individual lives and interests than on a significant other. But, teaching at the same university, we found we were comfortable with each other and we both had reached a stage in our life when we appreciated having a companion to share meals and discussion and little discoveries with. I suspected that Joanne was a lesbian, and, for all I knew, she was aware that I had only slept with men—seeking out a particular kind of man that would be an extra taboo where we now lived—and not even men for a few years before we married. At our stage of life it just didn’t seem to matter. Not that we were old; we were both in our early forties. But because we were settled in our ways and happy with them. Or, in my case, resolved to be as happy as possible under the circumstances.

I’d kept my needs and wants private pretty successfully. In my twenties, I’d gone looking for what I wanted—and in some pretty dangerous areas. I don’t think anyone who knew me now would guess at the peculiarity of what I wanted, what aroused me. As I’d gotten older and became more successful in academia, I increasingly realized that what I wanted just would not be acceptable in the world I was entering. I had wanted it so badly that I let myself be degraded to get it in my late twenties. As my career was firming up, I listened to myself when I was being satisfied the way I wanted to be. It wasn’t dignified; it wasn’t what a mature English literature professor should pant for. So, I slowly weaned myself off it, at least here in this town. But I still wanted it. I couldn’t deny that. Marrying and settling down in this university town—in this particular neighborhood—was part of my campaign to overcome my latent desires.

But I—and I presume Joanne, as well—saved our pursuit of our fetishes for a time, she for her Spanish women, and me for my Francophoned young men from northern or central Africa, for our European springs. At least through my thirties. I had given up my short spring European affairs with young black men six years previously in a burst of self-control and denial. I didn’t know if Joanne had given up her fetish too. I rather thought not.

I noticed the difference next door when I came back to our university town in late June. I suddenly—and a bit distressingly—could clearly see the back and back garden of the Singleton house. To my eye, it had moved a good twenty feet closer to our lot line while I was in England. Joanne was still in France, having secured a sabbatical there. She wouldn’t be home until the fall. So I was batching it. There was a glassed-in sun porch on the back of the Dutch colonial, an addition to the house that I hadn’t even been fully aware of while Singleton was in residence. I could clearly see into that from both my garden pavilion when I stood up as well as from one of the windows in my second-floor study in the house.

The house hadn’t moved, of course. It just had sold and the new owners were having the gardens cleared, which made the house loom larger—and closer—visually. And they were having a stone patio laid to cover all of the back yard except for the bushes and ornamental trees that were being kept.

It was several days after I returned that I espied any activity over there, though. It was the sound of a woman’s voice on the telephone—a voice that carried and a conversation that was interspersed with lilting laughter—that brought me to the window of my study.

The garden room of the Dutch colonial had been transformed into a usable den. Whoever the new owners of the house were, they had traveled and had eclectic tastes. The room was furnished and had touches of both the Mediterranean and the Orient. There was a desk in a rich rosewood color that, from its carvings, was probably from China or Hong Kong. There were fan chairs; some brass work, perhaps from Turkey; and what appeared to be a double-bed-sized studio couch with a flamboyant Indian-design coverlet on it and a profusion of pillows in a myriad of textiles and patterns. As jumbled as the sunroom space was, it all seemed to go together well.

Sitting at the desk was a trim brunette, perhaps in her late forties. She was having an animated conversation on the phone and doing much of her speaking with her hands, frequently tucking the phone receiver under her chin. I doubted she had any idea her voice carried as well as it did. I had been sitting in my wing chair just in front of the window and trying to read some pretty difficult poetry passages in Middle English when I had become aware of the level of sound coming from the Dutch colonial. Fully aware of it now, I found myself standing at the window, looking down into her back yard, and concentrating on what she was saying—and just not quite being able to catch the words. It might have been all right and I could have focused away from it on my own reading if I either couldn’t discern any words at all or could clearly hear the conversation. But this middle ground just would not work.

Still standing at the window, I was becoming resolved to move to my wife’s study at the other end of the bedroom wing, when my eyes caught movement outside of the neighboring house, in the garden. A man was there, working on clearing undergrowth in the far corner of the lot. He was black and not too young or too old, perhaps in his early thirties. He was tall and well built. Not heavy and not thin. But he was very well muscled. He was wearing shorts but otherwise was naked. The muscles of his arms and chest were well defined, tapering down to a slim waist and flat belly. He was an ebony black, but seemingly not of the American variety. He looked more Caribbean, the aspect of a Harry Belafonte or a Sidney Poitier. Which, to me, meant that he looked sensual and desirable.

I stayed at the window, watching his movements perhaps a moment too long, as, possibly sensing he was being watched, he looked up and saw me in the window. We both stood, transfixed, if for only a moment, and then he looked away and picked up a pair of hedge clippers and I turned away and went, almost reluctantly now, to my wife’s study, my Middle English poems in hand.

Over the next few days, I caught glimpses of them both—the brunette woman on her telephone in the sun porch—and the Caribbean hunk working on the garden. Within days, other neighbors had told me about Cleo. She was an anomaly for the neighborhood, so I could sense the hiss in the conversations I heard about her. A single woman and not connected with the University. Some neighbors believed she worked in some sort of import-export business but also that she was independently wealthy. The rumor was that she had paid cash for the house.

I didn’t ask about the young black man, and no one else mentioned him either. We were well enough down in the south that it wasn’t unusual for black workmen to be around and about—and for people to not really “see” them. Certainly not discussed by the likes of us. There were black professors and athletic coaches at the university, of course, but they were considered to be in a different class altogether. Almost acceptable.

I can’t say I didn’t “see” this young man—I took every opportunity I could to get glimpses of him. But then, I wasn’t the typical resident in this neighborhood, I didn’t think. This despite how hard I’d tried to be just right for this neighborhood.

Beyond those little snippets on the new owner, Cleo, no one seemed to know much of anything.

The shock, torture, and glory of my life came at the end of that first week. I had eaten dinner late and watched a BBC Masterpiece Theater mystery in the downstairs den that was a quite large extension off the back of our house, projecting into our garden. Having finished with the TV later than was customary for me, I was later than usual coming up to my study to work on a lecture. I entered the room and was just about to turn on the light, when a familiar—but very out of place—series of sounds assaulted my ears. Rather than turn on the light I moved to the study’s window on the side of the house and, from the dark room, looked down into Cleo’s garden.

The lights were on full on her sunporch. Both she and the black gardener were naked. She was on her back on the studio bed, in full view, and was writhing while she grunted and groaned in that voice of hers that carried so well. The black gardener was crouched over her between her legs, holding them up and out with his fists, and rhythmically fucking her. He periodically dipped his mouth down to the nipples on her full breasts and gave suck, while she arched her back and grabbed his short-cropped head.

I stood at the window and watched the full performance from her first and second throatily announced orgasms to his answering ejaculation. I felt my buttocks cheeks clinch and expand in the same rhythm as his as he pumped her. The undulating ebony muscles of his back were glistening slightly with the effort of the primeval copulation. He was a magnificent animal in full prime and conditioning. I felt my hand go to my engorging cock, and I held myself through the material of my trousers and stroked down the length of me with a thumb. And then back up, and down.

When he was done, he turned, casually picked up a pack of cigarettes from the desk and came over to the glass wall opposite my window perch and lit up. My breath, already ragged, caught in my throat, and I heard a low growl coming up from inside of me. He was horse hung. His muscled body perfectly proportioned but for the noticeably oversized, magnificent black cock and the low-hanging testicles, giving him, especially in remembrance of his just-completed performance, almost a primeval aspect reminiscent of fertility rites.

Cleo, still spread-eagled on the studio couch was rubbing the fingers of one hand in the folds hiding her clitoris and working her nipples with the fingers of the other hand.

He was looking out into the night, and it seemed like he was looking up at where I stood at my window. Surely he couldn’t see me there, but it certainly seemed that he could. And not just that he could see me but that he could see into, through me. That he knew that I wanted him inside me too. I could almost hear jungle drums in the background marking the exotic—and erotic—intrusion in our staid, very proper neighborhood.

I ached to be part of that tableau.

I gave a little cry as I ejaculated inside my pants. I drew away from the window, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave the room. I withdrew only enough that there was no way that he could see me but that I could still see into the sunporch.

The young black man was masturbating himself with one hand while he smoked the cigarette down to its filter with the other. I unzipped my fly and pulled my cock out as well. It was a sticky mess, but that didn’t prevent me from stroking it as I watched him stroking himself hard again—and felt myself getting hard again too.

In full, magnificent erection, he turned, stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray on the desk, and returned to the studio couch. I watched, mesmerized, as he leaned down, put an arm under the Cleo’s waist, and turned her, first, onto her belly, on the studio couch, and then pulled her up to her knees. She let him manipulate her as he would. I watched in both shock and arousal, as he pushed that long, thick, black cock into her again—but this time into her ass. She writhed under him again and became quite vocal again. But they were exclamations of encouragement and satisfaction.

I turned and fled the room, seeking out the bathroom in my room—Joanne and I have both separate bedrooms and bathrooms—and barely made it in time before I ejaculated a second time into the toilet bowl.

I couldn’t punish myself any further. I stripped, tossed my clothes in the hamper to wash early the next morning in considerable embarrassment, showered, went to bed naked—and masturbated myself to another ejaculation while visions of the black gardener’s erect cock and the clinching muscles of his buttocks played over and over again in my head.

That was only the first of frequent sexual couplings I saw between Cleo and the black gardener on the porch, both during the day and at night. And I participated in all of the ones I observed.

Ours was an insular university town and our neighborhood an even more close-knit, conventional community. Within a week I’d heard the scoop on the young black man from a neighbor with mutual property lines to mine and that of Cleo’s Dutch colonial.

That neighbor was southern town raised and bred and thus a bit breathless and scandalized by what she had to tell me over our shared hedges running between our driveways.

“He’s living with her apparently. He introduced himself to me as Emmet. He says he’s looking for work. It’s her house, of course. She’s the one with the job. And she’s obviously older than he is.”

After a few more days I had occasion to introduce myself to Emmet myself. He was serving wine for one of the wineries at a wine festival being held on the grounds of a historical plantation house only about three miles to the west of our neighborhood.

His voice was deep and rich. I knew it would be. He didn’t seem at all surprised when I asked him if he lived at the address of the former Singleton house. It was as if he knew who I was and where I lived.

I was at a loss for words to have a coherent discussion with him, so I couldn’t pursue my curiosity. But it seemed that he knew what I had seen—and how it had affected me.

When we shook hands, I felt the electricity. I wondered if he did too. And he might have, because he didn’t let loose of my hand until someone nudged up at my elbow, wanting a wine tasting, and the liquid brown eyes of his that had been boring into my depths turned back to his current duties.

Another week after that I heard his voice on the local jazz and classical music station, and I confirmed in a discussion with him over the back fence when he was working in the garden, and I was, unsuccessfully, trying to work in the pavilion and ignore that he was working in the garden, that he had gotten a job—at least temporarily—at the radio station.

Stealing a march on the neighbors, I declared to all within blocks that I was having the neighborhood gathering for brunch on July 4th and went to considerable effort and expense to provision the affair, even though various neighbors were bringing this and that. We spread out between our large first-floor den opening out onto a covered patio, the flagstoned garden around the fishpond, and the screened garden pavilion.

The whole reason I’d gone to this trouble was to be with Emmet, even if I also had to be with twenty other assorted university professors and administrators. Cleo came and was vivacious and the center of much of the attention, particularly of the men. The women were faked smiles to her face and catty behind her back. If she knew that—and I gauged her as too intelligent not to know it—she showed no signs of being bothered by it.

Emmet didn’t come, however.

“I’m sorry Emmet couldn’t be here, professor,” Cleo told me as she entered through the gate in the fence between our properties—we were such a tight-knit community that, although we had wooden fences separating our gardens, each lot had a gate in the fence to each other lot it abutted. When I’d heard the squeak of the hinge of the gate between our two properties, I turned in anticipation. Cleo must have seen my face cloud up when she came through alone, as she was quick to apologize for Emmet’s absence.

“He has a radio program to give today—actually a string of them. He’s junior on the staff, so he draws the short straw on holiday coverage.”

“I’m sorry he can’t come,” I said. I’m sure my voice made clear just how sorry I was. “Please let him know I’m sorry he couldn’t come.” I know I sounded idiotic, but I was just that disappointed.

The party went on famously, though, and I soldiered on. It was only later in the afternoon, when it was over, and the maid had cleared everything out and left me alone that it fully hit me. I was alone. I was really alone.

I felt sorry for myself. And when I felt truly sorry for myself, as I did now, I reached for the collections of English poets.

After nibbling on leftovers for dinner, I went out to the screened pavilion. It was a hot and muggy night. A typical July 4th evening in the lower middle South. Knowing it would be hot in the pavilion, I stripped down to gym shorts and sandals. I could have stayed in the air-conditioned house, but it was oppressive in the house in more ways than temperature and humidity. And oh so lonely. For the first time since Joanne and I had parted in Paris earlier in the spring I missed her—not sexually, of course, but for her companionship. For the sound of another voice. And maybe to help curb what was growing inside me. The desire that I had so carefully stifled.

Once in the pavilion, I realized I probably was out here to hear that voice of Cleo’s that carried so well from her sunporch—and, more specifically, to hear another sex session between the two. Looking over the fence, though, I saw that her BMW convertible was gone. Emmet’s Mustang was there, but Cleo had mentioned something about a dinner or some other affair she had to go to. Most likely he’d gone too. The Dutch colonial was dark.

I had come out with a bottle of Shiraz and a glass, settled myself in the loveseat glider at one end of the screened pavilion, and slowly buried myself in the poems of John Keats.

So engrossed had I become in the rhythm of the poetry that I wasn’t immediately sure of the sound I heard—the sound of the squeaky hinges of the gate in the fence between my property and Cleo’s. Emmet was there, at the door of the screened pavilion, before I fully realized what was happening. And so strong had been the mystical worlds that Keats had been weaving in my mind that it didn’t immediately register with me that Emmet was real.

He was naked, his manhood swinging low between his legs.

He pulled open the screened door to the pavilion and entered.

The whop, whop, whop of the overhead fan and the beating of my heart had become oppressive. I was close to hyperventilating. I couldn’t bring myself to speak, still struggling to separate the Keats poems from reality. This couldn’t be happening. I had so carefully sublimated these desires.

“Cleo told me that you wanted me to come,” he said in that rich, low voice of his. “I’ve seen you watching me. I think I know what you want, what you need. I think you want me to come inside you. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

He had moved to me, and I spread my legs to let him come into me very close. I could not speak. My answer was to reach out for him, my hand cupping his balls, lifting his jet-black, hardening cock with the heel of my hand, and leaning forward and opening my lips over the tan bulb of his ebony cock. My eyes locked on the thick blackness of the cylinder as, with a sigh, I pulled it, lovingly, inside my mouth cavity.

He fucked me in the glider, crouching over me, his hands under my buttocks, pulling them up to give his cock a straight angle into the depths of me. My wrists locked around his neck, my legs running up his torso, ankles on his heavily muscled shoulders. We kissed deeply, repeatedly, as he moved the glider back and forth, slowly, pulling my channel on and off his deeply buried staff.

I cried quietly while I told him how much this meant to me. I spoke of my first lover, a black field hand on my father’s farm in Mississippi. Of our forbidden love—for more than one reason—in that time and place. How big and thick he’d been. How black his cock was. Nothing compared to Emmet, though. Thinner, not as beautiful. But my master all the same.

“Oh, god, how I’m loving this,” I murmured. “How? How . . . did you . . .?”

“How did I know? The need was in your eyes. And you were there when I was fucking Cleo. Each time, it seemed. And I could see it in your eyes. You were having sex too, weren’t you? With me?”

“Yes. Oh, god, yes. Like that. Oh, god, oh fuck. I’m going . . . to . . . coooome.”

“I can come now too, if you wish. This is your wish? Do you want me to pull out and come?”

“Yes, come. But don’t pull out. Silas, don’t leave me. Give it to me. Big . . . black . . . cock.” I moved my legs down and hooked my ankles together on the ledge of his bulbous buttocks, holding him fast to me, as his breath grew ragged and he jerked a couple of times—and bathed my insides.

We held there for several moments, neither one of us moving a muscle. “Silas. Was that the name of your first lover? Your black lover?”

“Yes.”

“So was that part of your obvious fascination with me? Black cock?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I know that sounds . . .”

“It’s OK with me. I like white ass. Man, woman, it doesn’t matter to me what white ass I’m fucking. It’s all the same to me. So you like having this black cock deep inside you? Churning and revolving. Black cock is good enough for a university professor, is it? You like being mastered by a black man?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been fucked by a black man before?”

“Yes. Many times. It’s what I want.” But he was distracting me, pulling me back into the immediate. “Yes, oh fuck yes,” I cried out. He was working me again and I was panting hard. “Love that black cock,” I whimpered. “You’re my master. Black, black, black. Inside me. Deeper. Work me.”

“Good to hear. You’ve got a sweet ass—for a professor. So tell me, professor. All of the lovers since that first one . . .”

“Black, yes. All black. That’s what I want. He’s got to be black. Oh, god, I want this so bad. Don’t . . . talk . . . now. Just fuck.”

He laughed a low, guttural laugh at that admission.

He worked me for a while, showing me he could do anything he wanted with me. And I melted to him. He slowed, though, not giving me another ejaculation just then. When we were cooling, he spoke again.

“What happened to that first lover. Did you . . .?”

“I went to graduate school; he went to Iraq. He never came back.”

“And after that?”

“Black. They all had to be black. And big . . . where . . . it counts. I know, that’s so stereotypical. But I can’t help it. It’s got to be black and big. I’ve tried others . . . but I can’t.”

We paused as a breeze went through the screening of the pavilion, setting the wind chimes to tinkling.

“The breeze feels good on my back,” Emmet murmured.

“I’m sure it does. But you hardly raised a sweat. And it’s so hot and humid tonight.”

“Is this how Silas fucked you? Slow and easy?”

“He was usually very anxious. Impatient. Hard and fast.”

“Would you like that now—for the memories?”

“Any way you want. But, oh, god, could you? Would you?”

He fucked me that second time with me bent over the table and holding the far edge with my fists for dear life as he crouched over me from behind and pounded me and pounded me and pounded me. This time after I’d ejaculated onto the floor of the pavilion under the table, he pulled out of me and shot up the small of my back. Then he thrust back inside me, laced his arms under my arm pits, locked his fists behind my neck, arched my back up to him, and fucked me hard until he came again.

“Silas do it like that?”

“Not nearly that well,” I whimpered.

“You had enough?”

“Never enough.”

“Would you like me to come inside with you? Sleep with you tonight?”

“Cleo?”

“Cleo was called away on business. We have three days and nights.”

“Ah.”

* * * *

Total surrender to my need.

Emmet was lying at the foot of my bed, the small of his back on the bed, his tan-soled feet on the floor, muscular legs spread. He was holding and waving his erect cock with one hand, and he had his head raised, looking past that, down the line of his luscious black torso, to where I was crawling along the floor toward him. All propriety and pretense out the window. Just the need and the desire. And that big, black cock.

“Black cock, black cock. Come and get it,” he was singing in a rich, deep, quiet voice. He was grinning at me.

When I reached the bed between his spread legs, I went up on my knees and reached out with trembling hands and touched his cock on either side with the tips of my fingers. I ran my fingers up and down the sides of the staff, lovingly. I followed the line of the thick vein on the underside with my thumb. Looking down the line of his magnificent ebony torso at me, Emmet grinned and a deep, growly laugh bubbled up from deep inside him. His cock was getting bigger, harder under my worshipping touch.

I leaned in and gently rubbed the jet-black phallus on each of my cheeks, making soft mewing sounds, showing my pleasure, my awe, my total submission to it.

“Suck my black balls, professor. Show me how much you want me—what you’ll do for a black master, to have a big, black cock ruling you. This isn’t about me. This is about you, what you need and want and have been denying yourself for too long.”

I took each orb in turn in my mouth and then both of them together, separating and moving the nuts into my cheeks on each side. I hummed softly, vibrating the balls in my cheek cavity, and he arched his head back, staring at the ceiling, and gave me a low growl of a moan. I was holding his cock cupped in a hand, loving that it was still growing, still getting harder, throbbing.

“You do this for your black soldier boy?” he asked in a low, hoarse voice.

“Mmm, mmm,” was the best I could manage.

“It’s surely a mystery that he ever left you and went to war then. Are you my little white man whore, professor? My black cock your idol, your god?”

“Mmm, mmm.”

“Lick it. Make what you love a lollipop.”

After moving my mouth away from his body, pulling his balls taut and extending them, being rewarded by a deep groan from Emmet, I released his ball sack, ran my tongue up his shaft and slowly licked across and around the purple bulb of his cock, which twitched against the hand gently cupping it. I ran the other hand up his belly and smooth, hard, ebony chest and played with his nipples, one after the other with a thumb and forefinger.

“You want it inside you now, don’t you? Down your throat, rubbing your tonsils, don’t you, professor?”

“Yes,” I whimpered. “Be good to me, Emmet. It’s been so long since I’ve been used this well, this totally. I need it so bad.”

“Well, all right then. You can suck it now.”

My mouth opened down over his cock. I shuddered with pleasure, desire . . . and surrender.

Minutes later I was straddling his hips, positioning his bulb at my hole, groaning in ecstasy as I slowly sank on my idol, what at this moment was my god. His hands on my waist, he grinned wide, murmuring that I was free, that it was all mine, that he knew this was what I needed, what I wanted beyond all else in life. Pulling it deep inside. Riding it, riding it hard. Black cock, black cock, black cock. BLACK COCK!

All those years of work, of self-denial. Jettisoned. Out the window. I . . . couldn’t get . . . enough . . . of black cock.

* * * *

July and August were heaven. The first week in September I met Joanne in Paris and we went to Oxford for a week before coming home.

When we arrived home, the Dutch colonial next door was empty. No one could tell me where or why Cleo and Emmet had moved away. Everyone seemed pleased they were gone, though. Just too different. They didn’t fit in.

I was devastated, of course. But everything was relative. I had had my summer of bliss and memories.

And Emmet had told me about the young hunk of a university assistant football coach down the block—and what he really wanted to do and that he’d confided to Emmet that I aroused him. And the coach was black too and was especially anxious to meet up with me when Emmet told him what I thought of and what I’d do for black cock.