My friends and I are in our forties and early fiftyies, so when I say “younger,” I mean in our thirties. There is nothing wrong with enjoying the company of a younger man. When you’re drunk, irate, and unattractive, however, any kind of attention from a good-looking man can get your blood pumping. In addition, we had discussed our fascination with the BBC, and it was a topic that perpetually occupied our thoughts.
When they asked what we were discussing, one of my friends volunteered: “You know girl stuff, relationships or lack thereof, financial issues, whatever is going on in our lives, and then men we talk about men, the one we have at home, if there is one, and what is on the menu this evening, just girl stuff.”
I didn’t particularly enjoy the guy’s hand wandering around the dance floor, but I didn’t try to stop him. To my surprise, I found out that my two best friends had been invited upstairs for a drink during one of our group trips to the restroom (as it is common knowledge that women should never use the facilities alone). They said it was up to me whether or not we went; if I said yes, we went; if I said no, we left. Why not say yes and see what happens? We get drunk, then head back to our respective homes. We visited their bedroom which was located on the second floor. There were three of “them,” and the same number of us.
In a nutshell: I had a hangover and woke up in my bed, naked except for my underwear. The girls I was with were lounging on the couches in another room. I don’t know how I got there, but I found out later that I voluntarily locked myself in there. I was able to retrieve all of my belongings, including my clothing, without any damage. There were a few hundred dollars and a note on the nightstand that read, “Thank you so much for the amazing time we had together; I’ll be texting or calling you soon.” To buy me a few drinks, which I apparently had too many of because I passed out. I can’t recall engaging in any further activity.
A few days later, I received a mysterious text message asking if I could schedule another “appointment.” Not knowing what to do, I texted back, “??” thinking it was a wrong number. with the reply, “This is Cathy from the casino the other nite?”
“Yes,” At some point in the evening, I gave him a blow job, and from then on, he kept calling me “the call girl.” This is why he left the $100 bills. I could not recall anything, so I simply lied. The picture he sent me showed me on my knees, shirtless, staring up at him with his Black Cock in my mouth.
Photoshopped fake! I can’t say for sure, but I can say that I didn’t blow a black man.
“It makes no difference if you recall.”
What if I deny it, what if I wasn’t a call girl?”
He claimed, “I sucked him like there’s no tomorrow, and he wants to meet up with me again.” When she asked if this was real, I said, “No, this can’t be.” He promised to drop by, show my husband the photo, and hear his thoughts. In a public setting, I agreed to a meeting.
We arranged to get coffee the following day. He flipped open his phone to show me, and I saw a picture of myself on my knees, looking up at him with his cock in my mouth. He pulled out his camera and showed me dozens of shots of me sucking his cock from various perspectives. He had pictures of me in various states of undress, including some in which I was wearing nothing but my underwear. Someone else had to take a few of these. When the last pictures he showed me were of his cum on my face and I was licking it off my lips, I felt nauseous and had to run to the bathroom, where I threw up.
A few minutes later, I gave my face a quick wash, collected myself, and went back to the table. We are in serious financial trouble, I told him, so blackmail was out of the question. I won’t ask for money because I already have plenty, but the price is having your mouth gulp down my cock every week. I was repulsed; I couldn’t believe I’d done that. Obviously, I had a lot of alcohol in my system. To say nothing of cheating on my husband with a black man, I would never subject myself to blow jobs. In no way have I ever found them appealing. I was speechless because I couldn’t think of anything to say. He provided a deadline by which I needed to make a choice. He promised to send me a text in a couple of days with the details of our meeting. One of two things happens: either I show up and suck his cock, or pictures get sent to the hubby.
I don’t remember anything after that except that I was back at home. I must have been hazy-headed as I drove home; muscle memory, perhaps? As I reflected on what had transpired, tears began to well up in my eyes. Either I become a whore for black men’s blow jobs, or my husband will find out something that will cause our marriage to end. That which, in all candor, I cannot recall, but for which there is evidence.
I was at a loss, so I just tried to get through each day as usual: work, cooking, cleaning. My husband and I had very little sexual chemistry, but I acted as if we did. By feigning a sore neck, I managed to avoid sucking him. It was inconceivable to me that anyone, not even my husband, would put a cock in my mouth right now. The next day, you get up, go to work, and come home to find yet another batch of bills waiting for you.
The following day, however, it was waiting for me the moment I walked in. I was annoyed by my phone’s “You got a text” tone. For some reason, I knew it was true this time. It was he, without a doubt. It instructed me to apply some lip balm and report for duty. A location and a deadline were specified by him. My husband always gets a picture/video text if I’m going to be late. I turn around and leave the house, heading for the place where I can, in theory, salvage my marriage.
When I knock on the door, he opens it and invites me to have a seat on the couch. He prepares coffee as he explains my new responsibilities. I have been instructed to give him two or three blow jobs per week. When I open my mouth to speak, he tells me I can’t because I’m not physically present. He sat down next to me on the couch with a cup of coffee and instructed me to remove my shirt. I begin to sob, but he assures me that the more quickly I comply with his instructions, the sooner I will be released. Again, I am instructed to undress to the waist. This time, it’s the shirt, the bra, and the pants. Since I need to be able to use my mouth, I can feel comfortable wearing underwear at all times. He sips his coffee and says, “It will calm you,” before suggesting that I do the same.
I feel like crying, but he doesn’t seem to care. He gets to his feet, unbuttoning his pants and undies before settling into a chair. When he took my hand and motioned for me to look at it, I recoiled slightly. He slaps me on the face, not too hard but enough to make me comply or offer an explanation for my bruised appearance. To be honest, I gave in to his suggestions and let him hold my hand. After one minute, he puts his hand behind my head, grabs my hair, and says, “You are going to learn to love this.” He then proceeds
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/z5jgp4/im_about_to_start_crying_part_1