Gay Interracial - Sex Stories

Gay Interracial

... Malcolm in his mouth, even while piss still dripped from his chin. I was as excited as I have ever been. I followed Ken into my father's bedroom, feeling my cock bounce as I walked, and watching the wonderful cheeks of Ken's ass dance. I went into the bedroom and assumed my position on my parent's bed, holding my legs up high so they could meet Ken's shoulders as he bent down on top of me. He wasn't slow. He wasn't soft. He wasn't gentle at all as he looked down at me and watched my face clench in pain. He was too excited, too loaded to be patient. He didn't stop when he was halfway in, where he was as deep as he ever was inside me before. He just kept pushing. I think I screamed, but if I did I don't remember. What I do remember is that look in his eyes, the same white, pitiless glare his son has when he's taking what he wants. What he needs. Strange, though - for all the pain, for all the surprise in his manner I was still hard, there was still pleasure even in this. Pleasure in the strength, the glory of his hard black body that drilled into me from above like a spider. "You such a tight, tight, pussy ass!" "Oh, Daddy!" I fought for breath. "Oh, Daddy, I love your big balls." "My big black balls!" "Yes, Daddy, I love your big black balls!" And with that he started doing it, pushing and pulling inside of me. Getting himself off. I had to time my breaths between his thrusts. I could feel the bed creek, and I knew my mother's picture was behind me somewhere. I kept my ...

... promise - he did get all the way in. Far enough that our bellies touched; far enough I had trouble breathing, for that thing of his seemed to drive all the air from my lungs as it pushed inside. Far enough that I came myself, from the rhythmic contact of his belly on my cock as he thrust into me. When he was done, he rolled off me, and lay beside me to catch his breath. I slid over and placed myself in his arms, but when I lay on his chest he felt different. He wasn't really touching me. He felt so different that I picked my head up and looked at him. He was looking up at the ceiling. "Now I wanna watch them do you," he said, still not looking at me. And then, once again, I knew what girls felt like. How they felt when they gave in to a man, when they let the sweet talk and the whispered secrets soften them for the hard cock that always followed. And how it was afterwards with them, when they realize that the intimacy they thought they won was an illusion - they're just one more pussy. But I wasn't a girl. I was a boy, and like all boys the only thing that really matters deep down inside is sex. Just sex. "So send them in here, then." ** So that was the spring that formed me. That was the spring when I learned who I was, and what I wanted deep down inside. Not that I was gay - no, I never did stop loving pussy. If anything, my experiences with black men made me more sensitive to women - I understood their perspective. I'm married now; I live with my wife and my two children in a ...