Blacked Wives: Big Black Christmas Present (My Hubby Gives Me A Hall Pass)

You know, I’ve often thought that relationships are like volcanoes. Early on, they are fiery, convulsing with passion and everything is hot and fluid and exciting. That doesn’t last, particularly if your relationship is long term. In fact, pretty soon after the wedding, you find that the heat cools, and the relationship settles, to lie dormant for years. For some couples, the volcano fizzles out entirely and they become extinct; cold and rocky, where once they were hot and dangerous.

The thing about volcanoes is that you can never entirely be sure that they are extinct. Sometimes, with a volcano, after years of inactivity, there is a sudden, dramatic eruption, and all the pent up heat pours out, transforming the landscape. That’s kind of what happened to me.

I’m Sarah. I’ve been married to Mike for six years. We met in college. He was fit, tall and handsome, worked out and played sports, a really active guy with a great smile and a confidence that put me at my ease, and I was on the rebound from my second boyfriend. We dated, and three years after college we were married. Mike majored in finance and took a job at an investment bank, which means he earns enough for both of us and I can afford to live a life of leisure.

That part of our relationship is great. Not so great is our sex. I’m not going to be shy about it; I like sex; much more than Mike, in fact. I found that out the first time we made love. I had been planning all kinds of wild antics. I wanted him to fuck me in every conceivable position. I wanted us to fuck all night. Mike, however, is not that sort of guy. One orgasm and he was spent.

He’s also pretty, well, vanilla. In all our time together, I had never managed to get him to come up with an unusual fetish or a fantasy, beside wanting me to dress up like a cheerleader, and let’s face it, as fantasies go, that’s about as low-fat vanilla as it comes.

I did once tell him that I wanted him to be as dominant in bed as he appeared to be in real life. His reply was that he didn’t see himself as dominant. He said that he was confident, yes, but not dominant, and certainly not up for being sexually dominant. He was so apologetic about it that I had to reassure him it was no big deal. I mean, it was, but it didn’t change how I felt about him.

There was something else as well, another fantasy that Mike was not capable of fulfilling on his own, although that was hardly his fault. Let me explain.

It all started one night not long before Christmas. I had been at Marie’s house, helping her to get over her break-up with Chris, and by the time I got home, I just wanted to go to bed and hold my husband. It seemed that he had other ideas. When I opened the front door and wandered into the house, he was waiting for me in the living room, with the lights off.

“Honey? What are you doing still up?”

I flicked the light on. He was sitting down, staring straight ahead. I kind of wandered if he had been waiting up to surprise me with a session of impromptu sex, but one look at his serious expression dispelled that notion. Besides, Mike did not do impromptu anything, particularly not sex. I sat in the chair opposite and waited for him to say what was clearly on his mind.

“I know,” he said, eventually.

“Know what?”

“Your little secret.”

“What little secret? What are you talking about?”

“Over there,” he said, pointing at the sofa.

“Books?” I said, gazing at the pile of books on the middle of our sofa. “Books aren’t a secret.” And then I recognized the cover of the top book. Instantly, I knew what had happened. The last time I had seen that book, it was hidden securely at the bottom of my wardrobe, with all the others. He had found them. My only option was to go on the offensive.

“How did you? How dare you go in my wardrobe?”

He looked directly at me. His calmness was kind of intimidating. Mike was generally easy to read. If he was angry, he didn’t seem it, but then he didn’t seem particularly happy either.

“I was after the blue shirt. The one you borrowed.”

He was right. I had borrowed his shirt. I wore it one evening, with a skimpy little thong in an attempt to surprise him with kitchen sex. Needless to say, it didn’t work.

“The shirt fell on the floor and that’s when I found the books.”

“They were in a box!” I protested

“The lid was off the box.”

That was probably true. I had been reading one of the books that evening when Mike came home and had to fling it into the wardrobe quickly when I heard the door opening.

We sat there, in silence, neither of us looking at the pile of books. You might be wondering, what kind of books these were, that had caused such a strange reaction in my husband? Well, if I tell you that they went by titles such as Harlem Lover and Across The Divide and Milk and Chocolate, perhaps you might get the idea. My favorite, the one I had been reading that afternoon, was called Wild Stallions. The cover depicted a delicate young white woman reclining in the arms of two powerful black men, while two more stood behind her.

So, yes, I’d been caught. It was more than a little embarrassing. But I wasn’t going to apologize. I tried to brazen it out. I told him that everyone has some kind of fantasy. This is mine. I didn’t sound particularly convincing. I looked at him, trying to work out what he was thinking – a new experience with Mike. I concluded he either thought I was some kind of racist or that I had betrayed him.

In fact, it turned out to be neither of those things.

“I’m not angry, in case you’re wondering.”

“You’re not?”

“No. In fact, I’m a little turned on.”

His remark hung in the silence between us, echoing around my head. It was one of those situations in which you think you’ve heard something but you can’t quite trust your ears.

“Turned on?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Okay…” I said, warily.

“Maybe you should try it?”

“I’m sorry, try what?”

“Try it. With a black guy. If that’s your fantasy.”

I think my jaw may have hung open a little. Was he really suggesting that I go and find some random black guy and have sex with him? Seriously?

“Honey, I love you.”

“I know. This isn’t to do with love, is it.”

Well he was right about that. It was about lust. Pure, glorious lust. The lust and pent-up desire of a young woman approaching thirty who just wasn’t getting enough sex.

“All I’m saying,” he continued, “Is that if you wanted to do it, it wouldn’t make any difference to our relationship. I am giving you permission.”

My head was reeling.

“No!” I replied. “I…I’m not going to do that.”

“It’s okay honey. I will ask just two conditions. That you only do it once. And that you record the whole thing.”

“Record it!”

“Yes. I want to watch my beautiful wife being fucked by a big strong black guy. A guy like Derren.”

“Derren?”

“Yes. Bet you’d love to.”

I was struggling to keep up with the way this was developing. My husband wanted me to have sex with a black guy, and to record it? And now he was suggesting Derren?

“No, honey, I don’t want to fuck Derren,” I lied.

Derren was our neighbor. He was tall, much taller than Mike, built like an athlete and imposing. He was polite, formal, but not warm and there was something about him that stirred my deepest darkest fantasies. Oh yes, I would love to fuck Derren. I had imagined it so often. But I couldn’t.

“Look, I don’t know if this is some kind of test, but I’m not going to do it, so can we just drop it please,” I said.

“Okay,” he shrugged. “But remember this. I gave you permission.”

*  *  *  *

We didn’t mention our strange conversation for several days. I hid the books, properly this time, and I tried to pretend that the whole thing hadn’t happened. But deep down I was in turmoil. My husband was giving me permission to fulfill my wildest dreams. All the barriers that I had put up in my head about having a wild fling had been removed. The path was open. I could do it. But still, it was wrong. Wasn’t it?

Two weeks later, Mike came home from work early and told me he had to go away for the weekend. There was an emergency pre-Christmas executive meeting in New York and he had to represent his trading floor. It meant an early start the next day.

“You know, this could be an ideal opportunity,” he said.

“For what?”

“Derren,” he replied, smirking.

“Seriously? This again? Look, I told you, I’m not doing it.”

“Okay, okay, but you know, if it should happen, we have those mini security cameras in the garage that we never installed. They’re wireless so you won’t need to do anything.”

“Mike, please.”

“Consider it my Christmas present to you.”

“I’m not doing it, okay. I don’t want to,” I lied. Again.

He smiled.

“Okay, honey, whatever you say.”

Mike left early the next morning and was gone by the time I woke. I fixed myself some breakfast and watched a little television, as I planned myself a lazy day, and then I remembered that I had promised to dig out the Christmas decorations from the garage.

As I headed down to the garage, my conversation with Mike of the night before had gone out of my head completely, until I saw the cameras. They were still in their box, on the top of a pile of recycling materials. A thrill tingled down my spine as it all came back to me: Mike’s suggestion, Derren, the early Christmas present, the books.

I shook my head, as though to get rid of the idea and found the decorations. As I hauled them out of the garage, I passed by the cameras and absent-mindedly put them on the top of the pile.

In the living room, I dropped the boxes and sat down. The cameras were right there. It would be easiest thing in the world to set one up. I could sense my fevered, sexually-frustrated brain trying to find ways to make this happen, despite myself. Eventually, I gave in; sort of. My plan was to set up the camera and put on a show for Mike. Just me. That way I would get rid of some of my sexual tension, without having to break my marriage vows.

Setting up the camera on a high bookshelf, I connected it to my laptop, and then I hurried upstairs to get ready. I wanted to make myself look extra hot for Mike.

I tied my hair up and spent some time perfecting my make-up, wearing a little more mascara and eyeliner than usual and making my lips more luscious and redder than I was accustomed to. If I was going to perform, I told myself, I should look the part of a porn star.

I chose a slinky, tight black dress, which clung to my curves so sexily, particularly as I wore no bra. Sheer stockings and a diamond-decorated thong completed my outfit, along with my shiny five-inch black heels. I admired myself in the mirror. Mike was in for a treat.

Just then, I heard a noise outside. I clattered over to the window and felt a surge of trembling lust and excitement as I saw Derren. He was working on his car. The hood was up and I could see his powerful upper body as he hunched over the engine. I bit my lip as I watched him, imagining that he was hunched over me. I wanted him. I needed his strong black body against me…

 

Want more?  Grab a copy on Amazon

Blacked Wives: Big Black Christmas Present will be available on Amazon for $0.99 from December 16th to December 18th.

*This book has been ADULT LISTED by Amazon, which means it can only be found through links I provide and my AUTHOR’S PAGE.

 

 

 

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