by H. A. Nicola
"The feeding in video 1 is still making me horny.
PS: Remind me to make sure you’re aware of my platinum AMEX status the next time you are in my company."
"Video 1 was amazing. If only I could find a platinum amex hungry white fuck.
Platinum Amex! Really? Wow. Impressive white toy."
"Dirty, dirty black MILF…
Your toy awaits his next command."
“I believe I’ve made my commands VERY clear.”
“Coffee? I’ll use my platinum card.”
"So if the Mayfair, Westbury and the Intercontinental are merely aware of your gold status… what establishments pray tell are privy to your Platinum Amex credentials?
Claridges?
The Savoy?
Ritz?
Dorchester?"
Chapter 31
“Good morning. Still seething about the ever-present Sheik at the Hilton yesterday that seemed to be as enamoured by your presence as I am.”
"Yes, I was just wondering what suite the Sheik may have commanded in return for exclusive black pussy rights.
In fact, from my furtive research… they have been known to hire an entire floor in which to entertain royalty in the style to which they are accustomed. Flying in flowers from Geneva, fresh oysters from France.
I am beginning to fear, dear boy, that this cardinal warfare for black territory is one for which the Arab world is better equipped. I couldn’t possibly imagine what a mere city exec, prone to spreadsheets and excessive calculation before action, would need to do to even compete. My heart bleeds to think of you desolate in the womb of the wharf… whilst I am transported to exotic climes for spicy exploits and queendom upgrades.
Where anywhere beneath the penthouse is on par with a British basement and jewels other than diamonds are discarded like cheap tapas.
Poor Languid Lee, destined for abandonment. Languishing in milk chocolate sewers for eternity… mourning the loss of moisture, tightness and high-quality caramel.
Whatever will become of Careful Colin? Who, in his immediate circle will ever believe he once dared reach for exotic fruit in the heart of London and got resolutely (half) blacked until his heart was content.
Will he ever forget the memory of the equatorial Queen he once encountered, and finally forgive himself for not meeting the challenge to become a Daring Dan.
In actual fact, he went on to live unhappily ever after with Safe Sally, taking yearly vacations on senior citizen cruises with decrepit wrinkly Caucasians.
I truly hope Evasive Eddie will one day step outside of his comfort zone and live on the edge where real living begins.
Or will Boring Boris forever stroll to Chanel Café at precisely 11:03 to place his usual tab before resuming the order of the day."
“I will never make the mistake of asking you to torment me again.”
"So … you can’t give me what I want, and now you can’t handle torment.
How short-lived this escapade into the dark side turned out to be.
I’m off for a fucking Sheik hunt."
Why did she insist on taking her frustration out on him and toying with his already fragile ego when it was clear he was determined to put a smile on her face.
Yesterday he had been so attentive, almost adoring. The sensitive way in which he looked at her couldn’t be denied. She could feel a depth of feeling that didn’t come across in their email correspondence. When they sat opposite each other, and she clasped her hands together over the table, he would subconsciously reach for her hands before remembering himself and pulling them away. If a strand of her hair fell over her face, he would instinctively move to tenderly push it aside and then look bashful as though he hadn’t meant to.
This was all becoming quite confusing. Hadn’t she been the one who had stipulated that she had just wanted a bit of fun? That there was no need to reveal too much about each other. So why was she now pondering silently the circumstances of his personal life? What of the fact that they were yet to exchange telephone numbers or addresses. Was this something she should question. She was certain there was somebody in his life, although there was no evidence of them on his Facebook page. Admittedly she had browsed it once or twice, but she justified herself that he was the first one to reach out to her Facebook page during the three-month hiatus when she had cut him off.
Why did she now find herself wanting more? Not much more at this stage. Just a little more. An invite to his home for lunch perhaps. The odd direct phone call.
What did he want from her?
She remembered their encounter at the Intercontinental when he lay looking at her intently and almost absentmindedly admitted that had she not had any children, he really would be in trouble. He clearly wanted children. Why had he left it this late in life? It’s alright for you, you’ve already got your brood, he had mockingly chided on another occasion before asking her whether her children were black, and whether it was a conscious choice.
She recalled the smile of admiration on his face as she had passionately expressed how important it was that her children look like her and carry the intrinsic features of her heritage.
Her child-bearing days were surely in the past. Hurtling towards her mid-40s, albeit in the best shape of her life, was no time to contemplate adding to her little herd. She had promised herself that she would never do it out of wedlock again anyway.
She fantasised occasionally about getting married, not the dress and ceremonial aspects so much as the day-to-day and having that knowing that you are in it together. Properly married. Not just settling for someone but finding someone exceptional to enhance an already full life, who, in addition, would now have to be an exceptional stepfather.
That morning she had received confirmation by email from E-Quip that her position as playgroup coordinator had been confirmed, and that further emails would follow detailing the terms and conditions and requiring her to e-sign the necessary documentation.
When she had informed him, she could feel the pride in his written voice.
“Hey, that’s great. Well-done, you. I knew you’d do well. We must have a celebratory cup of tea.”
Somehow despite a packed schedule of meetings at the office, he was determined to see her. His urgency was palpable.
There was something in the way he made her feel. As though she was the only person there, or at least the only person who held his interest. They looked at each other longingly, their eyes communicating words that could not be spoken. The silent conversation continued as they strolled towards the opposite side of the quay so as to delay their parting. Their matching, long winter coats aligned, so that passers-by would not be privy to the furtive touching going on beneath. Her hands would appear as though they were simply stuffed deeply into her pockets, seeking warmth from the chilled conditions as they stood facing each other, hips pressed together as though about to render a choreographed, intimate rumba. Her outstretched fingertips, hidden within the confines of their full-length fabric lining, were stroking his rapidly lengthening cock, slowly and seductively. He momentarily rested his head back and looked skyward enjoying the pulsing of his blood flow. He glanced around tentatively, relieved that his altered profile was hidden from view.
She looked up into his face and whispered without coyness
“Touch me.”
She needed him to know that there was nothing to separate his touch from her soft, moist intimacy; and that under her skirt, the satin finish of her cocoa-buttered skin was without constraint.
He read her eyes and answered the call with immediacy. His fingers reaching inside her belted coat, slipping within the inner folds and curving under her mini-dress, hastening the short distance to the source of heat that emanated towards his hand.
One finger, then two. It only took one stroke, and his hand cupped to catch the soft silk dribbling into his palm.
A gasp escaped them both almost at the same time. He brought his mouth down to meet hers which was parted slightly, waiting for him.
She knew that if they hadn’t happened to be standing in the middle of a lunch-seeking crowd, that he would be on his knees, burying his head inside her coat and sucking hungrily on her Queenly labia, salivating as each enriched pearl moistened his tongue.
If they had been alone, she too would have surely beaten him to the post, gladly and temporarily abdicating her deity, kneeling before him, mouth agape, his own jewels encircled, devouring and tea-bagging away, oblivious to the dull lunchtime hubbub.
They pulled away, reluctantly, adjusting their coats to protect evidence of spent passion. They stood momentarily staring at each other and then almost in sync, as though performing part of their own unique swansong, they backed away a couple of steps before turning around in opposite directions and walking away without saying a word.
Chapter 32
“Did you see the way he rose for the Queen?”
“So sexy.”
“It felt good being blacked in public…”
"Indeed, white Sheik. I wish I was sitting opposite you with each leg sprawled on two separate tables with no panties on, gyrating on the boardroom swivel chair and clenching and releasing my cinnamon clit.
You would soon abandon your spreadsheet and crawl over to the source of my spice mix aroma, tongue hanging out.
Lick away, white Sheik. Lick away."
“I only wish I could. I’m so very thirsty. My mouth is so dry.”
"I’ll be sure to store up extra juice for you.
Could have sworn I’ve just felt the sensation of white cock wedged in my vagina. I opened my eyes and was alone.
My pussy must have been experiencing muscle memory.
How it longs to be ravaged in a terroristic onslaught. Until there is a massacre of cunt juice and pussy debris all over the crumpled sheets. An array of drenched towels discarded around the room as the white Sheik slumbers after his princely feast."
She was turning herself on again, yielding herself to the consequent bout of pent up frustration that followed.
“I’m so fucking white-cock hungry.”
“Such a dirty bitch… hardening at my desk.”
“I think I’m done with busy execs who are more turned on by a conference meeting.”
“I’m not more turned on by a conference call—I’m turned on by your greedy filthy need for platinum, and what I have to do to keep the status…”
“I’m turned on by your black hunger and your white cock.”
“Show me that delicious, tight, wet black cunt that has utterly corrupted me and fucked up such a nice innocent good boy.”
"You think you’ve seen corruption?
By the time I’ve finished with you, you will need blackberry juice as part of your five-a-day.
My eventual absence from you will evoke terror, like a Jamaican man on Father’s Day.
Panic like an immigrant denied indefinite leave to remain. Discomfort like a so-called platinum executive seated in an actual authentic haute cuisine Tapas restaurant."
“That’s made me laugh. Thank you. You do make me laugh.”
Several days passed without a word. Cayenne was annoyed with herself to realise that she was actually missing the messages. The urgency and hunger that satisfied her so much.
Usually, she made sure to wait until he reached out to her, careful not to be the first to text.
Today her emotions got the better of her.
“All okay?”
“Serious executive stress… left the wharf estate in the company car service at 2:00 a.m. My sore eyes need something.”
The video she put together for the stressed executive was worthy of an Academy Award. After much painstaking trial and error, she managed to position her phone, leaning it strategically against the velvet-buttoned foot of the bed ensuring that the camera was trained resolutely on the vaginal samba taking place between her legs.
There was no formal routine to the dance, but every motion of her hips produced an effect on her exposed pussy as she adopted a kneeling, downward, facing-dog pose, hips and fanny elevated to the sky. The clenching and releasing producing an open coconut image on her screen.
Several miles across town, a hungry exec excused himself several times to the solitude of the marble-clad men’s room of his executive offices, whilst all around were dutifully busying themselves with their daily tasks to fulfil the latest mandate submitted from head office in New York. One hand clenched in-between his teeth to stifle the groans threatening to escape from deep within his throat, whilst desperately attempting to steer his relief into an imaginary funnel. His eyes closed in a drunken stupor as he rested his head back and leaned against the inside of the cool cubicle door.
“Damn, that woman. What is she doing to me?”
Peering around the door for fear the words had actually escaped his mouth, he washed his hands and stared at the reflection of the man he no longer recognised in the row of mirrors. The steam from the hot water faucet drifted upwards until it almost obscured him from sight, making him look as though he was getting lost in the foam of clouds. Funnily enough, that was exactly how he was beginning to feel inside.
Chapter 33
Cayenne pulled up the collar of her jacket to block out the howling wind circling around Mudchute Park. The surrounding trees were swaying violently, like baying crowds watching the action, as fallen leaves and morning strollers battled the winter elements. She wondered why she hadn’t given more thought to what coat to wear, chastising herself for not giving much consideration beyond what matched the generic E-Quip uniform that she had received by post a few days earlier, consisting of a black polo shirt and black pullover, which were to be matched with black trousers or a skirt of her choice.
The park was a shortcut to Manchester Road, an area which starkly contrasted the relatively tranquil order of life on the island. She remembered when she had first moved to the area, some two years before, when she would hear people refer to ‘the island’. It took several weeks for her to realise they were referring to the Isle of Dogs, an area in the East End of London that is bounded on three sides by one of the largest meanders in the River Thames and upon which her apartment block was situated.
The park and adjoining farm were an unexpected attraction amidst a mass of iconic skyscrapers, which Cayenne considered a hidden gem in the middle of a built-up district. Set in 32 acres of countryside, her and the children had whiled away many hours there to get a feel for their new area. A large expanse of green formed the main part of the park, an oval-shaped field with a running and cycling path and adjoining dog-walking trail forming the perimeter. The middle of the green was occupied most weekends by rugby, football and cricketing teams interspersed with joggers and fitness enthusiasts vying for space. At the far end stood an enclosed basketball court with light-blue-painted railings, just before the Island Gardens Light Rail Station. On the rare occasion that the local teenage ballers left the basketball court unoccupied, groups of elderly Chinese Tai Chi practitioners performed an array of synchronised routines that belied their advancing years. It was a magnificent sight. The elegant motions, swords in hand, locked in their own world, arms and feet dominating territory, directing energy both away from and towards them with commanding motions to the light refrains of soft eastern music.
Cayenne couldn’t help but stop and watch; no matter how late she was for wherever she was going, the aura was so compelling as though it was trying to teach her something.
After a few moments, she continued past them conscious that she would be expected to arrive early for her first day of work.
She was told to report at 9:00 a.m. and leave at 4:00 p.m., even though the holiday schedule on the leaflets she had been given stated a start time of 8:00 a.m. and closing time of 6:00 p.m. As it was out of term time, she guessed that she wouldn’t be going through the main entrance. She wandered around the back of the building and still it wasn’t obvious where she was supposed to enter the building. On closer inspection, she noticed an intercom unit
with a button next to it. She pressed the button tentatively and waited for a response. She tried again and still nothing. The corner of her eye caught sight of a shadowy movement behind one of the windows. She squinted and peered intently and made out the large figure of a young man gesturing with his arms and beckoning her towards him. A clipping sound released the catch on the metal gate, and she pushed it open and followed the path towards the large glass sliding doors. The lights were dimmed, but she could just make out a semi-circular unit which she presumed was the reception desk, and a wide reception area which seemed to recognise it’s out of term redundancy. Clive stepped forward from around the desk and introduced himself as the E-Quip manager. He looked to be no more than 22 or 23 years old, and the lack of formal introduction skills confirmed the culture of his youth. Cayenne had expected a firm handshake, direct eye contact and a managerial disposition.
Clive, a tall black gentleman, was unkempt in his appearance. His hair reminded her of the style that many black men adopted in the 1970s when combs were not considered a necessary requirement outside of special events. She observed him from behind as he had asked her to follow him along the main corridor. In tribute to his 70s forefathers, his head clearly hadn’t seen a comb in days and probably resisted any form of styling or conditioning judging by the white flakes highlighting the mass of black fluff, that were cascading down onto his shoulders with every movement. She wondered why nobody had noticed and thought to mention it. An area manager perhaps, an observant flatmate or a concerned patron or parent worried that these same flakes would season their little Emma’s jam sandwich. He walked in a way that documented his poor self-image, shoulders slightly hunched, a dipped head and a downward gaze. His head appeared small compared to the large expanse of his girth, which the E-Quip uniform department had clearly underestimated. She followed Clive down an empty corridor, passed several empty classrooms and closed doors, eventually turning left into a large assembly hall.
She imagined that during term times, this room was occupied for formal assemblies and school productions and multi-tasked as a dining hall during lunch times. Today, there was a row of tables along each side with a different assortment of toys on each one. In one corner, a separate cluster of tables formed the impromptu lunch area judging by the multicoloured array of cartoon lunch satchels and water bottles.
