Mr Black No 2 Mr Black s Theater
- 3 years ago
- 36
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I Wanted Black Sex free porn video
Just before I got married some of my friends kept
telling me I should “go black”. Then, on my hen night,
just before the wedding, they spiked my drink, got me
really drunk, and arranged for me to be gangbanged by
some black guys. I should have been angry, but I soon
realised that it was the best thing that could have
ever happen to a white bride-to-be.
Up until the time I met my husband I had very little
experience of sex. I’d had some one-night-stands, of
course, with guys I’d met in pubs and night clubs, but
these had been very unsatisfying because most of them
had brewer’s droop – in fact, more often than not as
soon as they got on top of me they fell asleep they
were so pissed. It didn’t do much for my confidence.
I have never really thought of myself as much of a
catch, anyway, because an accident when I was two (my
parents sat me in front of an open fire wearing
inflammable clothes) left my hands, forearms and the
bottom half of my face permanently scarred. Not badly,
but enough to notice.
About the only thing that really got me going was one
night when me and my friends went to a reggae club and
several black guys asked me to dance with them. Later
on they gave me some blow and I got really uninhibited
and let them kiss and grope me one by one on the dance
floor. There were about ten of them, and one or two of
them stuck their fingers up me, but that’s as far as it
went.
A few nights later, over a few drinks, my friends
reminded of how wild I had been – at least by my usual
standards – and I admitted that I had been aroused. One
of my friends had married a black guy, and she
suggested I meet one of his friends. I decided against
it because my father had always told me that if I ever
brought a black man home he would disown me. Which was
strange, because I had never once mentioned black men,
and in any case my father didn’t have anything to
disown me with.
I found out later, by the way, that my mother had once
had a fling with a black guy who had got her pregnant
and dad had paid for the abortion. Wow! This was such a
shock! But me finding this out was a long way in the
future.
Meanwhile, my friends kept trying to convince me that I
should try going out with a black guy, and they told me
that there were several they knew who fancied me and
didn’t mind about my hands and the lower half of my
face being a little scarred. They were attracted by my
long wavy ginger hair, which grew down to my arse, my
grey eyes, my 38DD breasts, my “sticky-out arse”, my
ample “thunder-thighs” and the fact that when I went
out I always wore a short flared dress and knee-high
boots (red, white, silver and gold were my favourites).
There were times when I felt tempted, but always, just
as I was about to give in, I resisted the temptation,
still scared, stupidly, about my father’s reaction.
When I met the man who became my husband he was
attracted by exactly the same things that these black
guys were supposedly interested in. Maybe there was a
black man inside him trying to get out, although he
can’t stand reggae, rap, hip-hop or anything like that,
but he does like jazz and blues. (He got really mad at
a black guy one night who claimed Eric Clapton was the
world’s best blues guitarist. This guy had never even
heard of Elmore James, one of my husband’s favourites,
who was black.)
Well, let’s get down to the nitty gritty. My hen night,
which took place the night before I was due to be
married. It was only afterwards that I found out that
what happened that night had been planned by my
friends, in particular the one who had a black husband.
It was she who suggested that on my hen night I wear
the same clothes I was going to be married in – a white
dress, silk at the top with a multi-layered nylon skirt
down to the knee, white fishnet stockings and
suspenders, white silk knickers, white lace-up over the
knee boots with kitten heels, a white leather blouson
jacket and my wedding veil. She also suggested the pub
we went to.
We went out at about half-seven and after we had a few
vodka and tonics black men suddenly started appearing
and offering me drinks. They were very sociable, asking
me my name, asking me whether I was getting married,
when, who to, was he white, telling me what a waste,
etc, until finally one of them asked me into the back
room for a dance.
I was passed from one black guy to another, and they
were very brazen, kissing me, feeling my breasts,
rubbing my thighs, prising my knickers aside and trying
to finger me. It was uncomfortable at times, but I
would be lying if I said I wasn’t turned on. Eventually
I became completely uninhibited.
I found out later that my friends had arranged for
these black guys to spike my drinks until I was
completely legless. Then they called for a hire car and
I was helped in there with five black guys. The car
stopped outside a house on an estate, and the five
black guys helped me out.
The driver, who was also black, got out too. I was
taken up some stairs, fell onto a bed, and remember my
knickers being taken down. They didn’t take off
anything else. They just lifted up my skirt and started
to take me. All six of them took me in every hole,
coming every time. After about two hours more turned
up, and I was dimly aware that my girlfriends were
standing behind them laughing at me and egging them on.
The funny thing was that my personality seemed split –
one half of me seemed to be watching what was going on,
the other half was enjoying every second. I think by
the time the tenth or eleventh guy had finished the
“watching” half of me stopped functioning and I was
just floating in sexual ecstasy.
The fact that I was to be married in a few hours’ time
didn’t even enter my head. My husband to be didn’t
exist. All that mattered was that I was lying there
being fucked and fucked and fucked and I was having the
most terrific orgasms. There was pain, yes, but God it
was worth it!
We carried on until daylight. Long before then I was
taking an active part, kissing them passionately,
caressing and sucking their cocks, eating their arses,
and letting them take me from behind. They were
ejaculating all over me – over my hair, my veil, my
face, my chest, my skirt, my stomach, my thighs, my
boots, my white silk gloves. It was glorious! Right at
that moment I was deeply, deeply in love with every guy
who was there. Crazy I know. But right then I would
have married them all.
Finally, at about nine in the morning, after I’d been
fucked by 28 black guys, I was driven back to my
friend’s house to get me cleaned up for the wedding.
But now I was starting to have second thoughts. There
was no way that my fiancé satisfied me the way these
guys did!
Oh hell, what was I to do? I asked the driver to turn
round. To hell with getting cleaned up and getting
married. I wanted more black sex! So we turned back,
and I spent two more hours getting fucked even more by
these black guys. I knew then there was no way I could
go through the rest of my life without having more and
yet more black guys.
My girlfriends persuaded me to go through with the
wedding. After all, they said, just because I was
married to a white guy there was no reason I should be
faithful to him. None of them had been faithful. I then
found out that apart from the one who was married to a
black guy anyway, not one of the others was loyal to
their white husbands. All of them had had black lovers
on the side. Some of their lovers had just fucked me.
I suppose I should have felt betrayed by my friends;
after all they had tricked me into being gangbanged by
nearly 30 black guys the night before I was due to be
married to a white man – and in my wedding outfit as
well. But I wasn’t angry at them at all. The thing that
did make me angry was that I was now going to marry a
man who previously I had been satisfied with but now,
compared to black guys, was, well, nice, but not all
that exciting. But as they said, I didn’t have to
restrict my sex life to him – anyway, he’d be a good
front, and keep my dad quiet. Meanwhile, I would have
black guys whenever I could.
During the wedding reception I was particularly
frustrated. Every time I looked at someone, I imagined
he was black. Every time I danced with someone, I
yearned for him to be a black guy who would finger me
on the dance floor and then whisk me away and fuck me.
Whenever I went to the toilet, I hoped a black guy was
lurking behind the door, and that he would lock the
door and fuck me silly. I kept wishing and wishing that
I had invited all the black guys that had fucked me
last night to the wedding reception! I just wanted all
our wedding guests to be horny young black guys!
That night, when I went to bed with my husband, it was
the first night that I didn’t want sex with him. It
really sounds awful, doesn’t it? But it’s the truth.
Right there and then I wished he was black. Right at
that moment, I would have done anything to have a black
guy in bed with me rather than my white husband.
When we made love, I imagined that I was actually being
made love to by some of the guys who had gangbanged me
before my wedding, and that they had tied my husband to
a chair and made him watch. Finally they untied him and
made him lick me clean. Then they made him suck their
cocks and then they butt-fucked him before giving him a
good beating while once again I was being gangbanged.
Only then did I have an orgasm.
I had to do something. I pictured with horror the forty
or fifty years of marriage stretching before me always
having to fantasise to have an orgasm with my husband.
I decided that night I would tell him that from now on
I wanted black sex. But how? Then I had an idea. I
would ask him to tell me his fantasies, then I would
tell him mine…
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