I own and manage a bar in an up and coming section of Dallas and as the bar owner, I am forever mindful that there are folks out to get me or get in on the take. The bar is a quiet little place, with cutting edge bands that often come in and play on the weekends and the bar is also well known as being a cool place where local artists can hang out. The crowd is mostly in their late forties and early fifties, but on Friday and Saturday evenings the crowd is noticeably a lot younger.
Sheila was a groupie for one of the more unique bands that had played at my club over the past few months and while she didn’t exactly stand out as an extremely attractive young lady in her middle twenties, she had a knock-out lean-looking body that looked like it was made for only one thing. Sheila had coal black skin and the whitest teeth I think I have ever seen and her smile was beguiling and quiet. I provided her some free drinks, in an effort to hopefully win her over, but she remained rather distant and only came into the club whenever her favorite groups were playing.
I finally mustered up the courage one Friday night and told her she should come into the club in a slower night, like a Sunday night. She smiled and said she was not a club person. I had decided to give up on her when one Sunday night I looked up and there should Sheila, asking for a mimosa at the bar. I worked my way over to where she stood and told my bartender that I’d take care of her drink.
I had worn a shirt that night that read “Black Pussy” which was the name of an alternative rock band. I had bought the shirt – not because I liked the group- heck, I had never heard of them- but because I just wanted to just be different and obtuse.
Sheila took note of my shirt after I pushed her drink across the bar in her direction.
“That’s an interesting shirt,” she remarked. I looked down and suddenly realized it was probably offensive in nature. I waited for her to chide me for wearing an offensive shirt. Instead, she asked, “Do you?”
“Pardon me?” I replied.
“Do you?”
I was lost.
“Do you like Black Pussy?”
I quickly apologized and explained that I had bought the shirt not knowing who the group was and because I liked what it said.
Sheila smiled.
“So, do you like Black Pussy?” she pressed.
I stayed quiet for a second. No matter how I answered the question, I knew there would be a follow up question.
“I like all types of pussy,” I mumbled.
“But mostly black pussy?” Sheila pressed. She knew I was in an uncomfortable position and I think she was enjoying the uncomfortableness I was feeling at that moment.
Sheila had me. She knew it.
“Am I prejudiced?” I answered back. “Yes, I am. I only like beautiful people and I only hook up with girls I like.”
Sheila took a sip from her mimosa as I stood and nervously wiped one of the bar glasses in my hand.
“Do I make you nervous?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “Why?”
“Well,” she replied, “You’ve been cleaning the same glass for the entire time we have been talking, so I, just wondering.”
She had me and again, she knew it.
“So, are you single?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “What about you?”
“I married to a big black guy who’s six foot four and weighs close to two sixty,” she replied.
I guess the look of shock must’ve crossed my face. She quickly flashed her toothy white smile and added, “I got ya.”
She took a sip of her drink and leaned forward in my direction, looking to her right and then her left, before asking in almost a low whisper,
“If I wear a shirt in here that reads, ‘I like white dick,’ would that offend you?”
My quick-witted self, replied, “Do you?”
“Do I what?” she asked.
“Do you like white dicks,” I pressed.
Sheila laughed.
“I guess I had that coming,” she responded.
“Yes, you did,” I replied, pressing her for an answer. “You still didn’t answer my question.”
She took another sip from her mimosa and peered back at me from behind the straw.
“Yeah,” she replied, “I only like big white dicks and I only hook up with big white dicks I like.”
Too-shay.
Sheila was a trip, to say the least. I found her intriguing in an odd way. As we chatted, I took note that he wore a simple silver ring on a her right thumb and no other jewelry on her hand.
“Can I ask you a question?” I pressed.
“Are you a lesbian?” I asked.
“I can be,” Sheila replied, “but right now, I am not committed to anyone. I actually like guys, more than girls, and I keep the ring on the thumb to keep horn dogs at bay.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” Sheila answered, “when I want it to.”
“Is it working tonight?” I asked.
“Not really,” she replied, stirring her drink with her straw. “It only works when I want it to work.”
I picked up another glass and wiped it with my bar towel.
“Do you want another drink?” I inquired.
“Only if you share it with me,” she replied.
“I wish I could,” I replied, “but bartenders are not allowed to drink and serve.”
“Well,” she pressed, “Why don’t we find a more private place where we won’t have to worry about breaking any laws?’
Damn.
“I have an office,” I replied. “Want to check it out?”
She flashed her toothy smile.
“Yes,” she replied, slipping off the bar stool.
I made my way to the end of the bar and told Mike, my main bartender, that I was going to retire to the office for a little bit. I used my code word “retire” meaning “don’t even come knocking on the door”.
Sheila stood every bit of five foot six, but I am guessing she was much shorter because she had on six-inch stiletto heels. I casually slipped my hand around her waist and guided her to the back office. I closed the office door and through the latch to lock it.
I motioned for Shelia to take a seat on the small couch that was situated in front of my desk, which was cluttered with stacks of invoices. As Shelia took her seat, she asked if minded her jettisoning her heels.
“Go for it,” I replied, “get as comfortable as you’d like.”
I sat in my office chair as she unstrapped her shoes and sat them to the side.
“Are you afraid to sit next to me?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “I just didn’t want to be presumptuous.”
Sheila laughed.
“You’ve been chasing me for months and now all of a sudden you become shy?” she pressed.
I denied chasing her, but she quickly argued back that she had seen how I looked at her. I quickly denied doing anything unprofessional.
“I like being chased,” she remarked. “I don’t have the guts to really tell a guy I like him, and I am really a shy person, when you get to know me, so this is a huge step for me. I am freaking nervous as hell.”
“Well,” I replied, “That would make two of us.”
She patted the empty space on my couch beside her. I slipped out from behind my desk and took up the offer to sit next to her. Oh my God, she smelled so sweet.
“Love your perfume,” I complimented.
“I’m not wearing any perfume,’ she replied, “But I did douche this morning.”
I chuckled. Her outgoing openness was refreshing.
“Thank God,” I replied. “I hate a black pussy that smells.”
Sheila laughed. She shook her head back and forth, her long black hair swaying back and forth. She silently slipped her hand into mine and as we interlocked fingers, I stared down at the juxtaposition of her my pale skin being intertwined with her coal black tone.
“You know my pussy really isn’t black, right?”
I nodded my head. I had been with several black women.
“I know,” I replied. “I also know that once a man goes black, he never goes back.”
“Have you been with a black woman before?” she pressed.
I looked down at the words emblazoned on my t-shirt.
“Black pussy,” I said, “It’s not just the name of a band.”
Sheila leaned in against me.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t have chased you for months if I thought you were ugly,” I replied.
Sheila chuckled.
“I thought you weren’t chasing me.”
I toe-to-heel kicked off my tennis shoes.
“Do you mind if I get comfortable?” I asked, pushing my shoes off to the side with my foot.
“Not at all,” Sheila replied.
I looked at her French-manicured nails.
“I like your nails,” I commented. “It shows me you have a little pride in how you look.”
“Thanks,” she replied. “You’re the first guy in a long time that has noticed my nails. Girls do it all the time, but guys never notice.”
I slipped my hand to her chin and turned her face in my direction.
“I like the light shade of pink for your lip gloss,” I said.
Her eyes widened as the corners of her lips curled into a smile.
“Thanks,” she proffered.
“Can I kiss you?” I asked.
“Sure,” she replied, closing her eyes. I moved in ever so close and just before I touched my lips to hers, I stopped. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing the largest brown eyes I had ever stared into.
“What is it?” she pressed.
“I just wanted to see you open your eyes,” I replied, moving my hand to her neck and pressing my lips to hers. In an instant, she parted her lips and welcomed my tongue, pushing back with her own burst of passion as we connected.
She slipped her hand up under my t-shirt and up towards my chest as we continued to kiss. I grabbed her hand and shifted it to my crotch.
We continued to kiss as she felt for my manhood through the course fabric of my jeans. I found a way to unsnap her jeans and push my fingers in past the opening to see who far I could take things.
“Do you have any protection?” I asked.
“I’m on the pill,” she replied. “and I just passed my physical for a new job. I am clean.”
I helped her out of her button-down blouse, which covered her luscious 36-d cup breasts that were tucked into a push up bra. She unfastened the bra and let it fall from her shoulders, working the spaghetti straps down past her elbows. Her nips were like pencil eraser tips perched on top of her well-formed manmade globes. I gently cupped each one in a hand and complimented her on the look and feel.
“Some guys don’t like them,” she said.
I assured her they were perfect.
I pulled at the opening of my pants and lifted my buttocks off from the seat cushion of the couch, just enough to push my trousers and bikini-bottom underwear downward.
“Let me help you,” she intoned, standing up and helping to strip me of my pants and underwear, my nine-inch hardened tool coming into full view. I reached forward and reciprocated, helping her out of skin tight jeans and a very small bikini-like set of black panties. I was happy to see she was cleanly shaven. She slipped two fingers down to her pussy and parted the lips.
“All pink on the inside, baby,” she declared.
Sheila settled on to my lap, facing me, her knees astraddle my hips and her pussy pressing down on my manhood, as she placed her hands on my shoulders. She leaned forward, and we kissed.
Damn. The girl could kiss. Precum leaked from the head of my cock.
She lifted her cute little ass up and using one hand and her fingers, she positioned my cock right at the entry to her pussy. She settled down slowly on to me, our eyes locking on to each other in the process. She was a tight fit, at first, but then the further inside of her that she took me, the easier it became, until finally, our pubic bones came into mutual contact. I was all the way inside of her and there was no turning back, as she began a slow gyration of her hips, grinding herself in my lap. The feeling was intense. I didn’t dare look down or up. I locked my eyes on to hers as she bounced up and down on my lap, her tits bouncing in rhythm and in correlation to the increasing speed which we found ourselves engaged in.
Her mouth was open, and she gasped for breaths, between labored grunts of exotic pleasures uncontained. I placed my hands on her shoulders and she reciprocated. I thrust my tongue into her open mouth and she exploded, flooding my lap with her womanly juices. I shot my load about the same time, in three or four spurts, deep inside of her as she tossed her head up and down, wildly exclaiming, “Oh Lord! I’m cuming!”
Sheila finally collapsed on to my right shoulder, as she dug her manicured finger nails into my shoulders and slowly raked them across my pale skin.
I had screwed my fair share of women in my life, but Sheila was different. I don’t know what it was that took us to the level that we went to, but whatever it was, we connected, in so many different ways. She left behind her bra and her panties when she walked out of the office that night. I stuffed them into a drawer of my office desk.
I didn’t see Sheila for several weeks. Then one Friday night, several weeks later, while the club was packed and while I was worrying about the fire marshal coming in and shutting us down, sweet Sheila walked up to me, wearing a shirt just like the one I had been caught wearing a few weeks earlier, with the words “Black Pussy” emblazoned across the front.
“Do you remember me?” she asked.
How could I forget her? I chuckled when I saw her t-shirt.
“Nice shirt,” I said.
“I thought you’d like it,” she replied, flashing her trademarked toothy grin. The t-shirt was about three sizes too small for her, accentuating her bust and her figure, but that didn’t seem to matter to Sheila.
“Do you have a few minutes?” she asked placing her hand on my chest and leaning in to chat with me because the music was so loud.
“I’m trying to keep us from getting shut down,” I replied.
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Sheila replied. I looked over at Mike, my bartender and before I Could say anything, Mike nodded his head to indicate he had things under control.
“One Seventy,” I hollered at Mike. One seventy was our occupancy rate.
I guided Sheila to my office and closed the door. Instantly, we kissed, deeply and very passionately. There was a huge crowd right outside my office door. It didn’t seem to matter to Sheila.
“You have something of mine,” Sheila intoned. I had no clue what she was talking about, because I had forgotten about her under garments. Sheila peeled out of her skin-tight t-shirt.
“I need my bra and panties,” she declared, unfastening her skin tight blue jean designer jeans. She stepped out of her heals and proceeded to strip out of her clothes before I could protest or even say, “hold up.”
Someone knocked at the office door. I reached over and locked the lock.
“Damn girl,” I remember saying as she stripped naked.
She placed her hands on her hips and stared at me.
“Please tell me you didn’t throw away my stuff,” she declared.
“No,” I responded fishing for her bra and panties in my desk as she stood completely naked in front of me.
I stretched out my hand with her garments in them, but quickly pulled my hand back as she reachd for it.
I smiled. She smiled.
She took a step in my direction and placed her hand on my chest.
“You don’t give up easily do you?” she pressed.
“One you go black,” I started.
“You don’t go back,” she said, finishing off my sentence.
“On you go white,” I replied.
“It all right,” she replied, pressing her naked body against me. I dropped her bra and panties on to the floor.
We fucked for over a freaking hour as my bar patrons mosh-pitted and partied only inches away from us, separated by a simple wooden door. As Sheila dressed, she leaned against the wall and looked around as the thumping beat of the music reverberated through the walls.
“You know,” Sheila said, “I think I like this place.”
“I’m glad you do,” I replied.
“You know,” Sheila shot back, biting down on her lip, “I have a little sister… a sorority sister… “
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
“I think she might like this place,” Sheila intoned.
I looked at Sheila and smiled.
“I hope she has a black pussy shirt,” I laughingly intoned.
Sheila smiled.
“If she doesn’t, I know where she can borrow one.”
