A year ago, I was a young man with no job, no money, no woman, and no prospects. But now I am self-employed, quite successful, and get plenty of women. This turnaround in fortunes is completely down to my involvement with the ‘Trophy Wives’ of Churchill gated community.
My name is Marlon, and a year ago, I lived in what many referred to as ‘the wrong side of town’. It was a slum, really, mostly filled with poor black folks like myself, struggling to make ends meet in a pretty grim environment.
I was just nineteen years old back then. My father had left when I was a toddler. My mother had died a year ago, and I had to take over the rent payments immediately. I had left school and worked several dead-end, low-paying jobs.
I had borrowed some money from a distant relative just to get by, but had not been able to pay them back. When my full-time contract at a local fast-food restaurant was reduced to part-time evening only, I decided to try something different. I was sick of working incredibly long hours in these low-paid jobs. Could I make it by myself and have a self-employed side hustle?
I had seen an advertisement for a company that set you up as a representative selling cleaning products and other assorted items door-to-door. But there was a signing-on fee to pay, and they, of course, insisted you sold only their products, and at significantly marked-up prices. The benefit was that you were working for a recognised company, I suppose, but I figured I could just copy some things from their model and attempt it on my own.
I went online to do my research. It seemed like perhaps cleaning products weren’t the way to go. You could buy them just as cheaply at the supermarket. Eventually, I sourced a company selling luxury super soft towel products that gave me a good deal, and I figured I could make a decent enough markup on them.
I also had a plan for where I would go to sell these products. I certainly wasn’t going to make any money going to my own neighbourhood. No, I needed to go where the money was.
There were several better neighbourhoods to sell in. But of course, there were probably several other entrepreneurial types selling door-to-door there too. The one place I knew of where there wouldn’t be any competition was the Churchill gated community.
Churchill had huge walls around the entire community and a large single entrance at the front with plenty of security. You couldn’t gain access unless you lived there or had an invitation from someone who did. The community was pretty large, with over four hundred homes. It also had its own stores, restaurants, a gym, and a very well-to-do club on the shore of its own small lake.
The least expensive homes there went for between $1-2million. The average was almost $3 million, and several homes went for over $5 million.
I knew all of this because my Uncle Booker worked security there. He was close to retirement, knew I was struggling, and after a long conversation one night over a few beers, agreed to sneak me the following day.
There was a rear entrance to the gated community where people who worked at the stores and restaurants within could gain access. Uncle Booker said if I came to the gate, he would pretend to check my non-existent I.D. in case his colleagues or the CCTV were watching. I went through this charade with him and then entered Churchill.
My agreement with Uncle Booker was that if I was caught inside the gated community by the occasional security patrol or if a resident reported my activities, I was not to mention his name. I was to tell them I climbed over the exterior wall. My Uncle said that the worst that could happen was that they would throw me out. They weren’t the police after all, and the police had better things to worry about.
On my first day wandering around Churchill, I had little luck. Of the homes that I found when someone was actually in, very few people were interested in my luxury towel products. I sold just two towels all day for a total of $24 profit.
But I persisted and went back a couple of days later, trying to perfect my sales pitch. This time, I made a $48 profit. It was still far from what I was looking to make from hours and hours of knocking on doors in the hot Georgia sun. Perhaps this wasn’t going to work out.
I decided to try one last time a few days later. Again, I sold a few towels, but not enough.
As I was heading back toward the rear entrance to Churchill, where my Uncle Booker worked, I knocked on a few more doors. An elderly lady called Bridget bought two more towels from me. Just as I was about to leave, she asked me if I did any landscaping work.
I told her I could do some simple work if she had her own tools for me to use. She happily agreed, telling me her regular landscaper was on vacation. She had me rake up leaves, do some simple weeding, and clean her patio with her pressure washer. For just over an hour’s work, she gave me $120.
I was pretty pleased. It wasn’t a fortune, but it did give me the idea to offer to do any odd jobs for residents of Churchill if they weren’t interested in my towels. I bought some work gloves and a few simple tools I could carry in my bag with the towels if I needed them.
I continued to work my evening shifts at the local fast-food restaurant to make ends meet. The following week, I returned to Churchill, and this would be the day my fortune changed for good.
Around noon, I had sold just a single towel, and I’d had no lawn or backyard work. I approached one of the larger houses at the end of a very nice street. I knocked on the door, and a moment later, the door opened.
A very attractive woman in her mid-forties appeared. She left the outer security gate that sat over the front door closed and locked.
“Hi, can I help you?” she said, smiling.
“Hello ma’am, how are you today?” I replied, quickly moving into my sales patter, “My name’s Marlon, and I’m just in your neighbourhood today, going door-to-door. I have some wonderful luxury towel products that I just know you would love. Would you like to see them?”
The attractive lady smiled, looking me up and down. I got that a lot in this neighbourhood.
It was often the wife who opened the door; I guess the husbands were usually the breadwinners here and out at work. Also, this was a super white neighbourhood. I had only seen one black family since I’d been coming to Churchill.
I guess an older white woman by herself could feel somewhat ill at ease, or even threatened, by a young black male knocking on their door unannounced. I was six-foot-four inches tall, fairly muscular and athletic looking, which didn’t help when trying to look non-threatening to these dainty little white women. That’s why I had to lay on the charm by the bucketload to get past all that.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you were here delivering my package,” the lady said, still smiling.
She was quite attractive, as best as I could make out from behind the security grill door.
“Well, I think you would really love the super soft quality of these towels, ma’am,” I told her as I dropped to my knees and started to pull some towel samples from my duffle bag, “Now these are just samples, of course. I have brand new ones here, vacuum-packed in cellophane. They’re very reasonably priced.”
I stayed down on my knees. It was another part of my sales pitch. I figured I would seem less threatening down here than standing up and towering over some of these women. I handed her a few of the samples through the security gate, and she briefly ran her hand over the soft towelling.
“You see, there aren’t many job prospects out there right now, what with the economy and all. So I’m just out here trying to make ends meet instead of taking those welfare checks, you know?” I explained.
I knew many people disliked the ‘welfare check society’, and preferred people with a bit of ‘get up and go’ about them. I knew that the people who hated those who took the welfare checks the most were rich white people, the kind of people who lived in Churchill. I knew that some rich white people blamed the state our country was in on young black folks like me. So I had to fight through that, show I wasn’t like that, and hope that might help me make more sales.
“You see, I’m just a poor young black man trying to keep my head above water in a cruel and harsh world,” I continued, smiling.
It was a misquote from one of my favourite movies, but an appropriate one, I thought.
“That’s cute,” the lady replied, giggling, “But I’m not sure these are for me.”
“I’m just trying to save up to buy a used car, so I can head on out across this great country of ours, and find my own path, you know?” I explained.
It was another trick I often used, attempting to show I was putting any money I earned toward a goal. Some white folks might think a young black man like me could be spending it on drink or drugs or worse. Plus, I threw in some patriotism too; it couldn’t hurt.
She nodded and smiled, but handed me back my samples. Another bust.
“These go for just $15, ma’am, and the bath towels just $18…” I continued, but perhaps with rather less enthusiasm now.
“I’m sorry, honey, I just replaced all our towels a month ago,” she said, shaking her head but still smiling as she looked down at me.
“Well… they make great gifts, too,” I countered, smiling back up at her.
I was starting to run out of ideas on how to continue my sales pitch any further. She was shutting me down, and I knew from previous experience she would be closing the door on me very soon.
“No, I’m sorry, sweetie, I admire your enterprise. I really do,” she said, nodding, “But unless you got something else in that bag for me, I’m gonna have to say goodbye.”
I shook my head, admitting defeat. Then I remembered the old lady who had given me some yard work the other day.
“I mean, I also do odd jobs, ma’am. Simple landscaping work, gardening?” I replied, pulling out a toolbelt from my duffel bag.
“Oh really?” she replied, “Well, erm… actually, I do have some stuff you could help me with in the backyard, I suppose?”
“Okay, great,” I told her.
Thank God. Maybe I was gonna make at least some money today.
“Ahm, well, why don’t you come through, honey?” she replied, opening the security gate over the front door and ushering me in, “You can see what I need doing and then give me a quote?”
“Sure, no problem,” I told her, zipping up my duffel bag and standing up.
As I passed close by her in the doorway, I glanced down at her, smiling. She smiled back up at me.
She was shorter than I was, maybe 5 feet 3 inches. She looked up at me with those beautiful, big brown eyes. Now that my eyes adjusted to the interior light, I could see she was very attractive indeed.
I figured she was probably in her early forties. She had long, dark brown hair and a rather curvy figure. She wore tight denim cut-off shorts and a red top that showed off a hint of what looked like a very ample and impressive cleavage.
“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” she asked as she closed the security gate and then the front door, locking both.
“Marlon,” I replied, extending my hand.
“Yes, of course. Marlon,” she said, shaking my hand, “I’m Mrs. Abbott.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Abbott,” I replied, fumbling for my wallet, “Ah, did you want to see my driver’s licence?”
This was another trick I had used to relax the white women when confronted by the young black man. It might help to allay any fears they may have if they could see that I was actually who I said I was.
“Oh no, Marlon, that’s fine,” Mrs. Abbott said.
She seemed fairly relaxed around me as she led me down the hallway and into a large lounge area. This house was really something. This room was huge, with lots of quality seating and the biggest television I had ever seen. I must have been over one hundred inches across.
The other side of the lounge had floor-to-ceiling windows, and Mrs. Abbott slid one of the glass doors aside so we could step out onto a huge patio area. There was an outdoor bar and barbecue area to the right, with plenty of seating. Off to the left was a great-looking swimming pool.
“This is what needs looking at, Marlon,” Mrs. Abbott said, pointing to a few trees near the back wall of the garden, “You see? Some of the branches have grown out over the wall, which is against the community rules.”
“Oh, I see,” I replied.
“So, if you could cut back all the overhanging branches?” Mrs. Abbott continued, “There’s a bunch of tools in the utility room over there. My husband is a financial whizz but not much use at practical things like this, you know?”
“Okay, it shouldn’t take me too long. Anything else you need doing?” I asked her.
“Well, maybe you could clear up all these fallen leaves over there?” Mrs. Abbott replied.
“Ok, sure,” I said, nodding.
“Oh, I forgot! Maybe you can do this for me too?” she said and went over to a cupboard by the barbecue area.
She pulled out a white plastic disc and handed it to me. I turned it over, wondering what it was.
“It fits over the filter at the bottom of the pool,” Mrs. Abbott explained, “It came loose a couple of weeks ago. My husband can’t figure out how to get it to fit back on, and I’m certainly not diving down there either!”
She giggled, briefly putting her hand on my arm.
“Sure, sure. I’ll see what I can do,” I replied.
“So what do you think?” Mrs. Abbott asked.
It was negotiating time.
“Well, I’m sure I can do all of that. How much were you thinking of?” I asked, figuring I might get more if she suggested an amount.
“Oh well, I’m not sure,” she replied, “Would $75 be enough?”
It wasn’t quite what I was hoping for, but it was certainly better than going home with nothing. If I did a good job, perhaps she would tip me a little more on top.
“Ahm, okay,” I said.
“Oh, is that too low, honey? How about $100 then?” Mrs. Abbott asked.
“Sure,” I nodded, feeling happier that I was now getting what the job was worth, “So where would you like me to start?”
“Well, maybe start with the trees, I guess,” she instructed.
Mrs. Abbott took me over to the utility room. Inside, I eventually found what I needed: a step ladder, a saw, and some secateurs with very long handles.
“Okay, sweetie, I’ll let you get on with it,” Mrs. Abbott told me and headed back inside the house.
I set up the step ladder and got to work chopping back the overhanging branches. It was hot work, so I removed the light jacket I had worn to keep the sun off. I now stood in a short-sleeved blue shirt that was tight around the arms, showing off my biceps, my smart black denim shorts, and sneakers.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Abbott appeared back out on the patio. She had a book in one hand and a drink in the other. She went and sat on one of the patio loungers and read her book.
I continued my work but was aware I was now being watched. Whenever I looked over, she seemed to be reading her book. But whenever I wasn’t looking directly at her, from the corner of my eye, it seemed she would look up from her book to observe me.
Did the rich white woman not trust the young black help? Perhaps. But she had seemed pretty cool earlier. Was she watching me for some other reason?
After ten minutes, Mrs. Abbott got up from her lounger and headed over to where I was working at the back wall of the garden.
“How you gettin’ on?” Mrs. Abbott asked, looking up at me, sipping her drink in a long, tall glass through a straw.
“Yeah, fine, thank you, ma’am,” I told her.
Had Mrs. Abbott adjusted her top, or was it because I was half up the ladder? Either way, I could see quite a bit more of her cleavage.
Mrs. Abbott began engaging me in conversation as I continued my work. She continued sipping at my drink, her eyes never leaving me. She asked where I lived, what other jobs I had done previously, that sort of thing.
I told her the truth. I also told her about the fact that my mother had passed away not so long ago, and I was on my own, struggling to make ends meet. Perhaps Mrs. Abbott might take pity on me and give me a generous tip on top of the $100. It couldn’t hurt, right?
“So, how old are you, Marlon?” she then asked.
“Twenty-three,” I lied.
I was nineteen, but I didn’t want Mrs. Abbott to think she’d hired some kid from the projects who had no idea what he was doing.
“Oh well, twenty-three,” she beamed up at me, “I thought maybe you were younger.”
I wondered what that comment meant and looked rather quizzically at her.
“It means I can offer you a sip of my Long Island iced tea,” she said, giggling, “You look like you could use some.”
Now I understood; she had thought I was under the legal drinking age. Of course, I was under twenty-one years old, but Mrs. Abbott didn’t need to know that.
I leaned down as she held her glass up for me. I took a quick sip through the straw. It was nice and cool, but very alcoholic.
As I was leaning over, I couldn’t help but glance right down her cleavage yet again. It was quite something.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I told her, smiling.
“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Abbott replied, grinning and taking back the glass, sipping through the same straw, “Mmm, I just love Long Island iced tea, don’t you?”
“Never had it until now, ma’am,” I replied, sawing through another branch, “But it’s very refreshing.”
“Oh, I’ll go make you one, honey,” she told me, turned, and headed off back to the patio, “You can come take a rest and a drink when you feel like it.”
Mrs. Abbott disappeared back inside the house, and I got on with my work.
Ten minutes later, I heard the patio glass door slide open, and Mrs. Abbott reappeared. But this time, I could see an awful lot more of her.
She had changed into the tiniest little black bikini I had ever seen. The only other things she wore were dainty little high heels and a black hat. She tottered back over to her sun lounger.
With every step, her huge tits bounced and jiggled. As she turned to drop a towel over the lounger, her amazing peach of an ass wiggled. I stood on the ladder, trying not to stare and probably failing.
“Hey,” Mrs. Abbott called out, waving, “Just thought I’d top up my tan while I keep you company out here.”
I nodded, waved back, and tried to carry on with my work. I continued sawing through the overhanging branches, but was now rather distracted. Every few seconds, I had to sneak a glance at Mrs. Abbott. My God, her body was incredible.
Mr Abbott, wherever he was, was a very, very lucky man. He obviously had plenty of money and this amazing house. On top of that, his wife was a stone-cold fox, with her good looks, amazing huge tits, and stunning ass. Just imagine getting to go to bed with her every night; I knew I’d certainly be thinking about her when I went to sleep tonight.
Mrs. Abbott sat reading her book, and once again, from the corner of my eye, I could tell she was often looking up to check me out.
I cut through the final overhanging branch and made my way down the ladder. I piled all the branches from the bottom of the trees up against the back wall.
I then headed back over to the patio area. Mrs. Abbott got up from her sun lounger.
“Take a load off, sweetie,” she told me, ushering me to sit up at the outdoor bar, “Now let me make you that Long Island iced tea.”
I took a seat and watched every movement Mrs. Abbott made on the other side of the bar. I could now see her in her bikini at close quarters. She was incredible.
She began getting all her ingredients ready. Every time she had to get something from the low cabinets behind her, instead of dropping down on her knees, she would bend right over. That amazing ass went right up in the air, and her bikini briefs rode up even higher. Every fibre of my being wanted me to reach out and grab it, grope it, slap it.
Eventually, she had all she needed, and then she began mixing my drink across the bar from me. I could now see Mrs. Abbott’s bikini top was amazing. It was so small that it really only covered her nipples and areolae. It meant I could see right down her cleavage, and there was plenty of under-boob and side boob on show.
She then put some ice into a shaker, and I got one hell of a show. As she began shaking the ice, her tits bounced, jiggled, and swayed inside that tiny bikini top. I couldn’t believe it. Did this woman know what she was doing to me?
I have to admit, my cock twitched into life in my shorts. Sadly, the ice-shaking, boob-bouncing show eventually ended, and Mrs. Abbott poured me my Long Island iced tea. I could’ve watched her shake ice all afternoon. I sipped my drink, and we chatted some more.
Mrs. Abbott had lived here for six years. She had been married for sixteen years. She was originally from Nevada, had met her husband whilst working in Texas, and they had moved here to Georgia because of his work.
Every time I thought it was safe and she wasn’t looking, I stole another glance down her amazing cleavage. Goddamn, how big were those things anyway?
She asked me about myself a little. What kind of music did I like? Did I have any hobbies? She asked if I had a girlfriend, too, to which I told her truthfully that, currently, I did not. Our conversation then seemed to come to a natural conclusion.
“Well, thank you for the drink, Mrs. Abbott. So, what’s next?” I asked.
“Er, maybe if you can get that filter cover back in place?” she replied.
I headed over to the pool and picked up the cover for the filter. I could see at the bottom of the pool where it should go, but it was at the deepest part. The marker on the side said it was five feet six inches deep. It meant I was gonna have to strip off and dive down there to get it in place.
I removed my shirt, socks and sneakers. I then thought about what I was going to do with my shorts. I could dive in with them, but then have to walk around in wet shorts for the rest of the day.
Mrs. Abbott came over to take my shirt, socks and sneakers from me, placing them on a patio chair.
“Just take off your shorts and go in your underwear, honey,” she said, smiling, “You can take a shower later in the pool bathroom if you like. You could put your underwear in a plastic bag and just wear your shorts?”
“Ah, yeah, okay. I guess so,” I replied.
I quickly whipped off my black denim shorts to reveal my white cotton jersey trunks underneath. Mrs. Abbott held out her hand to take my denim shorts from me.
I then waded into the pool, down the steps, and across to the deep end. I took the filter cover from the side and prepared to hold my breath and dive down to replace it where it should be.
“Oh, wait! I have some goggles if you’d like them?” Mrs. Abbott said. From this low-down angle, I got a wonderful view of Mrs. Abbott’s amazing ass as it swayed and wiggled its way over to a storage cabinet for her to retrieve some goggles for me.
I loved the fact that she was wearing high heels. It just accentuated the sway of her hips and the bounce of her breasts as she returned to me with the goggles. She bent over to hand the goggles to me.
As she did so, her huge tits hung down beneath her chest. At one point, I thought she might actually fall out of that tiny bikini top. As I took the goggles, my denim shorts slipped out of Mrs. Abbott’s other hand, landing in the pool.
“Oh! Oh, no!” she exclaimed, “Quick, grab them!”
I picked them up before they sank and handed them back to her.
“I’m so sorry, Marlon,” she said, “Let me put them here in the sun. They’ll dry off in no time.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
Mrs. Abbott put my shorts over the back of a patio chair and then went back to her sun lounger and her Long Island iced tea.
I put on the goggles and dove down to the bottom of the pool. After a couple of attempts, having to come back up for air, I eventually got the cover to clip into place above the filter.
I swam back to the pool steps and walked back up out of the pool.
Mrs. Abbott sat up in her lounger as I did so, a big grin spreading across her face.
“Ok, that’s done,” I told her, my hands on my hips, “Should I get started on those leaves now?”
“Um… uh-huh,” Mrs. Abbott mumbled uncharacteristically, “Yeah, sure, honey. Why don’t you do that? But I think your shorts are still too wet to wear at the moment.”
“Yeah, it’s okay,” I replied.
I headed over to the utility room, feeling Mrs. Abbott’s eyes on me the whole way. I got a rake, a broom, a dustpan and brush, and some garbage bags and headed back out to the garden.
Again, Mrs. Abbott’s eyes followed me wherever I went. She wasn’t trying to disguise her interest now. I suddenly wondered exactly where Mr. Abbott was and what time he would return. I doubt he would be too pleased to find his wife out on the patio in her bikini with some unknown young black guy in just a pair of dripping wet jersey trunks.
I began raking up the leaves, but I couldn’t help but think about Mrs. Abbott’s amazing body. I fantasised about shoving my black cock between her huge white tits. For a moment, I could feel my cock stir into life inside my wet underwear.
I looked down and then realised exactly why Mrs. Abbott was now watching me so closely. The white cotton jersey trunks I was wearing had become virtually transparent when they got wet in the pool. I just hadn’t noticed until now, perhaps as I had been preoccupied with trying to check out Mrs. Abbott in her bikini.
In addition, as the material was so wet, it had stuck to my skin. It meant you could clearly see the outline and size of my cock. I had been ‘blessed in that department’ as a previous girlfriend had once put it. All the girls I had slept with, of which there were only a few, had said I was much, much thicker than any other guy they had been with.
Fully erect, it was almost eight inches long and four inches in circumference. My previous girlfriend, when jerking me off one day, had dubbed it ‘a real two-hander’.
Currently, I wasn’t fully erect, but my cock certainly had some growth to it, surely brought on by my thinking too much about Mrs. Abbott’s tits and ass. The black colour of my dick was certainly discernible through the wet transparent material. The shape of the head of my cock, and the shaft were also quite obvious.
Clearly, Mrs. Abbott had noticed when I came up out of the pool.
It took me less than ten minutes to clean up all the leaves. But all that time, Mrs. Abbott continued to watch me like a hawk. I hoped my underwear might dry off, but as I was in the shade out of the sun, it didn’t seem to be happening.
I finally returned to the patio, standing in front of Mrs. Abbott, sitting up in her lounger. I felt rather self-conscious but decided to try and style it out, and not mention the fact that I knew she could see the size and shape of my half-erect cock stuck to the side of my leg.
“Well, I guess that’s it, ma’am,” I told her.
“Yes, thank you, Marlon,” she replied, smiling and getting up from her lounger, “You’ve done a wonderful job.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I love your tattoos, sweetie,” Mrs Abbott said, looking admiringly at the few tattoos I had on my upper arms and chest.
“Oh, yes, thank you again,” I replied.
“Well, Marlon, uh… you should probably dry yourself off,” Mrs. Abbott said, smiling and handing me one of her pool towels, “And umm… I’ll just go get my purse, okay sweetie?”
Mrs. Abbott turned to head back to the house, but just before she did, I noticed she glanced down at my dick.
As she turned away, it looked like she began to grin. But then she was walking away, and all I could look at was that amazing swaying, wiggling ass of hers. That sight certainly wasn’t going to help my cock go down.
I used the towel, desperately trying to dry off my underwear. I checked my denim shorts, but they were still too damp to put back on. Perhaps when Mrs. Abbott returned with my money, I might ask if I could sit here a little longer until my shorts had dried out.
A moment later, the glass patio door slid again, and Mrs. Abbott stepped back outside.
“Oh, Marlon, I’m so embarrassed,” she said, briefly putting her hand over her face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, desperately trying not to think about her huge, bouncing tits as she approached.
“I can’t believe it, Marlon. I’ve left my handbag with my purse in my husband’s car,” she explained, “I literally have no cash in the house at all. I feel really bad.”
“Oh, I see,” I replied.
This was awkward. What was I supposed to do now?
“I’m so sorry. Look, how about you come back tomorrow and I can give it to you then?” she continued.
“Tomorrow?” I asked.
“Yeah. I tell you what, Marlon, come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you $150,” Mrs. Abbott replied, smiling.
I guess $150 was worth waiting one more day for. Mrs. Abbott stepped even closer now. I couldn’t help but glance down at her amazing boobs again.
“But I really feel bad, Marlon,” she said, smiling up at me.
“Oh, it’s fine, really. I understand,” I told her politely.
“No, it’s not fine. I dropped your shorts in the pool, and now I don’t have your money,” Mrs. Abbott continued, “I really want to apologise to you. Can you keep a secret, Marlon?”
“Err, sure,” I replied, wondering where this was going.
“Good, cos I’m going to tell you something, but it has to stay a secret between us, okay?” she said.
I nodded.
“Marlon, I have to tell you that this has happened to me once before,” Mrs. Abbott explained, “We had a workman come here to fix the pool shower a few years ago, and I can’t remember why, but I didn’t have enough money to pay him. Actually, I’m a little shy to tell you the next part.”
She stepped even closer to me, leaning in to whisper in my ear. She put her hands on my chest, and I felt those big breasts of hers press up against me.
“Well, he told me I had to make amends by giving him a blowjob,” Mrs. Abbott whispered, “And you know what? I did.”
“You did?” I whispered back.
“Mmm, I did. And I think that just might be the very best way for me to apologise to you, Marlon,” she continued, “What do you think?”
“I, um…” I mumbled.
“You can sit here on the patio sofa, and I’ll get on my knees in front of you and suck your cock, darling,” Mrs. Abbott purred in my ear, “I’ll give you a real nice, slow, sloppy blowjob. All the way to completion. You’ll love it.”
“What… what about your husband?” I asked.
“Oh, he loves them too,” Mrs. Abbott giggled, “I’m kidding. He won’t be back for hours and hours, don’t worry, Marlon. It’ll stay our naughty little secret.”
I looked around nervously for a moment.
“You seem reluctant, Marlon. But there’s nothing to be nervous about, honey,” she continued, “No one’s watching, and no one’s gonna find out.”
This was incredible, something that had never happened to me before. I couldn’t believe what this gorgeous, sexy older woman was offering me. Mrs. Abbott took off her hat and threw it onto a patio table.
“Come and sit here, sweetie,” Mrs. Abbott said, as she turned to usher me over to the sofa, “I’ll tell you what, shall we make it a topless blowjob? You’ve been staring at my tits all afternoon.”
“Oh no, I…” I began, but she immediately shut me down.
“Marlon! Come on now, you haven’t been able to take your eyes off them since you arrived,” Mrs. Abbott scolded, with a grin on her face, “But it’s alright, honey. You’re a young man, I understand.”
I moved to sit in the middle of the three-seat patio sofa. Mrs. Abbott took one of the cushions from another patio chair and threw it on the floor in front of me, grinning. She spread my thighs apart and then sat on my left leg.
“Now, why don’t you pull on that little string back there, sweetie?” she purred, smiling and looking over her shoulder.
I reached for the strings at the back of her bikini top, pulling on them gently until they loosened and untied. Mrs. Abbott then turned toward me, smiling, as her bikini top fell away.
My God, her tits were huge! They were so big and full. They sat up high on her chest and really said ‘hello’.
“Well, don’t be shy, Marlon,” she grinned down at me, “Come and take a closer look.”
Mrs. Abbott grabbed the back of my head and pushed my face into her huge tits. I’m sure I had a huge grin as I began kissing and sucking and squeezing and groping them. They felt amazing, so big and soft. I buried my nose in between her boobs for a moment, then began sucking on her nipples, moving back and forth between them.
I had never seen such wonderfully big tits, let alone get to play with them. I could tell they were 100% natural. Mrs. Abbott was so generous and let me happily play with and suck on her titties for the best part of ten minutes. She sighed in pleasure from time to time when I sucked on her nipples.
“You having fun, Marlon?” she asked, smiling down at me, “36G. I know that’s what you were wondering!”
She giggled as I nodded, sucking on her right tit, and rubbed my thumb over her left nipple.
My cock was now at full power. I briefly readjusted my wet shorts to accommodate it. Mrs. Abbott noticed this, however.
“Oh, honey. Look at the state of you down there!” she exclaimed, “Let me straighten you out.”
Mrs. Abbott put her hands out for me to hold, to steady her in her heels. She dropped to her knees onto the cushion on the floor in front of me. With a grin, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of my wet shorts.
“Shall we release the beast?” she giggled, tugging at my shorts.
I smiled, lifting my ass a little to assist her. My wet shorts slowly slid down, revealing the base of my cock, then the shaft, and finally the head. Mrs. Abbott’s grin grew wider and wider until the waistband cleared the head, and my cock finally burst out, slapping her in the face.
“Holy fuck!” she gasped, staring at my rock-hard, throbbing black cock as she pulled my shorts down to my ankles.
Her hands immediately gripped my dick, slowly stroking it.
“You are a big boy, aren’t you, Marlon?” Mrs. Abbott said, smiling up at me, “It’s a real two-hander, isn’t it?”
Her two dainty little hands began working their way up and down my shaft.
“How big is it exactly?” she asked, a naughty glint in her eye.
“Just over eight inches,” I told her, smiling.
“Mmm, but it’s so thick too,” Mrs. Abbott sighed, “I can only just get my fingers around it!”
She giggled, leaned forward slightly, and placed a long, wet kiss on the underside of my shaft. She then began running her lips up and down my shaft, softly kissing as she went. Soon she moved to my balls, and kissed, licked and sucked them.
Eventually, she moved her way back up to the head and sloppily kissed it all over.
“Come on then, Marlon,” Mrs. Abbott purred, winking at me, “Let me give you a proper apology.”
She took the head of my cock into her mouth and began slowly sucking me. She began with the head, expertly swirling her lips and tongue around it. She soon began working those lips down my shaft.
Mrs. Abbott’s lips slid down my shaft, then back to my head. Over and over again. Every time she returned to my aching head, she swirled and twirled that tongue of hers all around it. Sometimes she winked up at me as she did so, making me grin even more.
She continued to work her lips further and further down my shaft. Eventually, she managed to get about halfway down before gagging and returning to sucking the head of my cock.
“You’re so big, Marlon,” Mrs. Abbott grinned up at me, “Far too big for me deep-throat you, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no. You’re doing great,” I sighed.
“Oh yeah, Marlon? Am I giving you a good apology?” she giggled, her thumbs massaging my balls, “You like watching an older white woman suck that big black cock of yours, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, Ma’am,” I told her.
“And I love sucking on a nice young, huge black dick,” she said, grinning up at me, “But I haven’t had a black cock between my lips for… well, a long time. But when I was younger, before I was married, that’s a different story.”
“Oh?” I asked, hoping there was more to come from her admission.
“Yeah, I had several black boyfriends back then,” Mrs. Abbott continued, “I mean, lovers more than boyfriends really. I had to sneak out to see them. I lived at home until my mid-twenties, and my father…”
Mrs. Abbott’s voice trailed off, and she glanced up into the sky for a moment.
“Your father?” I asked, prompting her.
“My father, I mean, he passed away a few years ago. But if he can see his beloved daughter right now, he would not be happy!” she replied, “I loved my Dad, but I can see now that back then he was quite racist.”
“Oh, really?” I said.
“Yeah, I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but he would be appalled seeing me with a black guy,” Mrs. Abbott admitted, her hand slowly, lovingly, sliding up and down my shaft, “He once whipped me with his belt when I was about twenty ‘cos a neighbour told him she had seen me walking hand in hand with a black guy.”
“Wow,” I said. I had obviously heard of this type of thing before, but it still always amazed me.
“I guess it was ‘cos of our culture too, you know?” she continued.
“What culture was that?” I asked, intrigued.
“Well, Marlon, back then, I wasn’t Mrs. Abbott. I was Ms. Eliza Leibowitz,” she replied, grinning, “You’re looking here at a genuine New York Jew. In our culture, at least back then, a Jewish woman with a black guy was like… a sin, you know?”
“I see,” I replied, understanding. Now I finally knew her first name, Eliza.
“So, I had to sneak around a lot. But let’s just say I certainly still managed to get more than my fair share of black cock,” she giggled, “Then I met my husband, and we moved down here.”
“And… is he black?” I asked, grinning.
“Oh god no! He’s Jewish too, and pretty old-fashioned, I guess,” Mrs. Abbott explained, in between kissing my balls, “But from time to time I’ve had to… apologise to other men. But none of them have been black guys, until now.”
She giggled and returned to sucking me, her wonderful admissions seemingly done. I reached down and groped her huge tits as she slobbered, sucked, and gagged on my cock. She looked incredible and made me feel so big and hard. Eventually, she came up for air.
“Do you think maybe, in the whole state of Georgia, I’m the only New York Jewish MILF sucking on young black cock right now?” Mrs. Abbott giggled.
“Certainly the only one with such great tits,” I told her, still groping them.
“Marlon! You are a naughty boy,” she giggled, reaching up to kiss me on the lips.
She kissed me for some time, and it was wonderful. But my cock was aching to have her lips wrapped around it again. I put my hands around her head and gently pushed her back down toward my dick.
“Oh yes, Marlon,” she whispered, before taking my cock in her mouth again.
I held her head in place, as it bobbed up and down in my lap. Along with the noisy sucking and slobbering sounds she made, Mrs. Abbott moaned in pleasure whenever her mouth was full of my cock. Eventually, I let her up for air and immediately began beating the head of my dick all over her face with one hand, holding her head in place with the other.
“Oh yes, Marlon,” she sighed, sticking her tongue out for me to slap my cock against, “I love it when a man takes control while I’m giving head.”
I continued slapping my cock all over Mrs. Abbott’s face. She took it like a champ, and all with a huge grin.
“Oh, Mrs. Abbott!” I panted.
“I think you can call me Eliza now, sweetie,” she giggled, “Although you seem to enjoy calling me Mrs. Abbott, don’t you?”
I nodded, grinning, as I slapped the head of my cock against her left cheek.
“Yeah, you like the fact I’m married, huh?” she said, smiling, “Have you ever been with an older white woman, Marlon?”
I shook my head. Of course, I had dreamt of it many, many times. This was a fantasy come true.
“I just love the look of your gorgeous thick black cock against my white skin,” Mrs. Abbott sighed, “You know…”
I interrupted her by pushing my cock into her mouth and forcing her to suck me. Well, she had said she liked a guy to take charge. She moaned, clearly delighted I was taking the reins. I held her head in place with both hands again, and, slowly but surely, encouraged her to attempt to take more and more of my length into her mouth with each dip of her head.
Mrs. Abbott gagged a couple of times when the head of my cock pushed into her throat, but she seemed happy to be controlled and treated this way, and I was more than happy to oblige. Finally, I let her up for air and to take a break. She immediately moved to suck and slobber over my balls. Her hands moved up to caress my chest and upper arms.
“Your tattoos are great, Marlon. Do you mind if I ask, did you get them…” she grinned up at me in between mouthfuls of my ballsack, hesitating slightly, “Did you get your tattoos in prison?”
I almost laughed. I had seen prison tattoos before on a couple of people I knew. They didn’t look anywhere near as professional as the ones I had had done in a regular tattoo parlour. Clearly Mrs. Abbott didn’t know much about such things, but the question certainly revealed a lot about her.
It took it to mean Mrs. Abbott liked, and probably had fantasised about, guys from ‘the wrong side of town’, a bad boy, a villain, even a thug. A guy who had prison tattoos would certainly qualify on that score. For me to play up to that stereotype was surely only going to serve me well, but I didn’t want to lie too much to her. Perhaps I could fudge the truth a little, though.
“No, I got them in a regular tattoo parlour here in town, but…” I began, then trailed off, deliberately so.
“But you’ve been in trouble with the police before, haven’t you, Marlon?” she said, filling in the blanks with a grin, “I knew it! How many times have you been arrested?”
“Well…” I said simply, briefly shaking my head and smiling, implying I couldn’t remember how many times.
“Oh, Marlon, you bad boy!” Mrs. Abbott chuckled and returned to sucking my dick again.
I leaned forward to grope her huge tits once more. I hadn’t lied to her; she had taken what I had said and run with it. The fact is, I had never been arrested. My only dealings with the police were when I had occasionally been erroneously stopped and searched by an officer when they had happened to be looking for their usual and elusive ‘young black male’.
I assumed Mrs. Abbott had believed what she wanted to hear, however. Either that, or it was part of a little role-play thing she enjoyed, blowing the young, hung, black thug. Whatever it was, she was certainly enjoying herself even more now. I knew this because as she continued to suck me, her right hand disappeared into her bikini panties, and she began rubbing herself.
She moaned in pleasure, which gave me a lovely tingling sensation from the vibration as she slurped and slobbered up and down my shaft. Eventually, she came up for air and reached up and snogged me, our tongues entwining.
“You know, Marlon, it’s so hot out here,” Mrs. Abbott purred in my ear, “I do have one final job for you. Will you follow me inside, sweetie?”
I nodded and helped her up to her feet. Mrs. Abbott took my cock in her hand and, with a giggle, led me back inside the house. On the way, she grabbed my half-finished Long Island iced tea and handed it to me. I admired the sway of her hips and that amazing ass as she led me through the lounge area.
I desperately hoped Mrs. Abbott was leading me by my cock to the bedroom. But I couldn’t have been prepared for the offer she would later make…
TO BE CONTINUED.
