SUBURBAN PSYCHE by C. Lakewood My name is Lauren Meredith. I am 30-something, fairly well-educated (Radcliffe), and satisfactorily married for almost ten years. Until recently, I have also been completely faithful to my philandering husband. We are quite well-to-do and live in an expensive house in an up-scale suburb. My husband, outwardly devoted to his business affairs, has for some time been neglecting me sexually, but I haven't really minded; I've had other things to occupy my time: shopping, parties, concerts, theatre, PBS and NPR, country club, gym, spa.... My urbane husband is a cad, but, all in all, a rather considerate one...and an excellent provider. Indeed, my life was very pleasant. Then the serpent made his appearance. We were in the process of having some extensive landscaping done. The foreman was a big, muscular black man named Aaron. I really paid little attention to him until late on the second day. I was sunning myself in my "stealth" bikini -- flesh-colored and scandalously brief. Stretched out on the secluded side patio, I read "The Secret" for a while. It was my discussion group's current book, and I was fascinated by its premise: that, if you focus properly, you can achieve virtually anything you set your mind to. Concentrate on what you truly do want in your life, and rely on the "Law of Attraction" (the principle that you attract whatever you focus your energy on...relationships, possessions, goals). In effect, you shape your own reality.... An intriguing notion, but I wasn't sure how much I believed it. I'd put the book down and was just lying there, drowsing, when I heard Aaron talking angrily on his cell phone. (Apparently he'd come around the side of the house to get some privacy from his men and didn't see me lying there, partially screened by a hedge and low stone wall.) He was snarling, apparently at a girlfriend, about her less than satisfactory sexual performance. I knew it was wrong to listen in, but it WAS loathsomely fascinating. "Listen, 'ho, you don' gimme no 'scuses. When I gets home, you jus' better be naked, with yer cunt drippin' wet and yer mouth real hot to suck my cock...." At that point, he snapped his phone shut and turned...and stopped dead, looking right at me. But he didn't hesitate. He walked right over and stood, leering down at me, close enough for me to smell his Negroid body odor. I started to stammer something indignant, but he just shook his head, and I shut up. I cringed as he shamelessly eyed me up and down. The whole scene was unsettling...and strangely arousing. "Nex' time," he said, with a crackle of authority in his voice, "leave off the bikini." He stared at me until I nodded, then he turned on his heel and swaggered back the way he had come. I immediately dashed into the house, stripped, and sank into an orgy of masturbation. ****************************** I spent the next day -- Wednesday -- inside the house, naked. For a while, it was amusing to pass the time sipping sherry, playing with myself, and peeking through the curtains, trying to imagine what the various workmen might look like naked. Afterward, however, I became annoyed at having been cooped up all day by the boorishness of that ape. I resolved to put him in his place the following day. Accordingly, on Thursday morning I packed paté, brie, biscotti, prosciutto, scones, some nice Danish butter, several wine coolers, a jug of iced coffee, and a few other necessities. I put on the same bikini and carried hamper, ice chest, sunscreen, portable radio, and everything else out to the patio, where I was prepared to settle in for as long as it might take. About noon, Aaron appeared. Lying there with my eyes closed, I could sense that he was staring at me, even while again berating his girlfriend. I began to tremble, and, when he snapped his phone shut, I opened my eyes. "Up!" he barked, gesturing with his thumb. What could I do? Blinking at him through the sun-dazzle, I got to my feet with as much dignity as I could manage. I tried to look him in the eye and tell him off, but no words would come, and I self-consciously dropped my gaze. "What'd I tell you about that fuckin' bikini?" he rasped. "To...to l-leave it off...." "Well?" My stomach lurched. I felt I HAD to...to obey. I reluctantly wriggled out of it and stood naked before him in a half-crouch, trying to cover myself with my arms. "No foolin' around, now, actin' modest. Stan' up straight, Princess, witcher arms at yer sides." My mind was in a whirl. I should have been angrily telling him where to go...asserting my social and economic superiority...but instead I was meekly following orders. I stood at attention, hardly daring to breathe. Where was my outrage? Where was my disdain? He fetched his pruning shears out of his hip pocket, snipped a slender sucker growing up from the roots of a nearby crabapple tree, and, cautioning me not to cry out or break position, he proceeded to give me a thorough switching -- on my bottom and the fronts and backs of my thighs. I twitched a little and cried a lot...but stayed silent and at attention. When he was finished, he eyed me and asked, "You wet?" "Y-yes, sir," I murmured and slid my legs apart to show him. ("SIR"? I called him "SIR"? He was no better than a baboon! Why was I acting this way? It was so unlike me.... But he was so dominating, and I was so...needy.) He reached out and snaked a thick finger into me...and then another. Oh, god! It was so dirty, so demeaning.... And so thrilling. I clamped my...well...my CUNT down onto his fingers -- if I was going to be a shameless slut, I might as well use the appropriate terms. He twisted his hand around so that he could tease my...my asshole with his thumb. And no man had ever been allowed to touch me THERE. After a moment, he pulled his fingers free and pushed down on my shoulders. "Lemme see how YOU suck cock," he ordered. "But...out here?" I whined, even as I crouched in front of him, unzipped his pants, and fumbled out his cock (which was big -- and rapidly getting bigger). The shaft was chocolate brown and the bulbous head fuchsia. It stank of sweat and pee and musk. I had never sucked a cock before -- and had never even seen a black one -- but I avidly worked this one over with my lips and tongue. I should have been revolted.... But it tasted delicious! I was moaning and slobbering, licking and sucking, hoping to make up in enthusiasm what I lacked in technique, for it was important that I please him. I desperately wanted to show him that I was better than his 'ho girlfriend. It seemed to work, since soon he ejaculated a series of what I considered large, thick blobs of semen -- cum -- down my throat. I looked up at him to find that he was gazing down at me with an expression of possessiveness, of ownership. No one had ever looked at me like that -- my husband was too cool and most other men too intimidated. I licked my lips and murmured, "Thank you...sir." And the feminist inside me shriveled and died, shrieking. He looked inside the hamper and then lay down on my lounge chair. He spent almost an hour reclining in the shade, lunching on the delicacies I'd packed. I knelt, sweating, in the sun as he fed me tidbits, which I nibbled eagerly and licked his fingers afterward. It was most surreal. This man was not physically attractive (though he did possess a certain animal magnetism). He seemed to be cunning enough, but not what I would call intelligent -- or clever or witty. And he was certainly not anywhere near my socio-economic class or level of sophistication. Yet I was practically groveling for his attention.... He stretched and smacked his lips. "Tasty, but not real fillin'.... What time's yer ol' man get home?" "Tonight? Well after 10:00, sir. He's...'working late' to prepare for an out-of-town 'business trip' this weekend." "Good enuff. After we quit for the day, I'll stop by the house for some supper an' 'nother blow job. Whatchu fix that's good?" "Tossed salad...lasagna...croissants...cheesecake?" "Ho-kay. And beer, none of those pissy little wine coolers." "Will you...would you...f-fuck me, please, sir?" "Maybe...if yer a real good 'bad girl.' Know what I mean?" "I think so. You want me to...be a-a slut for you." "C'mere." He beckoned and I responded. Again, he cork-screwed two fingers into my drooling cunt and played with me until I was weak in the knees. "Don't cum now, bitch. Wait'll I fuck you later. Ever been cornholed? Butt-fucked?" "Oh, god! No!" I gasped. "That's so...so.... Do you...WANT to...butt-fuck me? Would you?" He grinned, displaying a gold tooth. "Ask me, real per-litely, an' maybe I will." Though could feel my virgin asshole cringe, I said, "Please, sir, please b-b-butt-f-fuck me.... But please, be gentle." "Shee-it! You gonna be my slut, you take it any way I wants to give it to you. Right?" "Yes, sir." I was scared, but still on the verge of cumming. He nodded and pulled his fingers out, raising them to my mouth so I could lick them clean. Why was being such a slut for this ape so exciting? And it WAS exciting; my clit was throbbing and my cunt aching to be filled. "Any way you want...but please do it soon," I murmured. It was quickly becoming clear that I was not just some rich bitch acting like a slut. I WAS a slut. He swatted me on my sore bottom. "Now git in the house an' start fixin' supper. Stay naked. An' don' wash -- yer startin' to smell like a real woman. No playin' witchersef, neither. That cunt belongs to ME, now. Right?" "Y-yes, sir. My cunt belongs to you...a-and my asshole, too." I scampered into the house, fantasizing about the lurid things that were going to happen later. ****************************** As I busied myself in the kitchen, my hot cunt kept calling for attention. It smelled and itched, and keeping my fingers away from it almost drove me crazy, but I HAD to obey orders. While the lasagna was baking, however, I tremblingly gave myself an enema. I wanted to be nice and clean for my first "cornholing." Apart from than these distractions -- or maybe because of them -- the time seemed to pass with unnatural speed, and soon the work crew was gone, and Aaron was at the door. ****************************** He seemed to enjoy the meal; he ate like a starving barbarian. Afterward, he sniffed me all over and expressed his satisfaction on the way my womanly odor was developing. Then came the after-dinner entertainment. I gave him another "bad girl blow job," but just long enough to get his cock fully erect and covered with saliva. He was going to need more lubricant than just my spit, so he utilized the last of the Danish butter. He took me outside, into the gathering dark, and bent me over a low stone wall. "Spread yer ass-cheeks an' push, like yer constipated an' tryin' to take a shit...." He slid two greasy fingers into my asshole to lube it up. That didn't really hurt, but they were much thicker than the enema nozzle, and I knew that his cock was thicker still. Would it actually go in without damaging me? His fingers seemed to be about the limit I could reasonably take. But "reasonableness" had no part in this. When he pulled his fingers out, I was more aroused than I can ever remember. I felt empty, and I needed to be filled with his cock. I NEEDED to be butt-fucked, and I trembled at the realization. My train of thought had distracted me from what was going on behind me, and, by the time I was aware of it, Aaron had his cock inside me and was sliding it in and out, his belly slapping my buttocks in a remorseless rhythm. My asshole was actually being fucked! By a black laborer! Without a condom! And it was almost unbearably exciting! I growled and began humping my butt back at him. It was hot and humid out there in the dark, and we were both soaked with sweat, rutting like two primitives. As I gasped for breath, my mind whirled off into all sorts of fantasies -- all involving a dominant black stud and a more-than-willing white woman. I don't know how long it lasted, but I had two orgasms along the way. Finally I felt him stiffen...and his cock pulse. A warm wetness filled my bowels. And that triggered another orgasm -- the most volcanic yet -- which left me practically delirious. After I had recovered somewhat, he herded me back into the house with several sharp slaps to my backside. After I washed off his cock, he took his leave, warning me to "get ready to party this weekend." I wandered through the big house, re-living what had happened and speculating on what was going to happen. My feelings were a stew of satisfaction, apprehension, loathing, and curiosity. I fixed myself a drink -- a screwdriver -- and settled down, hoping to make some sense out of it all, but my thoughts were disturbed by what sounded like a woman shrieking, far distant, but rapidly coming closer.... ****************************** "Ooh!" I sat up, dazed at first. Even so, I could tell that it wasn't a scream; it was a siren on a passing fire truck or police car. Then, as reality gradually intruded, I discovered WHERE I was: in my lounge chair on the little side patio, dressed in my bikini. Then I realized WHEN: late afternoon...late TUESDAY afternoon. It had been a dream? It HAD been a dream...and -- oh, god! -- a WET dream, at that, judging from my very soggy crotch. I heaved a grateful sigh. Thank heavens! What a disgusting experience it all would have been, if it had been real. But it was just a dream, and I was myself again! I was so relieved that I actually laughed out loud. But then I remembered something I'd heard in a Psych 101 lecture years before: "What does a chicken dream of? It dreams of grain; it dreams of that which it most desires." I shuddered.