He looked at me for a second while my meaning penetrated. Then he stepped inside and locked the door. Of course, I had to tell him, “Yes, you are my first black man.” (Adding a flirtatious, “How are you going to get me wet?”)
He proposed giving me head, and I let him, but all the while I was thinking about spanking and how I could get him to spank me. Finally I asked, “Spank me?”
Being hip hop (and thus booty-oriented), Tommy understood pretty well what I meant. He bent me over the bed and while he was getting his dick positioned for penetration, he began smacking my bottom, not very hard, just kind of cutely.
“You’re a bad little girl, aren’t you?” he asked with some very real appreciation, I thought. Wow, did he ever have a big cock, really. But I haven’t been with all that many guys so it’s hard to objectively compare. (That adorable Marty Patmore was almost as big anyway, for all he’s a skinny white boy.)
We had a very hard time at first. I told him he needed to spank me harder, like he meant it, if he wanted me relaxed enough take his whole cock. I saw him shrug in the mirror before he began spanking me again, this time a little harder. It was just right. Then he fastened his hands to my waist and started plunging in. I taught him the trick my darling Carlos always used to use to get me to come, placing his palm against my lower abdomen, just above my muff, and pressing it while he was drilling me. It worked! I came hard.
Tommy finished up and disposed of our protection. I thanked him, promising that if our paths met as fortuitously again, we might repeat the performance. (Why not? He was damn near perfect.) He walked out a little dazed but with a big smile on his handsome face. I never even asked him his major. I’m so bad.
Tommy did me so well that I only planned on interviewing the other interesting man who rapped on the door, looking for Alicia, before I left for Spanish. But he also turned out to be too interesting to let get away before test-driving as well. (What the hell got into me today? Oh, wait, I know, two cocks.)
Ronnie Van Horn, an earnest, bespectacled sophomore, dresses and talks like a Manhattan preppie. Alicia told me that he isn’t here on scholarship, his parents have bucks. She’s actually spoken somewhat favorably about him because he’s serious and not as obvious a dog as the others. She is considering allowing him to take her to an afternoon concert and tea some day this winter.
Ronnie appeared very p.c. and was both shocked and seemingly offended by my offer of casual sex.
“I’m sorry Miss Amanda, but houseslave Ronnie is not available to service you today!” he scolded me indignantly.
I told him not to be so stuffy. He was a boy first and an enlightened African American intellectual second. I admitted that my initial attraction to him was probably based on his exoticness, but made no apologies for that.
He remained obdurate so I said, “Oh, never mind! You’re obviously a prude or timid and I have no interest in that type of person, whatever the race.”
I kicked him out and closed the door.
Two minutes later, he was back, knocking. When I opened the door he took me in his arms and kissed me. Not awkwardly, not halfheartedly, but like he’d been studying old Clark Gable movies. (I found out later he’s a film historian and of course, a future independent film maker.)
He pulled me inside, locked the door and threw me down on the bed, actually saying, “You want me to make love to you?”
“Yes!” I replied, “But spank me first!”
This threw him and he seemed confounded. A large question mark quivered above his neatly crew cut cafe au lait head. His liquid brown eyes searched my face intensely. Did he hear correctly?
He got up, paced, looked at me, made double sure the door was locked, paced, and looked at me again. “Spanking! You deserve a paddling for how bad you are,” he finally sputtered.
“Oh, you don’t know the half,” I assured him, looking straight into his devastatingly deep eyes.
“Maybe you picked the wrong person to joke with about such matters,” he allowed judiciously.
“Maybe I picked the right one,” I countered, rolling over on my stomach on the bed. I was wearing my short, fawn colored, wool pleated skirt and a brown velvet vest over a white shirt with cuffed, chestnut thigh high boots. No, it’s not the supernaturally shapely booty of a black girl, but in its own quiet way, it juts.
He paced some more, unable to decide what to do. Perhaps this carefully brought up young man was afraid the freaky blonde slut would cry foul after encouraging an assault. I jumped up and grabbed my camera off the desk. “Look, we’ll create proof of my complicity,” I told him, placing it back on the desk in line with the bed and turning it on. “It’ll do a two minute video.”
I took him by the hand, led him to the bed and made him sit right in the middle, where I’d trained the camera. Then I stood to one side of him, defying him to turn me over his knee with a proud glance. He wasted a few seconds trying to consider whether this type of proof would help or hurt him should I turn psycho bitch and decide to lodge a complaint against him with the University. At last the greater imperative asserted itself and he yanked me face down across his corded thighs. He must either run or play some sport. Fantastic legs! He fastened his hand on my waist as though he’d been spanking girls all his life.
“What did you mean when you said I don’t know the half?” he demanded.
“Oh, you really want to know?”
“Yes!”
“Well, then I’ll have to admit, you’re the not the first man I’ve seduced today.”
“Oh? Really?” His hand came down hard on my bottom through the skirt five or six times.
“Yes, really! And the first one didn’t hesitate. He gave me everything I wanted, all at once. And, oh yeah, he was also black.”
“Oh my god, you’re a slut!” Smack, smack, smack! Three, six, nine, twelve swats in a row. He knew what he was doing though, alternating cheeks, striking not too high, not too low, covering my whole bottom, not just one spot. “I’ll teach you to objectify black men!”
“I already know how,” I replied, turning my face to look back at him, so the camera would catch my teasing expression.
“God, you’re a fresh little brat!” More vigorous swats.
“Don’t be so sensitive. You think Latin men squawk when white girls objectify them? No, they’re profoundly grateful!”
Ronnie spanked me long past the two-minute video time on my camera, good and hard. Then he let me go and took me in his arms again. We kissed so long and hard that his glasses steamed up. Then we were all over each other on the bed. He didn’t have protection, but I did and pretty soon, he was next in.
We made love face to face. I put my wrists above my head and he pinned them under one hand while unbuttoning my vest and blouse and unhooking my front closing lacy white bra to squeeze my bosom as he plunged his manly organ deep inside me. Gorgeous, lovable man!
Oh god, have I found my on campus-spanking boyfriend, so soon? If he is not a lifelong enthusiast for spanking, my name is not Amanda Sands.
Just before I left for class I got an email from Tommy Harrington. Which I quote below:
To the Fairest of the Fair, my Nymph, my Melisande,
When may I oh so delicately and carefully insert my throbbing engine of desire betwixt thy creamy, rosy orbs, that we may explore the deep mysteries of hardcore anal sex?