Authors: Lexi Rush
By Lexi Rush
© 2015 – Lexi Rush
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This is based on a true story. I’ve changed the names and places to protect the guilty.
By Lexi Rush
I was once asked in an interview, “If you could be a flavor, what would you be?”
My immediate reaction was
. I knew I had to think fast if I really wanted this job. And I did.
To add more pressure to an already stressful situation, the interviewer was a black female, younger than me, dressed well, and she looked like Whitney Houston. Not the Whitney Houston near the end—the vibrant, Grammy-winning babe at her peak. And I was a white dude—still trying to think I was at my peak.
Well, fortunately, thanks in part to the turbo caffeine buzz from my pre-interview preparation at Starbucks, my mind was on full alert mode. My brain’s microprocessor churned and immediately ruled out “vanilla” and “chocolate”—well, you know why. Strawberry, raspberry, and peach sounded gay and apart from semi-homophobia, I’m straight. Cherry made me sound like a sex offender. Cinnamon popped into my head, but sounded racist like vanilla and chocolate.
As her eyes told me
, I blurted out, “Pizza!”
She smiled (good sign) and said “Nobody’s ever answered ‘pizza’ before.” Bad sign. I pulled in a big breath and said an internal
and answered, “Well, pizza is the perfect food. It has grains, tomatoes, dairy, meats, vegetables, and even fruit. It’s versatile and always tastes good. And, everybody loves pizza, right?”
She said, “I’m lactose intolerant.” Bad sign.
Well, I obviously didn’t get the job, but who wants to work for a boss who asks questions like that?
One thing stuck with me from that interview: my honest answer was vanilla. I am a white dude. Even in the Summer with a suntan, I’m white. I live in a rural (another word for white) area, I’m married to a white girl. We both have white-collar jobs and our sex life is, well, plain vanilla.
That is, until we decided to add some chocolate. Dark chocolate.
“Luke, be honest...how did you like that?” Jenna asks, looking more interested in my answer than normal.
“Well, I’m not usually much for casserole, but it was tasty,” I gulp the rest of the wine in my glass so fast that I feel a red moustache on my clean-shaven face. Jenna doesn’t notice.
This is one of those times when lying is better. I wonder if she remembers when I complained about this same dish—some kind of Swedish concoction—not that long ago. The way she crinkles her nose and stares at me through her feisty blue eyes says she suspects I’m full of shit. But, she doesn’t say it. She just hums.
That’s what’s great about marriage. Well, at least our marriage. We’ve been together ten years, married for seven and there’s still a mutual respect for one another. Sure, we fight once in a while, usually over something so stupid that we can’t even remember it. I can’t recall if we fought over my complaining about this dish or not. We have developed into the couple who adapts and usually veers clear of marital landmines.
“Wanna watch Netflix?” she asks, then resumes her humming while pouring the rest of the wine into her glass.
I’m miffed she doesn’t at least pour me a splash, but relieved she doesn’t pursue the casserole issue further. Unspoken marital compromise. It’s Tuesday night, I’m out of wine and I don’t think any sports are on. I say, “Sure why not.”
Jenna grabs the remote and I cringe. This means we’ll end up watching some rom-com that puts me to sleep. Sure, I’ll argue for anything with Stallone or Schwarzenegger
but she will win the battle and the war—and then complain when I snore. I cringe as she clicks on some chick flick, but at least Jennifer Aniston is in it.
I make it all the way through and as the movie ends, I’m feeling frisky. I can thank miss Aniston, but mainly my wife looks sexy right now. Jenna’s long naturally curly honey hair is in two braids, flanking each shoulder. She looks like a cross between the St. Pauli Girl Oktoberfest babe and the Swiss Miss chick. Some of you are rolling your eyes, but hey, it works for me.
Jenna is the girl-next-door who could model lingerie, if that makes any sense. She constantly criticizes her body, but she has no idea how much her curves turn me on. If she loses the five pounds she always complains about, it would probably come from her bulbous tits.
I sing, “I love you just the way you are,” every time she winces in the mirror. The most attractive part of Jenna is she doesn’t realize how alluring she is.
If anyone should be self-conscious, it’s me. Pretty much from our wedding day on, I’ve morphed from six-pack abs to a pony keg. Jenna doesn’t mention it but I can read her eyes. At least I can still play basketball and more than hold my own against the younger guys. Just not jump like I did in high school.
After seven years of marriage, I have no problem popping wood—and right now, Mr. Happy is hoping Jenna can come out and play.
As the credits roll and some sappy song plays, I dart over to her chair (we don’t sit together anymore). I tickle her ribs and grab some side boob until she giggles. Then I lean into her so she notices my bulge.
“I guess you liked the movie after all?”
“Can we act like it’s Saturday night?”
Saturday night is our designated sex night. Somehow over the years, we evolved from every-chance-we-could-get-rabbits to once-a-week-and-almost-by-appointment turtles.
Jenna peeks at my pants and chews on her lower lip for a second, then says, “Sure why not.” Her way of mocking my response earlier, but I ignore it.
As we amble up the stairs, I grope her like usual and she scolds me—also like usual. This is normally our Saturday mating dance, but tonight she doesn’t seem into it as much.
We enter the designated vanilla mating room—our bedroom—the days of doing it everywhere are a distant memory. I’m not complaining, but we head toward the inevitable: vanilla sex. Then, I have an idea pop into my other head...
“Wanna watch a hot porno?”
Jenna furrows her brows into an immediate no, but she hesitates, then says, “Are you serious?”
It’s been months since we last watched porn—on a Saturday!—and I’m having a hard (pardon the pun) time with Jenna’s rejection. “C’mon, I watched a chick flick...”
Can you guess her response?
In a drawn out way, “Sure why not,” leaves her lips.
I don’t hesitate. Like an Indy 500 pit stop, I plug my laptop into the TV and click on a favorite porn site in record time. As the menu of genres pops up, she blurts, “Do you really want to”—
I cut her off, “Tell you what, you choose...”
She shakes her head and says, “I don’t care...”
“Just pick one.” I’m glaring at her and my bone threatens to descend.
“Fine,” she says and like grabbing the remote earlier, she lunges to my mouse pad and pushes me aside. She moves the pointer around and passes over a few hot looking girl-on-girl covers before settling on
Blacks on Blondes – Volume 7.
My bone hardens into petrified wood.
As it starts, with actually some clothed plot—if you can call it that with a straight face—a red-dressed white girl with fake tits and equally fake blonde hair is talking to a big black dude in a shiny dark business suit and top hat. If I didn’t know it was a porno, I’d have guessed it was the start of a
Saturday Night Live
skit. We can rule out Academy Award nominations.
I dim the lights and climb in our King-sized bed, actually next to her. We are both laying back in our underwear. Regardless of the lack of acting skills, I notice a pre-cum dot on my boxers but the look on her face tells me her panties are still dry. The dialogue goes on a bit too long (by porno standards) and I worry Jenna’s going to bail on it any minute. But she doesn’t.
Finally, our on-screen couple is now kissing. They are much more comfortable mauling each other’s mouths than talking. This is a stark contrast to Jenna and me—we don’t kiss passionately anymore, but we can sure use our mouths to nitpick. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing. Jenna’s eyes are glistening and she flinches. I can tell this means she’s enjoying the show.
The kissing is now including petting—hey, they can multi-task! Platinum-blondie is stroking the front of black businessman’s slacks as he slips his hand under her dress. This lasts about ten seconds and she drops to her knees and unzips him. And out pops, surprise surprise...
A cock about the size of our wine bottle.
I say, “Holy shit,” as Jenna shrieks, “Is that thing real?”
Real or not, our actress wastes no time and cups his huge dangling shaved balls with one of her red fake finger-nailed hands while her red lipstick engulfs his bulging cock head. Her other hand grips his cock but pales compared to his colossal shaft. He flings his head back a little too much and grunts, “Yeah, suck it bitch.”
Well, the dialogue differs a bit from the Aniston chick flick. I worry Jenna will hit the off button, but much to my amazement, her eyes seem glued to the screen, and her mouth hangs open. And her hand is sliding across her panties.
She doesn’t even notice my wide eyes staring at her, so I start stroking my cock, unsure what’s hotter: the steamy blow job on-screen or my wife’s
“You like that baby?”
Jenna flinches as if I caught her, well, masturbating. Her hand darts up to her stomach and freezes as she glares at my boxers and says, “Don’t you?”
Though her tone is scolding,
is her way of saying hell yes! I remain silent as the scene continues. Our leading lady is now slobbering all over this lucky bastard’s cock, taking him so deep my gag reflex almost kicks in. I hope Jenna has a good memory.
I corner-eye Jenna as her hand slips under her panties for the second time. I stop stroking myself or watching her will make me preemie and destroy my new boxers—and the moment. She is enjoying this video more than me, but I am getting off just spying on her. She is oblivious to me and seems hypnotized by this plain vanilla (no pun intended) scene. I mean, it’s only a BJ for God’s sake. I wonder why...
Her fingers tweak at a deliberate pace, still burrowed under her panties. I wonder how wet she is and want to rip off her underwear and inhale her excitement. I realize that watching her is hotter than porn—and my fantasy is revealed to me like an epiphany.
The blow job that never seems to end, ends, and abruptly shifts to a new scene. They are magically naked now and platinum-blonde is on top, back to the camera. I squint and notice a peace sign tattoo above her derriere and chuckle to myself at the piece-of-ass pun. Jenna ceases from fingering and her breathing is heavy, but I don’t think it’s over miss porn queen’s ass art.
The woman reaches her red nails behind and grabs her black bull’s rod and teases it like a paint brush against her pussy. His pre-cum is spread across her ass and pussy. I guess this the point of suspense in our movie: Will he fuck her in the ass first?
She ends the porn-suspense as she steadies him against her pussy lips. Jenna’s eyes are flaming with desire. I wonder if Jenna’s imagining herself on top of this stud. He thrusts up and she gasps—and I notice Jenna moans slightly too. Now I have my answer.
Jenna resumes her hidden fingering. And my cock twitches and aches.
As the peace sign yo-yos with him only half way in, creamy globs coat our black bull’s cock. I wonder if this is an orgasm or just bad lube. I notice Jenna’s shoulder drop a bit and the back of her hand is stretching her panties out and in. I’d give anything to see my Jenna, my shy little country girl-next-door Jenna, finger fuck herself. But I don’t dare interrupt my porn-within-a-porno show. Her panties have an even bigger stain than my boxers.
They stop and a new scene pops: she’s on her back and her face is contorting as his ebony ass muscles flex at the end of each deep thrust. Jenna’s finger-fucking matches the pace of our porn stars and her eyes tell me she’s really into it now.
“Fuck me with that big black cock!” Our heroine apparently can speak. That must have been her big line because now she only moans with each plunge. And she doesn’t look like she’s acting. He has to be hurting her.
My head turns at a 45 degree angle so I can view the action on our flat-screen and Jenna simultaneously.
“You like this, you white slut?” he growls in her ear.
“Yes, fuck me harder...harder...fuck me with your big black cock!” For a minute, I thought she forgot her line.
To me, this video should be rated R. It’s predictable and aside from King Kong Dong, the chick’s not that hot. I find myself inserting Jenna in her place and my cock twitches. I am dying to jerk off but watching Jenna get off could make me cum without touching myself. I have quite the puddle in my boxers—I must have emptied a ball by now.
Another scene shift and she’s on all fours on a couch, peace sign posing for the camera. Our black bronco stands and holds his shaft like a remote control with his cock head just outside her asshole. His other hand squeezes a bottle and some lube plops on the target. She turns her head back and says, “Fuck my ass,” then stares into his eyes. Jenna’s fingering pauses and her head is cocked like she’s actually wondering what’s happening.
I have begged to fuck Jenna in her ass a bazillion times, but shortly after our wedding, I quit asking. I’m hoping this scene might reopen things (so to speak).
Our bull tosses the lube, grips her ass, and uses his black sword to declare war on miss peace sign. She screams, “Yeah baby, that’s it. Fuck my ass.”
He releases one hand and smacks her creamy ass. Then again. And on the other side. And he doesn’t miss a beat with his fierce thrusting. I’m guessing he’s trying to puncture her lungs.
I hear, “Yeah, take it bitch,” and I feel the bed vibrate and realize I’m missing Jenna’s reaction. To my amazement, Jenna has her panties pulled down to her knees and is ramming her pussy with what looks like all four fingers. My cock nearly launches into orbit.
I slip in beside my panting wife and murmur, “You wanna fuck that guy?”
Jenna moans. Her finger-fucking speeds up.
“I want to watch you fuck that guy,” my voice has a gravelly, uneven growl.
I continue, “I want to see that
inside you...” then I tongue her ear.
Jenna’s eyes squint closed and her hips gyrate. Her moans could be heard in the next county—and are sweet music to my ears. I love the sound of a girl cumming more than my own orgasm.
Well, a close second...
As Jenna’s spasm slowly subsides, I carefully avoid breaking a bone with an up and over my boxers, then fling them to the floor. I lunge next to Jenna’s knees and rip her panties off. Her eyes are still closed and she is quivering aftershocks. She doesn’t even notice me inhale her soaked panties.
She flinches as I climb between her legs, forcing them wider. My cock plunges in as if I were diving into a pool. And she feels wetter than most pools. Her pussy doesn’t have the usual clench on my cock and I’m guessing her fist destroyed her muscle. She’s never been this wet or this loose before. I almost pull out to jack off on her stomach, but move my legs outside hers and pull them together.