Erikas First Pickup

Erika asked me: "Are you ready?" I wondered whether I was. "Ready as I'll ever be," I said.

Then I took a moment to look her over. "Damn, you look good! I'll bet every guy in the place will want to fuck you."

"I certainly hope so," she said, with just a twist of a smile. "That's pretty much the idea, isn't it?"

"I guess so."

"You

guess

so, Steve? You're having second thoughts? I think it's a little late for that." She offered me her arm. "Now escort me to my limousine, please."

The "limousine" was the same old Ford Taurus that we've had for longer than we've been married. But it's never taken us anyplace like this before. Couldn't have; Altamont may be the San Francisco of the Southern Appalachians, but until just a few weeks ago, it never had anything like this. This place ... this event ... that its organizers call simply "The Club."

A place where white men take their wives to meet black men.

Not that you could tell that by looking at the building. The sign on the front says "Cedric's Place," same as it has for as long as I can remember. It has maybe a little bit racier reputation than other bars in Altamont. A good nightclub for people looking to walk on the wild side just a little; but nothing so specific.

But tonight, Cedric's is closed to the public. Closed for a private party, that's all they tell the people who don't already know. But we do know. That's why we're here. We know what to tell the man at the door. We're in.

A lot of the people look vaguely familiar. But at first scan, I don't see anyone we actually know. That goes for the white couples, and for the black guys as well.

I'm glad, I think.

We're fairly early; I don't see very much mingling going on yet. Especially between the races. People are still checking each other out.

Okay, I'll do that too.

Looking at the other women, I see my wife in a whole new light. I wouldn't say this out loud, but basically, some of them look dowdy, and the rest of them are dressed to look slutty. And that's "slut" with all the bad connotations the word usually has. Most of this crowd are not ready to reclaim the word, to take pride in being sluts. They may want to be, but they're not.

Erika is ready. Her expression, her clothes, and her body all declare, good and loud, "I'm a slut – and proud."

One of the guys has already noticed her. Real young one, maybe about nineteen. Way he's dressed, he looks like what they call a "gang-banger." Baggy shorts, pulled down so that the top of his underwear is showing.

He was standing with some of his buddies, but now he's on the way over. Erika sees him, too.

"Hey, mama! You're looking

good

tonight!" He glances at me for about three tenths of a second, then puts his attention back on Erika. "Gotta be y'all's first time here, right? Bitch as fine as you been here before, I'd remember."

"That's right," Erika says, "It's our first time here." As she says it, she puts her hand on my arm for just a moment. "Are you the welcoming party? Offering to show us the ropes?" She extends her hand to him. "My name's Erika, by the way."

"I'll show you anything you want to see, baby," he says. He looks pleased with himself. "But let me ax you something. This just your first time at The Club, or you ain't never been blacked before, period?"

"The latter, if I understand you. I haven't had sex with a black man ... yet. And your name is ...?"

"Oh, you can call me Tyrone. All us young bulls in here go by Tyrone. Makes it easier for y'all to remember."

All this time, he's still holding on to her hand. Gently rubbing on the palm, and up into the gap between the thumb and fingers. She hasn't tried to take it away. She firms up her grip briefly as she says, "Very pleased to meet you, Tyrone."

"So, I bet you don't want to waste any more time, you ain't never had it before. You ready for me to pop your black dick cherry?"

There's a silence. She looks at me. I think I can read her reaction. She's pretty damn ready, but not quite that ready. But she doesn't want to say so; I think she wants me to play the bad guy.

So I do. "Hey, bro, we just got here. I think we'd like some time to soak up the atmosphere, meet some more folks, watch how The Club operates. I'm not saying she's not interested, dig? Think of it like foreplay."

"You're not my bro," Tyrone answers me. The rest of his answer goes to her. "You gonna let your little-dicked, loser white husband talk for you? I'm asking you, not him. What you want? Foreplay? Ass play? Or you just wanna play with my dick?"

"He can talk for me," Erika replies evenly, "so long as he gets it right. So far, he's doing fine. And he's no loser. He's my husband, and I love him. And he knows me a lot better than you do, Tyrone.

"Don't misunderstand me," she adds, laying her hand on his arm. "I think you look fine, too. I bet you have an impressive dick. I'd love to play with it ... in a while. Just show some patience, OK?"

"Oh, I get it," the young man said. "You two are that kind of white folks, think you're going to come slumming in here, pick up some black dick, but you're going to do it your way, call all the shots.

"Well, let me tell you something. This Club don't work like that. Least, not where I'm around. I meet a white bitch, she's going to do what I tell her to do, when I tell her to do it. And her white husband ain't gonna do nothing but smile and say, 'Yes, sir.'

"Got that? 'Cause here's what you're gonna do, girl. You're gonna suck my dick, right here, right now. In the middle of the floor, you dig?"

While he was giving us that rap, I was noticing something else. Out of the corner of my eye, at first. The other young guys he'd been standing with, before he came over: they'd been watching and listening. And now they began to move.

Towards us ... but not directly towards us, not all of them. Some of them were circling around

behind

us. There were enough of them, they could make a circle around us. Discourage anyone from interfering, but still leave room for others to watch what was going on.

They weren't fast enough. Before they could close up a circle, another man was there, inside it, and right up in "Tyrone's" face. He was black, too, but looked considerably older than these guys. In his mid forties, maybe: about five years older than Erika and I.

"I think you forgot your manners, LT," the new arrival told him. "If you want to come on to some lady all gangsta like that, and she digs it, then right on, I won't interfere. But that's not what's happening this time. You need your ears washed out, you can't hear too good? She was liking you at first; you could have had some, real easy, if you showed a little class. But no, you gotta give her the whole act: 'Bitch do this, bitch do that.' This woman is not down with that. And you know what?" He leaned his face in closer to Tyrone's. "If she's not down with it, then neither am I. You dig?"

Tyrone was like a changed man ... or boy. "Sure thing, Coach. Whatever you say. Shoot, if you had your eye on her, why didn't you just say so? I ain't gonna give you no trouble."

And with that, he turned and walked away. His buddies all drifted in the same direction.

"Sorry, ma'am," Coach said. "And sir. He actually isn't such a bad kid. He's just watched too many of the wrong kind of movies. Plus, he's tried that approach on some of the other women who've come in here, and, so help me, more often than not, it's worked. And the husbands seemed to be eating it up, too. So in a way, I can't blame him too much for being confused.

"But you two are new here, and we can't have you getting the wrong impression. Especially such a lovely lady as yourself. We want you to be comfortable here, and come back because you had a good time. Both of you."

"Please, call me Erika," she said. "And I'm Steve," I chimed in, and offered my hand. He shook it, warmly.

"And hey," I went on, "I really want to thank you." Erika nodded, so I added, "We both do. That could have been ... uncomfortable. You know, as a fantasy, I might even get into something like that. But in real life ...."

"I understand," Coach affirmed. "In real life, if you have any sense, you want to be dealing with someone who sees you as people, not just tokens in their game. Unfortunately, we've had some white couples come in here who apparently didn't have that kind of sense. They seemed to want to be treated like shit."

He was silent for a few moments, looking at both of us in turn. We were sitting down, now; while we were talking, he'd guided us to a table, using gestures alone. It felt natural to follow his lead.

"Like I said to LT, I see a couple acting like that, I don't interfere. They don't have any self-respect, that's not my problem. But it makes me wonder what the country's coming to." We all nodded.

"It's refreshing to see a couple like you two, who stand up for yourselves – and each other. I mean, I assume you know what The Club is about. If you're here, then you have some desires, or at least some curiosity, that aren't, shall we say, neutral when it comes to race. You want to cross that boundary. But you don't want to be humiliated, or pushed around. That about right?"

He was watching both our faces, but Erika's more than mine. So she answered him.

"Yes. Sir," with a flash of smile as she added that word. "I appreciate your stepping in. This young fellow—what did you call him, 'LT'?—I believe you when you say he's not really a bad kid, but he's got some things to learn."

"Yes, I called him LT. It stands for 'Little Tyrone.'" We all smiled.

Erika leaned forward a little. "LT implied that you stepped forward because you had your eye on me yourself. Is there any truth to that?"

"Well, let me put it like this: it wasn't

the

reason. Stepping up to show young guys how to do right, that's just part of who I am. And, call me crazy if you want, but I actually believe that, in the long run, places like The Club can contribute to improving race relations ... but only if we don't have too many guys acting dumb like that and screwing it up."

He paused. "But I admit, I have been known to get a side benefit from a situation like this. An 'intervention' like just now, it does get a conversation started. If that conversation leads ... somewhere else ... somewhere very pleasant, involving a particularly attractive woman ... I don't feel like I need to run away from an opportunity like that."

Erika leaned in still closer to his face. "And do you consider me a particularly attractive woman?"

He moved a little closer, too. "Yes, ma'am. Erika. Quite particularly."

"Mmm," she said. "That makes me feel ... very ... good."

By the time she finished saying that, their lips were so close that it would have been ungentlemanly of him

not

to move in for the kiss. So he did. I timed that first one at a little over four seconds.

Then he looked at me. He looked at me longer than anyone had, including Erika, since we walked into the place. "You're okay with this, Steve?"

"I am okay with it, yeah. Actually, what I am, mostly, is aroused."

"Good man. But I still don't want to assume anything. That kiss ... shall we regard it as a taste of things to hope for, later ... like, maybe, after you've had more time to socialize? Or ....?"

Erika said, "I vote for 'or.' We've had two or three rather intense experiences, in the last half hour. At this point, meeting more people, and what you call 'socializing,' would just feel like marking time. I'd rather that the three of us went someplace quieter, if that's OK with you two."

It was, and the man called Coach knew just the place: his. The three of us left The Club.

Outside, he bowed and asked her, "Which chariot would you prefer, my lady?"

Erika put an arm around his waist, and said, "It's tempting. But I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you, and that might cause an accident. I'll ride with Steve; we'll be there soon enough."

And indeed, we were. Coach led us into his apartment, and made some self-deprecating remark about the mess, and how bachelors are.

The décor was muted and earthy. But a mess? Not compared to what my bachelor pad had been like, back in the day.

Of course, when he went out to The Club, he probably put in some effort first. The man had to know that his chances of scoring were quite good.

I took the easy chair, while the two of them settled on the couch. After a relatively brief kiss, he popped up again and played host a little bit.

He put on a record. I recognized the piece: Charles Mingus, "The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady."

He offered drinks. We all thought that red wine sounded good, and he brought out three glasses of pinot noir.

Then the two of them settled down to kissing in earnest. I counted six seconds before his hands started moving, and another fourteen before the right one found its way to her left breast. Then I forgot about counting anything, and just let the experience flow over me.

In response to his touch, she arched her back a little, so that her chest thrust forward. It was like saying: yes, take it. Take me.

He cupped his hand under the breast, and then moved it ever so gently. Rocking that baby. He moved his mouth to her neck, and traced designs on it with his tongue. Then back inside her mouth.

He must have traced some secret symbols there, symbols that commanded her body, because a new, gentle motion started flowing rhythmically down her spine. Each wave broke when it reached her pelvis, and became a thrust.

Then a little side-to-side twisting got added into the mix, rubbing her ass against the sofa cushion. I saw what she was doing: she was making her skirt ride up, without using her hands to do it. Her hands were too busy, clasped tightly around his neck.

She managed nicely without using them. A couple of sliding motions, and voilà! Her skirt was up around her hips, and her red panties were in full view.

His eyes didn't seem to notice, but his hand did. He was there. A bit of light stroking on the outside of the fabric, and then he started gently pulling the panties down.

Obediently, she lifted up her hips. With her cooperation, he pulled them down all the way to her feet, and worked them free.

He glanced at me for a moment, with the panties in his hand. His arm drew back a little, as if he were going to toss them to me. But he decided against it, and just lay them down on the sofa instead.

He had to do

something

with them; that hand was needed for other things.

It floated over to my wife's pussy, and landed there ever so gently. At first, he was just stroking on and around the hairy mound, not parting the lips in the slightest.

It occurred to me that if it had been LT, he would have jabbed a couple of fingers right in. It also occurred to me that Erika was aroused enough, by now, that she would have liked that just fine ... from either of them, probably.

But Coach knew something that Little Tyrone didn't know. He knew that a gentle touch could assert command just as surely as an abrupt one could; more so, in fact.

By holding back a little, keeping his actions just

behind

the building wave of her desire, he showed her that he was in control. She knew that he was in charge, and she wasn't, because she wasn't getting what she wanted, at that moment: she wanted him to go faster.

How do I know that? She said so, actually. "You're teasing me, you bastard!" But she said it with a smile.

Then her mouth was busy again. No more "tracing:" they were grinding their tongues together. His hand stayed gentle—but not tentative. Slowly but assuredly, it worked its way inside her pussy.

She started breathing faster. Once or twice, she had to break off the kissing for a moment, to catch her breath. And then came those sounds, which of course I'd heard before, but never so soon:

"Ah ... ah ... ah ..."

The final sound was kind of like a sigh, but more like a moan, and with a little bit of scream layered on at the finish.

She lay her head back on the top of the sofa cushion. He moved his face far enough away from hers so that they could look at each other without going cross-eyed. His hand was still in her pussy, but it wasn't moving. No, check that: it was

barely

moving.

They just looked at each other for a little while. Then she said one word: "God."

Then, she looked at me. He did, too. They both just studied my expression for a little bit. Then she spoke one more word: "Hi."

"Hi to you both," I said. "Welcome back. I'd ask if you had a nice trip, but I think I know the answer to that."

"I don't think 'nice' is exactly the word I would have chosen," she answered. "But sure, honey. It was that too."

Coach had a different quibble with my wording, and hers. "What's all this past-tense stuff? We're taking a rest stop. If either one of you thinks this trip is over ...."

He didn't finish that sentence, because I broke in. "Of course not, sir. You've given Erika quite a ride, already. But I know my wife: she's far too thoughtful a woman to stop now, when you haven't had a chance to get off, too."

"Thoughtful, my ass." That was Erika. "Of course I don't want to stop, but you're crazy if you think that's only for his sake. I'm nowhere near done. Shit, I haven't even seen his dick yet."

"Easily fixed," said Coach. "Assuming you'd like to."

Erika said "Yes. Please, sir."

I found myself nodding, though he hadn't asked me. He did notice my doing it, though.

"Excellent! Would you like to do the unveiling, Ma'am, or shall I? Or you, Steve?"

My mouth was dry. "Not this time, I think. This is all new to me. I'm ready to watch, but 'hands on'? Not so much ... yet."

"No problem either way," said Coach. "I'm sure Erika can handle it. Want you to know that you're welcome to touch it, if you feel ready at some point. Maybe the idea will grow on you."

"I appreciate that, sir."

Erika: "Now as for me, of course I can 'handle it.' And I fully expect to, in a minute. But you go ahead first, Coach, sir, if you don't mind. Take it out, and show it to me. To us."

Coach replied, "Your wish is my command, Erika. Except when it's the other way around."

He unzipped his pants and reached inside. I'm not sure whether he was moving in slow motion, or whether it just seemed that way to me.

His dick was—is—big, and thick, and beautiful. I hadn't brought a tape measure with me, and I'm not going to guess at a number. Suffice it to say that it was the biggest dick I'd ever seen, outside of a porno movie.

Oh, and it is—was—a good deal bigger than mine. Mind you, this was while his was not yet particularly erect, while mine felt as hard as it ever does.

And then Erika went to work on it. At first, she reached out and took it with one hand, and gently stroked it with the other. But her mouth wouldn't hold still: you knew she was longing to taste it.

He waggled his hips a little, which was all the invitation she needed.

Did I say "taste"? That didn't last long: time wasn't moving slowly any more. Before I could blink, she had engulfed it.

I had no idea she could take something that big into her mouth. (But then, how would I have known?) I'm still not sure how she did it; it was like her head must be bigger on the inside than on the outside. Maybe the general theory of relativity could explain it.

After a time that seemed both long and short, she stopped and, ah, cleared her throat. "Hey, Coach?" He looked inquiring.

"I'm not complaining, you understand, but there's a lot more of that body that I haven't gotten to touch yet. Can we get you naked?"

"Certainly, my fair lady. Especially if we can do the same for you. May I suggest the bedroom?"

They gathered themselves together, and trooped on up the stairs. I picked her panties up from the sofa and followed behind, carrying them.