Two chunks of ice clunked heavily in the glass. I felt an involuntary shudder down the tip of my spine. It didn't matter how many times he came to our house - our home - I still felt that delicious combination of fear and excitement as I prepared for his arrival. Melissa said that was just how it should be. Without that bonfire of feelings inside of me it wouldn't drive me on to be the best cuck I could be. She didn't say it every day, maybe not even every other day, but it was certainly the case that not a week went by in which she would challenge me apropos of nothing - 'how are you being the best white cuckold you could possibly be today?'
'Do you like it?'
I spun around, taken aback as I had been lost in my own thoughts. She looked stunning. Her long tall frame clad in the dark satin and lace we had spent our Sunday afternoon carefully handpicking from the various high end boutiques in Selfridges. Melissa's attention to detail never ceased to amaze me, and neither did her steadfast devotion to pleasing her man. Her "yes I do, but not with you" pout twisted that delicate little mouth before she broke into a radiant grin I adored and could never stop loving. 'I think you've forgotten something lovely.' I looked down at my involuntarily quivering hand, the ice cubes jangling in the bottom of the glass matching my heart rate. Oh god, how could I have forgotten his drink? And how could I still have that animal instinct and fear after all this time? An anxiety generated after all by this liaison that I had begged for repeatedly throughout the early years of our relationship until she had found the strong black man who was right for her at long last.
She strode over towards me. With the black Louboutin heels she was rocking tonight she exceeded my height by half an inch or so. She threw her hair back and her long, chestnut brown curls fell against her shoulders. The depth of her breathing and her heaving, beautiful breasts matched the pounding in my chest as she leant in close and kissed me protectively on the cheek. 'I'm heading upstairs. He'll be here in a sec. And do something about the man's drink will you?' she mock remonstrated with me rolling her eyes before sauntering towards the stairway, her gorgeous ass swaying heavily almost anticipating his attention that was mere minutes away. Still shaking I returned to the kitchen counter and poured my wife's bull a single measure of single malt whiskey. His drink. It was part of a ritual that had been instilled by them from early on in the arrangement. If he was to be on our home turf and was doing us the benefit of satisfying Melissa and completing our marriage in the process we would be very much playing by his rules, and that was doubly so in my case. In retrospect that was the price to be paid for all that endless fantasising and persuasion for years until she had been taken by her black lover. The pay off from all the years I'd spent silently hoping and praying that she would take that step that would bind us together through black strength power and virility. My mind harked back to that first time in our marital bed - his powerful muscled body pounding her from behind as her eyes rolled back in ecstasy and awe. All the myths were true. All fantasises realised.
The doorbell rang and I almost jumped backwards, so far gone was I in euphoric recall and my own process. Gingerly I walked over and opened the door. Marcus's large frame was backlit by street lighting but I could see the outline of his knowing smile that threatened to twist into a sneer as he walked past me into my own home without a word. I followed him silently back into the kitchen.
'Where's my woman?'
'... she is upstairs uhm.. sir.' That last word caught in the dryness of my throat. Being asked to start addressing Marcus in such a way was a relatively new measure, one brought in in the last six months. It had been a requirement given to me by Melissa although I could never be sure to what extent both of them were in on the rules and regs governing Marcus's presence in our lives. She had assured me that it was to show maximum respect to her black lover whilst he was under our roof. I could only hope it met with his approval.
'My drink.'
'Uhm yes... of course..' I scuttled off to the counter and returned with his whiskey. Marcus took a single gulp and fixed me with the stare I knew too well. I returned it before blinking and my eyes involuntarily cascaded downwards. A small bit of me knew my subconscious reactions to his presence said all that needed to be said and attested to my own inferiority. And if ever there was a real man - a BLACK man - to feel inferior to he was very much it. In his mid-thirties, with smooth dark skin born of his mixed Barbadian/Nigerian heritage he possessed the presence and the charm of a black James Bond. I knew firsthand that many of the bulls servicing the many libidinous and needy wives in North London came from working class or even ghetto backgrounds but Marcus was not one of them - he was a paralegal in a practice based close to the City. But his lack of a street background didn't detract from a gym-honed physique which made Melissa dizzy and white girls and cuckold couples alike crumble in his wake. He had experience and expertise. Melissa liked that in her black men. She had known at first sight that he was the one. The one to truly complete her. The one who made the rest of our lives as "man" and wife possible.
Marcus took his second and final slug of whiskey and set the glass down. He discarded his winter coat on the downstairs sofa. 'Let's do this' he said and made for the stairs as yet again and in all things I followed in his wake. I knew the sight which would await us in the living room but even so that bracing rush to the senses flooded me with emotion. Melissa's black negligee had fallen away on the floor so desperate and needy for him as she apparently was. Her thick curls brushed over her forehead as she waited for her black lover on all fours on the sofa. The thin straps of the Coco de Mer stockings and suspender belt matched her bra and underwear sumptuously. Her mouth was half open in the lamplit half light of the living room. Her body was on fire. She was his.
'Melissa girl...' Marcus's soft lilting voice betraying a hint of a London accent broke the cloudburst of tension in the room. Melissa's grin grew wider. I couldn't help but think about how sensual and sexy I found her lips when we'd first got together. Of course I'd fantasised about those lips of hers wrapped around a big black cock in the early years, but back then it had felt so out of reach and so speculative that I had almost given up hope until she had sat me down that fateful September morning and told me about the interesting black lawyer she had got talking to in the sandwich bar opposite Great Portland Street tube. That was the moment - aside from our wedding day - when I had felt it all coming together, destiny and nature combining to take their course, as they were in this moment as Marcus's big black hands inspected M's booty. 'You been missing me baby girl?' She whimpered, unable to supply an intelligible response as Marcus's right hand leapt up and give her buttocks a firm, brisk smack.
