by Ben Boswell
DARK TIDE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Dark Tide © 2015 by Ben Boswell
Edited by Lucy V. Morgan
Cover design by Kenny Wright
Cover image © Getty/iStockPhoto used under license
First digital edition electronically published by KW Publishing, February 2015
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without explicit written permission of the copyright holder.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Contents
Cover
Copyright Information
Dark Tide
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
About the author
Preface
Like Honeymoon Hazards before it, this book also came out of my struggles with a gloomier story I was trying to tell. I needed a break from a dysfunctional couple and so started to write a story where the husband and wife were in it together from the start. Despite the title, this isn’t a dark story in any real sense. “Dark” in this case, as you may have guessed, refers to the interracial themes.
I have written a couple of interracial stories in the past, but I’ve never been happy with them. Various reasons, but mostly the problem is that the stereotypical portrayal of “black bulls” makes me uncomfortable. Yes, I know it is fantasy, but anyway, the whole interracial/breeder/sissification stuff has never really been my scene. That said, I like the way this story turned out. Just as I hope that BDSM readers were willing to accept my softer approach to that fetish in The Surrogate Master, I hope that readers looking for an interracial story will be willing to look past the liberties I’ve taken with the usual conventions of the genre.
As always, a big thanks to Kenny Wright for important substantive recommendations on the story as well as design and production assistance. And a huge thank you to longtime reader RP for helping catch typos and other glitches.
BB
Chapter One
“So, did you ever make it with a black guy?”
My wife, Jennifer, slapped me lightly across the chest. “Oh my God, Jeremy. You did not just say that!”
Still, she giggled playfully.
I looked over at her, naked beneath the covers. She looked good. She always looks good, but I particularly love this incarnation of her. Naked; long, blond hair a mess; her face glowing from recent sex.
“Thinking about Captain Wallace?” she asked.
“Aha!” I spun to face her. “How did you know who I was thinking about?”
She blushed a little. “Well, he’s the last black man we met.”
“What about Denny? And Thom.”
“Oh, Denny is just a kid, and Thom isn’t really my type.”
“But Captain Wallace is,” I persisted.
She smirked. “I don’t know why you’d think that. Just because he’s tall, looks like a young Denzel, and has muscles that I didn’t think you could have without Photoshop...”
We’d met Reg Wallace a little more than an hour earlier, when he’d welcomed us aboard the Sun Rose, a seventy-six foot, luxury sail-yacht I’d chartered for a romantic week of cruising the Caribbean. He was six-foot-three and built like an NFL wide receiver. Not a hint of fat, just lean, corded muscles. The white uniform, his brilliant smile, and delightful Bahamian accent were almost overkill.
And he was black. Very, very black.
“So you never answered my question. Have you? A black man?”
Jennifer is very, very white. Long, straight, blond hair down past her shoulder blades. Really blond, not quite straw, and too silky for that term anyway, but very light, like bottled sunshine. Pale, almost alabaster skin, perfectly smooth, flawless even without makeup. Gorgeous dark blue eyes, almond shaped. Full, red lips, slightly upturned at the corners as if always ready to burst into a smile. And that smile… that’s really the kicker. A slightly goofy grin, the smile on your buddy’s kid sister, the one you’d love to date, but can’t because of the bro’ code or some such bullshit, even though you regret it the rest of your life. Silly, inviting, amused, flirtatious, possessed of some secret knowledge. It was that smile that saved Jennifer from being labeled on sight an ice queen.
She gave me that smile. “Would you like me to?”
To have been with a black man in the past? Or to do it in the future?
I wimped out on answering her. “It was just a question.”
“Were you thinking of me being with him just now?” While we were having sex.
I started to protest, “That’s not –“
But she cut me off, “It was just a question.”
“I asked mine first.”
“But mine is the more interesting one, isn’t it?” she noted accurately.
Truth is, I had been thinking about him. I don’t often think of my wife with other men. At least not specific men. Of course, when she goes to the gym in those obscene yoga pants, I can’t help but think of other men seeing her like that, and I wonder sometimes if there’s a particularly hunky personal trainer she’s ever noticed. But it has never been a specific, identifiable individual. I’ve never fantasized about my wife screwing my boss or my best friend or whatever common wife-sharing fantasy men have. That just wasn’t where my mind went… until just now, because there was something about Reginald Wallace: his movie-star looks; the fact that we were about to embark on a weeklong journey at sea with him; the way he’d looked at my wife, respectful and yet admiring; and most of all the color of his skin. I know that makes me sound like a weirdo fetishist, but from the moment I saw him, I couldn’t shake the image of his lean, muscular, black body between her creamy white thighs, his long dark fingers entwined in her golden locks, his big, black cock…
She snapped her fingers at me. “Earth to Jeremy. You there?”
She rose up, letting the sheet slide off her. Even after thirteen years together, I still couldn’t stop from staring at her perfect breasts. They were a little bigger than when we’d met – having a couple of kids will do that—but just as gorgeous, shapely, mid-sized orbs with small pink areolas, and amazing raspberry nipples.
“Yeah, sorry,” I muttered. “I was just…”
“…thinking about something.”
She giggled, though her eyes were on me like lasers, searching for that something. She looked away and composed herself, and then turned back toward me, her face suddenly serious.
“What do you mean my husband’s check bounced, Captain Wallace? I don’t know what could have happened.”
I felt my cock twitch. She was initiating a version of our game. It was inspired by how we originally met. She was twenty-one and at the time, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in person. I was twenty-eight, pumped up about having just received a big investment from a venture capital firm, making me worth nine figures on paper. She was a taking a journalism class at Berkeley and showed up at our offices to write a story on our amazing, disruptive, brilliant innovation.
Even though I’d agreed to meet, I almost blew her off, until my assistant curtly informed me, “you’ll want to meet this one.” She was in jeans and a tank top with spaghetti straps, cute cork sandals that made her look even taller than her five foot seven inches. Gorgeous, unapproachable. Without the high from the new capital, I’d have never had the guts to sa
y, “I’ll give you the interview if you agree to have dinner with me.”
Clumsy. Arrogant. Unprofessional. If she’d been a real reporter rather than a college student in a journalism class, that would have been the end of it. But she seemed amused.
“Interview first, and if you answer my questions, then I’ll think about it,” she replied, grinning.
I almost burst out do you know how much I’m worth? But I knew better than to press my luck. It was an easy interview anyway. She wanted me to tell her about my genius and I was all too happy to oblige. I took her out to dinner that night, designer sushi, hand-crafted sake. I pontificated. She smiled. At the end of the dinner, she gave me a kiss on the cheek.
I almost wrote her off. A twelve-hundred dollar meal with the hottest young entrepreneur in San Francisco and all I got was a kiss on the cheek.
But in our game, she was the desperate one. Willing to do anything for an interview. We’d mixed it up over time. Secretary and boss. Pot smoking babysitter and angry dad. That one was actually based on something that happened to us. But she’d always been playing the role. I’d always been, well, me. Now she was still Jennifer, and I was… Captain Wallace?
I couldn’t do a Bahamian accept. So I settled for Barry White, dropping my voice an octave. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Howard, but it seems like there were insufficient funds in his account.” I hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “I’m afraid we’ll have to alert the authorities.”
She gasped convincingly. “Oh please, you can’t do that. He’s about to sell his business. That would ruin everything.”
She managed to coax a tear from her eye. She really should have gone into acting.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any choice.”
“No, listen, it’s all my fault. I went shopping last week, got carried away. Please, we’re good for the money. I’ll do anything if you give us another chance.”
“Anything?”
She blushed. “No. I didn’t mean that. Please, Captain Wallace. I’m a married woman.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him. And you don’t want him to find out about that shopping binge, do you?”
“I can’t.”
“Fine. We’ll return to Nassau tonight and call –“
“No, please!” A pause. Then: “Okay, but promise you won’t tell him. Promise you won’t tell my husband about all the dirty things you’re going to make me do.”
I forced a laugh. I tried to make it sinister, but I’m not half the actor my wife is.
“Depends on how well you please me.”
“Oh, I know you’ll like it,” she cooed. She put her hand to my chest and slowly trailed her fingertips down over my belly. Her blue eyes sparkled mischievously. “I’ve never been with a black man. Is it true what they say?”
“That’s right, baby,” I croaked. “Once you go black, you never go back.”
Her hand closed around my hard cock. “You’re much bigger than my husband.”
“Is he too small for you?” I asked defensively, my voice slipping momentarily to my normal register.
“Oh, I’m very satisfied with him, but this thing... I don’t know if I can handle it.”
Reassured, I went back to my Barry White voice. “Why don’t you get a closer look.”
She grinned and ducked down beneath the covers. I gasped as she swallowed me whole. Her hands fondled my balls, her tongue swished around my shaft as she bobbed up and down on me. I pulled back the sheet so I could get a better view.
“Oh God, Mrs. Howard, you’re good at that,” I moaned.
She peered up at me. “I love sucking on your big, black cock.”
I nearly came. Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath. I looked down to see her struggling to avoid laughing. She grinned. Almost got you. She went back to work, more slowly now, giving me at least a fighting chance to hold out.
I reached down and squeezed her firm ass. She scooted closer to me to give me better access, and I took advantage of it by slipping my fingertips down her butt crack, over her sensitive anus, and then began fondling her pussy from behind. She was very wet. I’d come inside her just a few minutes earlier, but it was obvious she was also very turned on. I plunged a finger, then two, inside her. She moaned loudly, her mouth still on my cock, the vibrations again almost setting me off. I fingered her faster. She gasped and let my prick slip from her mouth, resting her head on my belly and stroking my shaft with her hand as I got her closer.
She released me and sidled up beside me pressing her face into the crook of my neck, kissing and nibbling on my throat, my ear lobes, my chin. I looked down and our lips met. We kissed wetly, passionately. She broke the embrace.
“I want you to fuck me, Captain Wallace. I want you to fuck me with your big, black cock.”
I groaned, speechless as she threw her leg over me. She grabbed a hold of my prick and deftly impaled herself on it. She slid her knees forward and rose up above me, her long, blond hair fanning out over her shoulders. She placed her palms on my chest and began to ride me. My eyes were drawn inexorably to the sight of my prick disappearing into her hot, closely cropped snatch.
“Just relax Captain,” she sighed. “Let me show you how grateful I am.”
Jennifer was a dancer. Ballet, jazz, hip-hop as a kid, cheer squad in high school. She has exquisite control over her body, her hips. She started slowly, pumping her ass up and down, pausing at the top so that my cock almost slipped out, grinding against my pelvis at the bottom. I reached up and fondled her breasts, tweaking her exquisitely sensitive nipples.
She sped up. I moaned softly.
“You like that, don’t you Captain? You like having your big, black cock inside my married, white pussy.”
“Yes,” I croaked. “Fuck me with your slutty, white snatch.”
She began moving faster, twerking on my prick. I handled her tits more roughly.
“Oh God, Captain. You’re going to make me come. You’re going to make this white slut come on your black cock.”
I began thrusting upward, meeting her rapid movements. My cock slurped wetly in and out of her pussy. She gasped.
“That’s it,” she hissed. I felt her pussy spasm on my shaft. “Yes, Captain, oh God, thank you Captain, thank you, Captain Wallace.”
I groaned and passed the point of no return. I grabbed her hips to hold her steady and thrust in deep before coming inside her.
She gracefully collapsed onto my chest. She kissed my neck.
“My first black man,” she cooed.
“My thousandth white slut,” I replied. “But the best yet.”
She giggled and rolled off me.
“God, Jeremy, if anyone had heard us they’d think I was a Klansman.”
“Klanswoman. At least you didn’t call me the n-word.”
“Oh, I considered it, but thought it might be overkill.”
“Probably,” I acknowledged.
I looked over at her and she grinned. “Well, hubby, did that scratch your itch? Or do I need to go out on deck and screw the real Captain Wallace?”
I felt my cock twitch. I hesitated. Sanity returned. “No, honey, I think this more than scratches the itch.”
She’d caught the moment of indecision. “Good, because I don’t want to have sex with anyone but you,” she replied, but I could see her reaction play across her face: surprise, amusement, and… excitement?
Chapter Two
It was weird to see that much money in my bank account. $12,111,213. It hadn’t seemed real until the wire transfer cleared. But there it was. The sale had gone through. I was, at 42, suddenly rich and unemployed. Well, not “rich, rich.” There were still some debts to clear off from the early start-up days, and we hadn’t done a good job of saving up for college for our kids, Angie 13 and Brent 11, and we had a big mortgage, and even if it wasn’t for those things, twelve million is still a little tight to retire in San Francisco in your early forties.
I laughed. Talk about a first world problem!
But what the money did mean was that I had time to work out my next career and some mad money to enjoy the time in between.
There wasn’t any question of pulling the kids out of their spring break ski camp in Tahoe, which meant that Jennifer and I had an opportunity to get away and really treat ourselves. We talked about getting an over-water villa in Bora Bora, renting a house on Lake Como in Italy, but ultimately we settled on what we’d often talked about as our dream second honeymoon, a week on a luxury sail yacht cruising the Caribbean.
I’m a pretty good amateur sailor, but certainly not skilled enough to handle a nearly eighty foot yacht, and anyway, I wanted to relax, not spend all day, every day working, so we chartered a boat with a crew of three to cruise around the Islands for a week.
We flew the red-eye into Miami, then took a charter flight to Nassau, and were met by a limousine, which brought us out to the yacht. White and gleaming, it was a gorgeous boat, modern, with large comfortable outdoor space, and a polished modern interior.
Jennifer giggled as she stepped aboard. “I knew I made the right decision when I dug my hooks into you.”
“I thought I got my hooks into you when I got you pregnant.”
“How do you know I didn’t prick a hole in the rubber?”
“How do you know I didn’t?” I replied.
“You bastard,” she hissed in mock outrage.
I grinned. I’d always thought I’d gotten the better end of the deal. Heck, I still did, even with $12 million added to the scale. I always joked that I’d reversed the traditional order of things. I got the trophy wife first. The money, which for a while didn’t look like it might ever come, later.
Truth was, we happened to meet at the only moment in my life when I might have made a play for her. I’m not a bad looking guy, but I’m, I guess, average. Five foot ten. Average. Mousy, thinning brown hair. Average. One-hundred-sixty-five pounds. Average. Approaching a girl like her cold seemed as daunting as climbing Everest. Luckily, I’d had an in.