“Fucking, bitch,” he said. “Stupid, fucking bitch.” Then he began taunting me. “Good luck trying to make it without any money, you little spoiled brat.”
I saw Anne Marie smirking. She would have his cock and his money. I thought that things couldn’t get any worse, that I couldn’t feel any lower, but I was wrong, very wrong, because the next day things did get worse.
Chapter 2
The next morning while I was still trying to recover from the previous night’s trauma, I received another piece of bad news. Simon called. He said that there would be no review in the Village Voice, but he assured it wasn’t because the critic hadn’t liked my work. No, that wasn’t it at all. He had said some nice things about my work and he was interested in seeing more of my stuff. The night had not been an artistic failure, but something much bigger had happened in the art world, something that people would be talking about for months, maybe years into the future.
The next day Simon called me early in the morning. He congratulated me again on the successful exhibition opening, but unfortunately, there was bigger news in the art world—much bigger news: a super talented young artist, one of the city’s starlets, a woman whose work had been featured in the New York Times and The New Yorker had been found dead. I clicked on the Village Voice website. The story was front page news.
Rising Star in the Art World Found Dead in Her Apartment
New York—The NYPD is investigating the death of the promising young painter Amanda Lavreaux who was found dead at 5.a.m. this morning in her swanky West Village apartment. Lavreaux, a sensation in the New York City art world, was considered to be one of the most dynamic and innovative artists of her generation. Her death has been ruled a homicide.
I couldn’t read any more, the story made me sick. I had heard of Amanda, but had never had a chance to meet her of really appreciate her work and now she was gone. Her life of promise and stardom had been cut short. It appeared to be a crime of passion. An ex-lover, boyfriend, admirer? Maybe some sociopath who had fetish for killing female artist? No one knew, but everyone was talking. Her untimely death made me sad, but all I could really think about was the lost opportunity—my lost opportunity. This should have been my day to celebrate. I should have woken up in James’ arms. We should have celebrated by having a fuck fest all morning, going for brunch of lox bagels and mimosa and returning to fuck out brains out some more before passing out in each other’s arms. This should have been our day. It should have been my day to celebrate finally making it, finally gaining the recognition which I had been so desperately seeking since I had arrived in the city five years ago full of hope and energy and dreams. But everything was destroyed. I was still an obscure painter in a city that eats up struggling artists. And it was even worse than that. I was now single, alone and forced to face this harsh world without the help of strong, financial man. There was no way I could make it. No way. The best thing to do would probably be to head back to the Midwest. All the doubters had been right. I couldn’t cut it in the big city.
My mind kept drifting back to James. No man had ever touched me like that before. The way his hands would rove all over my body made me wild with excitement and animal lust. They way he would push me up against wall, whispering in my ear, “Is this what you want? Is it?” He was the sort of man I dreamed of when I first came to city. Someone who would appreciate my creativity. Someone who would help nurture me and provide for me financially. He was the kind of man my parents had warned me against; the kind of man who try to keep me dependent on him in order to control me. But now he was gone, stolen away from me. I had two days to pay the rent, or else I would be out on the street, or couch surfing from one apartment to the next. I didn’t want to go back to my old bohemian life. I was sick of it years ago. That’s why I fell so hard for James. I wanted something stable and secure.
I could ask Samantha for the money, but that would be too embarrassing. The artist going begging to her well-paid lawyer friend. I wanted her to believe in me. I didn’t want her to see me as needy and desperate, crawling to her for money because I was stupid enough to believe that I could trust a man to take care of me. “Why do you let them treat you like that,” she would say, shaking her head, disappointed with how naïve I still was. I could go back to waiting tables at Nobu. The manager Marianne had always considered me one of her best waitresses and she was sad to see me leave. That job had helped get me through grad school. Going back to it now would be admitting defeat. It would make me just like so many other wannabe artists who come to New York seeking fame and fortune but only ended up working one dead end job after another, returning home after work with no energy left for their art.
But hadn’t so many of my former art school classmates, especially the women, given up? They had expressed their wild, creative sides during two years of late night orgies, group fucks, and other art school shenanigans. At the end of two years, they had gotten all that rebelliousness out of their system and they had the good sense to settle down and marry men with promising futures in finance, law or medicine.
I could always do the nude photo that had been offered to me a couple weeks ago by EDGE, the city’s hottest magazine for young artists. I didn’t think it was fair that female artist had to expose their bodies for public judgment in order for their work to get any recognition. I still had 48 hours to decide. If I accepted the offer, the money would probably sustain for the next few months. If I didn’t I was screwed.
I wanted to be a star. Maybe it was stupid, but I could at least admit it to myself. But taking my shirt off for a photo shoot didn't seem like the way to go about it. The thought of having to submit to that, to have my body as the subject instead of my work made me sick. It was time to admit I’d been wrong, call my mother and tell her that I had failed, that she had been right. “You’ll never be able to support yourself,” she had said. “What you need to do is settle down and marry a lawyer. What’s your back up plan”? One time she even suggested that I start submitting applications for law school. We hadn’t spoke for a week after that.
I thought about my mother who had given up her dream of becoming a photographer in order to have a family and raise my brother and me. No way I was going to be like her. “Penelope, why don’t you get married? You’re almost 28. You remember Sarah Peterson who lived on Watson Street. She just got married last week. The pictures in the paper were beautiful!” That was back home in the Midwest, Dayton to be exact. It was one of those places where the people who couldn’t make it in the big cities returned. I didn’t want to be just another young naïve girl who went to the big city and couldn’t cut it. I didn’t want to have to admit that all those people who told me I wasn’t good enough were right.
Chapter 3
I couldn’t take my mind off that mysterious black patron I had met the other night at the exposition. They way he peered into my eyes nearly made me faint. I felt his hands roving up and down my body. I wanted to paint him, every muscle bulging in his powerful body. He could crush all my previous boyfriends. What had I been missing up to this point? What was I thinking? I looked around my apartment at the stacks of art books, the empty paint cans scattered everywhere, brushes, easels lying on the floor. I looked out my window onto the street below. How would I ever grow if I stayed in this city? I couldn’t even afford to pay the rent. And now I had no one to help. I knew this wouldn’t be the last time I found myself in such a difficult situation.
What if that mysterious black man became my patron? What if he made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse?. He could possibly be the man I had dreamed of: a man to whisk my away and help support me as an artist. But maybe I was falling back into the same trap. I felt my body aching for him. I wanted him inside my swelling cunt.
That night I stayed on the couch sipping red wine, eating potato chips, and flipping through the channels.
“Bang, bang.!”
A powerful fist banged on the front door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s
me, James.”
Why the fuck was he coming back? Even though I was drunk, I knew that I shouldn’t have let him but I did anyway. He slammed me up against the wall, then got down on his knees and thrust his head between my legs. His tongue was hungrier and more passionate that in had ever been. He was usually such a lazy pussy licker—the kind of guy who did just enough to merit a blowjob. But this was different. He tongue fucked my clit, slurped up my juices. He jammed two fingers in and out of my swelling pussy. He took the two fingers out and sucked on them. I threw my head back and closed my eyes. He thrust the two fingers into my asshole. I gasped. He worked the fingers deep inside me. We fucked passionately for the next three hours, then passed out in each other’s arms.
I woke up the next morning with only my panties on. My mouth was dry from all the alcohol and cigarettes from the night before. My body ached from the intense fucking James had given me. I rolled over, reached out for his lean muscular torso. The other side of the bed was empty. I looked at my phone: three messages. I tapped the screen. They were from James. I froze. My heart sunk. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. He was really leaving. He had just come back for one last fuck, and a good fuck it was. After three years, three years of making promises and plans for the future. He couldn’t even wait until the morning to tell me to my face. What an asshole.
I got into the shower and let the warm water stream down my body. As the water came down, I began crying, then sobbing uncontrollably as I remembered everything that I thought we would build together. How could he leave me like this? It was all over. Everything I was afraid of was coming true.
As the water streamed down on my body, I began to relax and fantasize. I imagined Terrence, wrapping his hands around my neck, squeezing me, pressing his hard dick into my back, smacking it against my ass. Twice my size, he could crush me if he wished. I imagined him pulling me by the hair, kissing neck, then cupping my breasts, sucking on the hard nipples. My fingers roved up and down his chiseled mahogany skin. Every one of his muscles glistened with water. I felt my pussy tingling, aching, opening, hungry for his strong cock. It was the most muscular cock that I had ever seen—so strong and thick with huge veins running through it. He could impale with it, leave my pussy aching for days. But he was so gentle with it, a skillful lover, powerful and graceful lover. With the water still streaming over us, I got down on my knees and begin working his cock two vigorous hands. When wrapped around his anaconda cock, my hands looked like those of little girl. I marveled at the dimensions of his beautiful dick. It continued to grow. With one hand I worked his cock while the other clasped his balls. I took one of them, then both of his balls into my mouth. I looked up at him and smiled. I jerked on his cock forcefully while at the same time shoving two fingers up ass. He’s comfortable enough with his masculinity to let me do that; he actually encourages it. James was never like that.
Even though he was a good fuck, he was really uptight with doing anything that didn’t seem normal. I had always hated that but I put up with it because I loved him. But this was something different. Terrence made me feel that I could express all my desires with him, no holds barred. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes and groaned. He shot hot loads of come onto my face and began to jerk him even more wildly, pulling and pulling and pulling until every last drop had been extracted. I felt come and water running down my face. He leaned over me, stared deeply into my eyes, then kissed me. I wrapped my arms around him and held him tightly. I was determined to never let him go. He would be mine, all mine. That’s what I hoped.
Chapter 4
Over the next few weeks I spent several days with Terrence. I felt myself falling under his spell. he told me that he understood why I didn’t want to do the nude photo shoot, which several other up-and-coming female painters had decided to do. He told me that I had made the right decision by not compromising.
“But I still have to make money somehow,” I said. He smirked. Maybe he has a plan, I thought, an idea of how I can raise some money. But I didn’t want to ask him, didn’t want him to think that all of the time we were spending together, the late night walks through Central Park, the talks about where we could travel, and even talk about moving into together was all about the money. It wasn’t. I felt safe and secure around him—this powerful hulk of a man who would always be able to protect me, unlike James, or any of my previous boyfriends in the city, who I never felt quite safe with. He put his hand on top of mine, his big brown muscular hand. There was no ring on it. He had gotten divorced two years ago he said. He and his wife had grown apart. They had two kids together. Every two weeks he went up to Westchester to pick the kids up and bring them back down to the city. We he had been dating for the last three weeks, but he had yet to ask me to meet his kids. I didn’t really worry about it, but maybe I should have. What did worry me was that we couldn’t see each other as much as I wanted. He was always busy and frequently cancelled dates. I chalked it up to the fact that he was extremely busy, driven, and ambitious. He was desperate to make his name in the art world. While I admired his drive, it did bother me that he seemed so into his work that at times he forgot about me.
I was also worried about him working with other young artists. I wasn’t the first pretty, young girl that he had taken under his wing. From what I had heard around town, and I swear I wasn’t going around digging up info on him, but from what I had heard he had carried on a brief but torrid love affair with the artist who had been killed a few weeks ago in her West Village apartment. There were even whispers, mostly by people who were jealous of his success, that he may have been involved. I knew that could not have been true. Not my Terrence, there was no way that he could be involved in something like that.
Terrence came out of the shower, sauntered across the room. He knew my eyes were on him. He let towel drop to the floor. His large cock dangled between his legs. I got off the bed, got down on my knees and grabbed the thick slab of meat. It was fucking huge. I swirled my tongue around the head, jerked it with two hands. His god-like body rippled with muscles. I took one hand off his cock and started fingering my wet pussy.
I loved the taste of his mouth. It was different from what I was used to: the burnt out cigarette smoking, beer drinking mouths of the hipster man-children I often dated. And his full lips were unlike anything I had ever experienced. I was used to skinny lips, but his were so succulent, so full of life and passion. They were the lips of a man capable of kissing a woman to orgasm, and I’m not even talking about kissing my pussy lips. His lips on my mouth and his tongue jabbing in and out of my mouth and swirling around my tongue would make my pussy drip with excitement.
The first time I took him inside, guided his huge cock into the hungry, wet pussy I felt as if his massive girth would kill me. It felt like I was being impaled on his black rod. He had been so gentle though, rubbing its huge head against my clit, then slowly sliding that huge anaconda cock into my slick cunt. Oh that first time! I grasped and screamed and kicked and cried for more and dug my nails into his back and begged for him to fuck me and fuck harder and harder. He squeezed both of my small pale butt cheeks in his muscular hands and hammered into pussy, kissing me, staring into my eyes, fucking me deeper than any man had ever gone. Before that night, I would not have thought that I was capable of taking so much cock. I would not have known that so much cum could shoot out of one man’s dick. His load, thick and creamy, was like that of three, four, maybe five guys. His body would shake just before he was about to bust his massive nut and I would be ravenous as it splashed on my face and lips and eyes and hair. I would lick it clean as it softened between my fingers, sneaking a glance up at his face. His eyes were usually closed at this point, head lolled back and he would grunt and sigh, until that beautiful black cock had been drained of its seed, and flopped like a big piece of kielbasa between his legs.
His thick pulpy lips would swallow my cunt lips, while his machine like tongue whipped and stroked my pussy into a frenzy. I felt my juices overflowing an
d flooding his mouth. He wouldn’t stop there. No, his mouth was ravenous, his desire for me unlimited. I had never experienced the pleasure of a man so enamored with me, so driven by lust that he would feast on my asshole, licking it, slurping, driving his tongue deep into it, until I felt myself on he verge of coming, all of my nerve endings on edge, body shaking uncontrollably from the ecstasy and my hips flying up and the air and his powerful, forceful hands holding in place while his tongue buried deeper and deeper into my ass. It was so primal, so animalistic, so much different than anything I had ever experienced.
I felt my whole entire body quivering with desire, quacking, melting under his touch. So firm, so powerful. I felt moistness, dampness, a wetness in my panties. I squirmed. I blushed, my breathing got heavier. He told me that he admired me and that I was just the type of artist he was looking for. He didn’t want me to ever have to prostitute myself in order to promote my art. He wouldn’t allow me to do that to myself. He said he had a plan. A plan that would allow me to make money, become famous, and travel the world.
“What is it?” I asked completely intrigued, hungry for change, hungry for fame and fortune and naïve enough to believe that this mysterious man could bring both to me.
I pulled my hands away from his, crossed my arms across my chest. I had to resist. I had to. I couldn’t allow another man to put me under his spell. I had to figure my life out on my own. But still how I could turn down his offer, how could I refuse his guidance, his love, his money. How? He was offering to whisk me around the globe to all the world’s art capitals: Rome, Paris, Barcelona, Berlin. There was no way I could possibly turn down such an opportunity. And he was offering me something even more precious than the bright lights; he was offering me his love and compassion and support. I felt the walls within me breaking down, felt his spirit, his energy, his strength invading my body, destroying any last resistances.
Interracial Romance: Gay Romance: Bound By His Own Desires (MMM Endowed Black Men Bondage Threesome Romance) (A Billionaire's Freedom Book 3) Page 113