The Mandingo Diaries: A Case of Taboo
By Clyde Viechweg
The Mandingo Diaries: A Case of Taboo by Clyde Viechweg
Copyright 2015 by Clyde Viechweg
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means: electronic, recording, mechanical or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author, Clyde A Viechweg.
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Cover Design by: LLPIX Photography. LLPIX.com
Edited by: Hercules Editing and Consulting Services. BZHercules.com
Why I Write
I write because I must, because it's who I am.
I write to find myself in a complex world.
I write to express my ideas, to inspire hope in others and in myself.
I write because I find joy and satisfaction in unburdening my soul of words that are nomadic and restless.
I write because my spirit finds expression in sentences and plots.
I write because I find inspiration in people, in their stories, ideas and their journey in a world of mystery and wonder.
I write so that one day I too might become immortal through words.
Clyde Viechweg
Table of Contents
Why I Write
The Mandingo (Part 1)
The Mandingo (Part 2)
The Mandingo: Letter from the Tropics (Part 3)
The Mandingo: The Return of Big John (Part 4)
The White Mandingo (Part 5)
Mangoes and Orgasms
The Perfect Husband
The Affair
My Confession
Under a Beautiful Caribbean Moon
The Married Woman (Steamy Encounters)
The Mandingo (Part 1)
Dear Diary,
It has been three weeks since I first discovered my Aunt Monica's secret. Yet I have held my tongue, partly out of guilt for secretly partaking in a lustful drama and my overwhelming desire for more.
This secret I plan on taking to the grave, for if revealed, blood will surely flow and bring ruin to my family, whom I love dearly. However, I will put pen to paper in faith that I find relief from the heavy yoke of what transpired on that full moon night, knowing full well that it will no doubt take place again.
My name is Wendy Adams. I was born in London, England in the year of our Lord 1755. I am the only child of my parents. My early years were filled with laughter and love from my family. My fondest memories are of our family attending church on Sunday and then following up with lunch at Aunt Monica's, where the atmosphere was always jovial and festive. That went on for years until my uncle bought a plantation on the island of Grenada in the Caribbean two years ago.
My Aunt Monica is a beautiful thirty-five-year-old woman who exudes charm and grace in her every move, which is mandatory and natural for a lady of her social station.
She stands five feet nine inches tall and weighs about 125 pounds. Her most pronounced feature is her icy blue eyes that seem to penetrate whomever they rest on. She has very thin lips that seem to be always curled up in a sarcastic smile and flowing red hair that falls to the middle of her back.
My aunt is a very private and quiet woman who is softly spoken and spends most of her free time reading classics and painting. Everyone thinks she is the model wife any man worth his salt should have by his side. However, I beg to differ; there is just something about her that hints at something dark beneath all the manners, eloquent speech, and perfection. Why did I suspect that? I don't know – call it a woman's intuition or my pessimistic attitude.
So, as they were making preparations for travel, I was asked to come stay awhile with my aunt to keep her company, for the estate is isolated and there were no other white women in close proximity.
My uncle painted a picture of a utopian paradise surrounded by beautiful white sandy beaches, warm weather, and a Garden of Eden to explore.
Looking out the window at that dreary foggy weather in London that afternoon, I thought of my somewhat predictable life here. I had no steady boyfriend, but I was sleeping around with a family friend that I knew had no future with, for he was already accounted for by marriage. The pros quickly outweighed the cons and I accepted the offer.
So here I am on this little enchanted island in the middle of nowhere. I have been on the island now for a little over a year. We live in the parish of St. Patricks in a beautiful two-story layered brick house.
The house sits on four hundred acres of sugarcane and coffee. From our house, we enjoy breathtaking vistas of ocean and mountain views. The house is kept cool by the constant flood of the Trade Winds that flow through the large windows that frame the ocean. There is a staff of over a hundred slaves to work the fields and tend to the house.
This trip has been quite refreshing and it has opened my eyes to many things I had never seen before, like tropical cascading waterfalls, animals, bananas, mangoes, and countless other fruits and flowers. Sundays, after church, are spent swimming in warm azure water at the beach, which has a natural reef that forms a giant pool that tames and keeps the Atlantic Ocean at bay. Life, to say the least, is idyllic.
Every month, I make the trip from our estate to the capital St. George's with Uncle to ship sugar and coffee to England. The trip takes us a week to go and come back. It is a good opportunity for me to catch up on news back home and to correspond with Mother and Father through the post. While Uncle is busy at the port, I wander around the quaint capital the French built, shopping for items we lacked back at the estate and those we ran out of. Uncle always prods me to be on the lookout for my future husband... Don't know about finding a husband here, but I could sure do with some cock ASAP!
I always asked Aunt Monica to come along, but she would politely decline, citing she had not the energy and, besides, there was always a vista to paint.
Since moving to the island, Aunt Monica's spirit had perked up; she was smiling and talking more. There was even a bounce to her steps. It was not lost on Uncle. Smiling proudly, he would say that is what the tropics can do for your health. But I did not buy it, for I noticed that the happiness would be most elevated around the end of the month, about the time Uncle, I, and most of the slaves would leave for the capital. The only souls left at the estate were Aunt Monica and two others. Among them was old Miss Betty, the cook, and Big John, a giant of a man who Aunt Monica insisted stay to guard the plantation.
So, three weeks ago, we left for the trip to the capital. An hour later, I pretended to twist my ankle. Uncle asked one of the men to help me back home, but I knew he needed all the help he could to make it to the port on time. So I told him, since I am not far away from home, I could easily make it back alone. With some hesitation and words of sympathy, he finally continued on. I sat on a rock and watched them fade into the distance.
Once they were out of sight, I jumped up and headed home. I arrived on the outskirts of the estate just as the sun was setting. From my vantage point, I could see the giant red ball slowly dive into the deep blue Caribbean Sea.
I waited until the twilight had faded and darkness had carpeted the night. Only then, did I make my way to the house. Peering through the window, I saw Aunt Monica enjoying her supper. My stomach growled, for I was hungry, but that could wait. I slipped into the side door and crept quietly up the stairs to my room. What did I want to find out? There was just something that was not making sense and I had the feeling I would get my answer soon.
An hour later, I heard Aunt Monica dismiss the cook. A few minutes later, I heard her footsteps coming up the stairs. They were neither hurried nor casual, but just steady. My heart st
arted racing, I was afraid that its beat might betray my presence in the stillness of the night. However, I knew that to be nonsense. Aunt Monica went straight to her room. Not even ten minutes later, heavy, hurried footsteps were heard coming up the staircase. At the top, the direction of the sound pointed towards my aunt's room.
I waited ten minutes and crept slowly towards my aunt's bedroom. The large mahogany door was slightly ajar and, as I peered in, the scene before me brought forth a gasp from my lips.
In the large bedroom that was illuminated by a whale oil lamp whose wicker looked as ancient as the vessel in which Prometheus had brought fire to earth many eons ago. In the center stood a huge bed guarded on its four corners by towering sentry-like posts. Covering the top was a canopy of red velvet surrounded by mosquito nets on all sides, rolled up neatly. The bed itself was covered with spotless white sheets and four large pillows. There was a dresser with a large oval mirror to the side that reflected clearly the scene that was unfolding on the bed.
The giant Negro was standing naked in front of the bed. My aunt was planting kisses all over his stomach that was furrowed into six blocks of dense muscles. Making her way up to his chest, if that is what to call it, for it was like no other chest I had ever laid eyes on. They looked more like two slabs of broad and unbreakable-looking ebony granite rocks that were sharply contoured and chiseled to perfection.
Aunt Monica took her tongue and licked his nipples and followed up with soft nibbles to them, causing him to moan loudly. At the same time, she started stroking what appeared to be his manhood, but due to her angle, I could not confirm. His moaning heightened as her hands picked up speed. Standing up, she let her nightgown fall to the ground, revealing her tan and slender frame. When she climbed onto the bed and got on her knees, I was finally able to see what see she was stroking. I nearly came! I had to squeeze my legs tightly together and keep them so.
In Monica's hand was the biggest, longest, and thickest cock I had ever laid eyes on. Nothing could have ever prepared me for such a sight. It stood powerfully, proud and upright, held there by a network of veins the size of my pinky finger that were bursting with blood. The head of it was the size of the brass doorknob on the front door. I could see my aunt trembling with anticipation, and through the mirror, I could see the lust darken her eyes.
Holding it with both hands, she opened her mouth and let her tongue run the length of it. She then attempted to force it into her mouth. I could see her jaws straining to cover it. Finally, she manage to put the head of it into her mouth and hungrily sucked it. Big John’s knees buckled; he had to hold on to one of the bedpost. “Oooooh, aaaaaha,” cried big John in his bass-filled voice.
I watched as his massive chest rose and fell and his face become distorted with pleasure. How could a petite woman as my aunt subdue such a giant with only her mouth? I mused. The thought of that big cock in my mouth made between my legs even wetter.
How could I even think about such a forbidden act like that? Try as I might, I could not stop the feeling that was arising in me with such a fury.
Aunt Monica kept moving her mouth back and forth. I could see his foreskin peeling back as she tried to swallow more of his manhood. Lucky bitch, I thought.
Soon, I saw his body shaking and he closed his eyes. I could tell he was about to explode. However, Monica quickly squeezed the base of his massive cock with both hands tightly, thus preventing an eruption of hot lavas. A look of frustration crept on his face in the form of a frown, while a cry of agony spewed from his lips. “Noooo, Monica, noooo.” John's body bucked while he gyrated on her hands, but she continued to squeeze the base and ignore his pleas for release. As he regained some composure, she quickly released it and turned around on all fours and spread both butt cheeks wide open.
John spit into his hand to moisturize his pillar; in the mirror, I could see that there was no need of that, for Monica was dripping wet. I imagine she had probably come while he was in her mouth. Shit, I know I would.
“John, I want you to fuck me like a whore. Fill me up. Stuff my pussy,” cried out Monica. I could not believe my ears; my dainty, sophisticated aunt, whose mouth butter had a hard time melting in, was begging a Negro to fill her hole with his cock. And everyone wonders why I am a pessimist; ha ha, please.
He himself was shaking with nervous energy, for if caught, he would face a horrible death. Positioning himself, he entered her, but only a little because she screamed, “Oooh, baby, ooh sweet baby, more please, more.”
John pushed some more in. I saw tears running down her face, but she begged him for more. “Deeper, deeper, ooh no, oh no.”
With that, John sent half of his sixteen inches into her. ”No more, baby, no more,” she cried. “I can't take any more; please, no more.”
Grabbing her ass with both hands, he stroked her back and forth hard. I could see the muscles in his back clustered together like a bunch of grapes. Sweat poured down the contours of his naked body, bringing a glistening shine to it. I don't think Michelangelo could have chiseled an image like this, I mused.
As I looked on, I could see the long, ebony pole splitting open her pussy to the point of bursting. By now, he had inside of her at least ten inches. With each thrust and ebb, her juices coated his manhood.
Opening the door a bit wider, I wiggled in some more and turned over on my back, watching them fuck. My nineteen-year-old pussy, which had only experienced one cock in the past, longed to be filled too. I raised my dress and slipped my hand between my legs. Oh my, I was dripping. I quickly pushed two fingers into my hole and stroked myself, at the same time wishing it was me who was being ravished by Big John.
“John, oh, Johnnnnn, I am coming, ohhhhhh aaahaaa, John!” screamed Monica as she convulsed like a mad woman on the bed. I saw a white liquid shoot out from her pussy as John pulled out. She twisted the sheets into knots and bit into a pillow like a rabid dog. She cursed, cried, and cursed some more.
John flipped her over onto her back. Taking a pillow, he placed it under her butt. Her eyes were still closed and sporadic tremors racked her body.
John placed each of her legs on opposite sides of his shoulders and entered her. Wrapping her arms around him, she bit into his chest to muffle her cries.
As I looked into the mirror, I could see John’s ass rise and fall with powerful strokes, his feet dug into the mattress, and his hands pulled on the headboard. I could see that his whole cock was now drilling her and surely must be tossing her womb around.
“Aaaaaaah oooooho, I am coming again, oh fuck me, fuck me!” cried Monica loudly as she came over and over again. I could see her thrashing violently under him, with arms flailing wildly around, while her eyes rolled back into her head as a woman possessed.
By now, I was so hot that I had hastily put four fingers into my juicy pussy and was busy stroking it as hard as John was giving it to Monica. Looking over at John, I could tell that he was nearing the point of no return. So I put my other hand to rub on my clit; at the same time, our eyes met in the mirror. We both moaned out loudly, mine drowned out by his.
Seeing me stroking myself was the kick that sent him over the edge. “Oooh, aaaaaaahaaaaa, aaaaaah, ooooooh, aaah!” thundered out John as his giant frame shook like a building in an earthquake. His eyes never left mine as he shot hot load after hot load deep into Monica's stretched wet pussy, imagining it was my sweet, tight hole that was being drilled to a pulp and filled with his sweet, hot juice. I exploded, over and over, as massive tremors erupted throughout my tiny frame, starting in my stomach and spreading quickly through my legs until I lay still on the floor with my toes cold and curled down from the lack of blood that was diverted away to my brain. I fell asleep.
When I opened my eyes, they were soundly asleep on the bed. Thank my lucky stars. Gathering whatever little strength I had left, I pulled myself together and crawled slowly back to my room. I slept until the next evening.
Dear Diary, the problem is that I have not stopped touching myself since then.
Every time I close my eyes, I think about that massive cock and wet myself. How much more torture can I take? However, today, I have formed a plan.
In five days, Uncle will be making the trip to the capital. I plan on feigning sickness and begging Aunty to go with him in my place to choose a dress for me for the upcoming church harvest in two weeks. I know her; she will have no choice but to go, for she has to get one herself. Besides, her womb can do with some rest.
Every evening, when I go out for my stroll, I see how he watches me under his eyes, mentally stripping me. My eyes always wander between his legs and he would subtly adjust it, making my lips quiver in anticipation of running them over his manhood. The sexual tension is so thick, a knife can cut it.
Yesterday, I happened to look up and Aunt Monica was looking at me with one of her sarcastic smiles. Whatever, he has enough material to fill all the holes around here. Yes, Friday can't come soon enough for the Mandingo to climb the stairs and fill this wet hole.
The Mandingo (Part 2)
Dear Diary,
It has been a little over eight months since I last etched my experiences on your blank pages, and, boy, do I have a story to tell. Where shall I start? Oh yes, I will pick up where my last entry is.
Friday came around rather slowly. Well, it always does on this island. I guess God wants us to have adequate leisure time to observe His marvelous creations here. As I watched Uncle and Aunty getting ready, I moved about the house slowly and, every so often, I managed to cough and sigh as one on the brink of death.
“Why don't you go lie down, sweetheart?” said Uncle tenderly.
“I just feel so guilty not coming along to help you,” I half lied, because part of myself really did feel bad for causing him worry.
Aunt Monica turned and gave me one of her sarcastic smiles as if to convey, Who you think you're fooling? At the same time, while keeping her eyes on me, she took a stab at my plans. “Darling, maybe we should take Big John with us,” said Monica nonchalantly.
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