Twenty minutes later, I heard soft footsteps on the staircase again. I followed it up the stairs and down the hallway to Monica's room. I smiled, imagining Big John’s giant frame tiptoeing. However, my smile was wiped off by another set of footsteps, this one was heavy.
Sitting up, I followed it up the stairs and down to Monica's room. Now my curiosity was at its peak. What was going on in there? So I quietly got out of bed and headed down the hallway to Monica's room.
At the entrance to the room, I peeped through the doorjamb and was quickly taken back by the unfolding scene.
In the dimly lit room, on the middle of the bed, lay three naked bodies caressing and kissing each other. I was immediately aroused. This was a moment to be seized; there was not going to be a party without me tonight.
Dropping my nightgown, I pushed opened the door hard. It crashed into the wall, startling everyone, creating the effect I expected. Everyone’s eyes were trained on me but remained quiet as I walked boldly into the room, straight onto the bed.
I grabbed Big John’s pole and stuffed it in my mouth. He moaned like the hull of a ship under the weight of a rough sea. Monica, meanwhile, had her legs spread and Uncle's young wench was busy with her tongue in Monica's pussy. Big John, being the gentleman, reached over and stuck a finger in the wench's pussy, causing her to lift her mouth off Monica's pussy to moan sweetly.
Not wanting to miss out, I turned around and put my pussy in Big John's mouth. I felt his warm tongue part my folds and dip into my ocean of juices. It felt so good feeling his tongue massage the walls of my pussy's entrance. That only made me suck harder on his juicy cock.
“Ooooooh, shitttttt, sssssh, aaah am coming,” cried out Monica at the same time grappling on to the young wench's head while squeezing her legs tightly together. Her back was arched high off the bed and then collapsed back.
That set off a chain; Big John’s cock started pulsing in my mouth, while my pussy did the same in his. Next to fall in the chain was the wench, pushing herself hard against his finger that was the size of an average cock; the Wench came as a storm. Her round, ebony ass convulsed and jiggled at the same time that her pussy gushed wet juice everywhere.
Big John pushed his tongue deeper into my pussy while rubbing his nose tip against the entrance of my ass. That together with a cock splitting my mouth, I came.
“Oooooooh, John, ooooh, I love you, John,” I shouted.
Big John stoked his cock and shot his load over my face.
Monica was the first to recover. She came across to me and started licking my nipples. I just loved that, so I moaned to let her know to keep going. I felt her hands caressing my body and I was instantly on fire. I pulled her head up and kissed her. My tongue searched her mouth as if I had lost something there and was trying to find it.
It felt better than my fantasy. She kissed me back hungrily too. Pulling her mouth from mine, she planted kisses down my neck and over my breast, which perked up from every touch.
She continued down to my stomach and bypassed my pulsing pussy, which was yearning for a touch. Kissing the insides of my thighs, she planted soft kisses all the way to my knees. Then, opening her mouth, she ran tongue and lips back and forth, driving me crazy.
“Monica, darling, ooooooooooh, my darling Monica, what are you doing to me,” I cried in ecstasy.
Returning to my pussy, she dipped her tongue into it, causing me to arch my back. She then licked my ass so softly that I felt I was about to come.
Her tongue then made its way to my clit, where she flickered it all over its head.
“Oooooooh, ooooooh, sssssh mmmmmh,” I cried. The intensity of her constant stimulation was too much for me. I remembered the German banker fucking me in my ass while I was looking at the paintings and imagining it was Monica eating me and now she was.
“Monicaaaaaa, ooooooooh, Monica, I am coming, I am comingggg, I love you, I love you,” I screamed as I twisted and bucked.
I heard another cry of pleasure on my right. I had forgotten about them. Big John was servicing the wench from behind. Monica quickly spread her legs and put her pussy into the wench's mouth, muffling her cries.
Monica was wilding, gyrating hard on her mouth, like a woman possessed.
Suddenly, she pulled the wench off Big John's throbbing cock and forced her into a scissors position. The two of them started grinding hard on each other’s pussies. I could see their clits straining under pressure as they pulled on each other’s legs to remain glued.
Big John came round to me and pushed his cock into my wet hole. I forgot how big and juicy it was. I felt it stretching my pussy to its limit.
“Yes, Big John, stuff my pussy, stuff it,” I cried out like a ten-pence whore.
John was only too glad to do so. He thrust his massive cock with steady but powerful strokes. I could feel it touching the back walls of my pussy.
“Oooooooh, John, aaaaaaaaah, I love you, aaaaaah oooooh, I am coming, woiiiiiiiii,” I cried as I exploded under the pressure of that massive cock.
Instead of being spent, I was craving more. Wriggling fast and, suddenly, I was able to get his cock out of me before he came.
“Wendy, no, no not now, I want to come,” he pleaded.
“You will,” I said. “But in my ass.”
Turning around on all fours, I offered him my ass. He spit on the head of his cock and thrust it into the forbidden land. I felt like I was being ripped apart, but I did not want it to stop. Relaxing like the German had taught me, I began to enjoy. Big John was moaning in ecstasy, for this was his first ass.
The feeling of him drilling my ass was so intense, I started seeing black. I knew it was only a matter of time before his excitement would overwhelm his control. So I began rubbing hard on my throbbing clit.
A great roaring noise shattered the stillness of the night as everyone came together, Big John flooding my ass with his seed. Monica and the wench came again for the twentieth time. We all collapsed and fell asleep.
Things were never to be the same after that wild night of orgy. Three months later, Uncle impregnated the young wench. She bore him a set of beautiful mulatto twin daughters.
Monica died a year after they were born from malaria. Big John ran away after her death. I guess it was love for her that was keeping him here. I run the household and estate now for Uncle, who had a terrible stroke. Big John never found out that Marcus was his son.
As for me, I am much older now. I never married, but I am presently fucking a young stud. I know what you're thinking. The answer is hell no. He is no Big John in that department, but then again, who can be. Haley's Comet comes around once in a lifetime, so does a cock like Big John’s. All I can say is that I was fortunate to have experienced nature's phenomena first hand and lived to write about it.
Although he was never mine, I still came out on top in the end. I have his son, Marcus.
Speaking of which, he has grown into a fine young man who is quite the ladies’ man, which brings me to another confession. I happened to find his diary yesterday. Curiosity got the better of me and I peeked. I wish I did not.
I will paraphrase here.
Dear Diary,
Today, I tallied up all the ladies I have serviced at school, in the parish, and here at the estate. The figure comes up to twenty so far.
I have a secret that I can only reveal to you. I have a sixteen-inch cock, I know because I measured it with a ruler. My mother’s friend Miss Lilly calls me “White Mandingo” every time I service her. I asked her what is that, but she just laughs. Whatever it is, I like how it sounds.
I am moving to the capital St. George's in three weeks to work as an apprentice at the bank. While there, I hope to provide top service to the lonely ladies of St. George's.
Marcus Adams
December 15th, 1820
So you see what I have to deal with. I was praying that he would not go down our morally wayward part.
What I was saying earlier about Haley's Comet still remains tru
e in my case; however, I never said lightning doesn't strike twice in the same spot. So as you can now imagine, this saga continues. Only this I know; it will not be written by me.
Wendy Adams
December 25th 1820
The White Mandingo (Part 5)
Dear Diary, guardian of my heart's secrets, confessor to the sinful, wise, and patient listener,
It has been sixteen years since I have been faithful to you. I wish I could come up with an excuse for my absence, but I know better, for although you will remain silent, you are no fool and will, in time, prove the folly of my ways.
I moved to the capital St. George sixteen years ago to take an apprentice position at the First Royal Bank. I remained there until six months ago, when I left to manage the new branch of The Colonial Bank (today known as Barclays Bank).
In May of 1836, offices were opened across the Caribbean, commencing with offices in Barbados, Trinidad, and British Guiana, and continuing later in 1837 with representation in St. Lucia, Grenada, Antigua, Dominica, St. Kitts, St. Vincent, the Danish Virgins, and Kingston, Jamaica.
The building itself is a reddish brick Gothic style with its expressive disjointed surfaces of lively hues, beautified with carved and narrative elements, consisting of flying buttresses, lancet windows, and stained green glass.
So what have I been up to for the last seventeen years in the capital? Exploring, meeting people of culture and high station, and looking for opportunity, whether it comes in money, position, sex, or all of the above.
My first couple of months here were hard; as the newest member of the bank, I was expected to be Jack-Of-All-Trades. At the end of every day, I was so tired that I went home to my rented apartment across from the market square, had my supper, and passed out.
Sunday was my only day off and I spent it walking around the capital after attending the Anglican Church or picking sea grapes on the two and a half miles of white powdery sandy beach to the south before going for a swim in its crystal clear azure waters, which reflected the color of a cloudless firmament above.
On my third visit to the beach, I happened to make the acquaintance of a one Mr. Adam Vichweg, who happened to be an owner of an estate that produced cocoa in St. George. His family had arrived here in the early 1700s and was now well established.
As we chatted about the current state of affairs and the push for an end to slavery, I happened to look across the serene sea to a hill northwest of the capital. There was an object reflecting light almost as if trying to relay a message. I reckoned that it was a piece of glass or discarded metal object.
Mr. Adam, following the path of my eye, suddenly exclaimed, “Jack O’ Lantern is back!” And he then threw back his head with laughter that shook his body like a banana tree in a storm. It must have been contagious, for I soon joined in, even though I had no clue what I was laughing at.
When we had exhausted our laughter reserves, I finally asked him who the hell was Jack O' Lantern and what he had to do with that hill.
Mr. Adam asked me if I had any plans later that evening, to which I replied no. I was then invited to supper later that evening with the promise that I would have the firsthand account of Jack O' Lantern’s story from the man himself through his diary, which Mr. Adam had procured from the governor as part of a business deal.
This was why I loved this island so much; besides its physical charms, there is much mystery and adventure to be found in unexpected places and some of the inhabitants only added to that, case in point, Mr. Vichweg.
Mr. Vichweg's stately plantation house stood on nineteen acres of very fertile land in Hermitage and was tended to by twenty blacks. The house was constructed from wood and had been well kept. It was painted in white and a British flag flew proudly in the evening spice fragrant trade winds.
I was taken to the dining room, which had the most elaborately carved wooden panels I had ever seen. The dwindling sunlight pouring through the large framed plantation shutters gave them an animated presence.
Supper soon arrived and I could barely eat for excitement had possessed me; with respect to my host, I forced it down.
We then withdrew to the smoking room, where I was given a worn out, very dusty book that looked as it might disintegrate in my hands at any moment.
Setting it on a little wooden table next to a whale oil lamp, I opened to the beginning and did not let up until I had devoured each and every word, every twist and turn, which left me longing for a life of adventure and danger. I will now enter the tale of Jack O’ Lantern here.
The Tale of Jack O’ Lantern
There is a serious flaw in man, in that throughout his short life on earth, he is so busy at trying to make a living that he seldom stop to think or ask “Is this all to life? Is all my God-given energy to be exploited by the strong? Where do I go after I exhale my last breath?”
The name I was christened with is Jack O'Conner. Today, I decided to write about how I came about my present predicament. You see, I don't even know if anyone will ever get to read this or if it shall become food for rodents.
About my predicament, I am currently on death row, chained up in a cave with the most spectacular view anyone could ever dream of. Beneath me lies the clearest tranquil azure waters that can be found anywhere in the world. From my perch, I can see it stretch all the way to the distant horizon and beyond.
Under less trying circumstances, this would have invoked a different sort of taste in my spirit.
First, I would like to start at the beginning; well, not quite. Let's start seven years ago in a distant and far away land called Scotland. That enchanting land of misty lakes, the green grassy Glencoe with its wild and precipitous mountains that shaped valleys and windswept towering trees that look down on wild salmon splashing in the rivers below.
Seven years ago, I was one of those people I described above, trying to make a living. My father had gotten me an apprentice position as a bookkeeper to a merchant that traded in tobacco from the Americas, mainly Virginia. I was only six months into my apprenticeship when war broke out.
Those pesky Englishmen whose ambitions knew no bounds and their lust for power had their army invade our country because we decided to name Charles I's son, King Charles II. In our own country, our people were not allowed to make the choice that was best for them.
This had our countrymen up in arms and I too was caught up in the patriotic call to repel these English savages. Looking back on it and on my current position, I wish I had not been so hasty in my decision.
So in the year of our Lord, 1650, Cromwell the warmonger invaded with a small force. They had crossed over from their campaign in Ireland where he had crushed the Irish resistance. We were going to prove that Scotland was not only a different territory, but a different kind of people that would turn over every stone to defend our freedom.
Our force was comprised of 14,000 men ready to die for our king, may God bless his heart in exile today. On September 3rd 1650, our armies clashed at what was to become known as “the battle of Dunbar.”
Cromwell's forces had suffered some setbacks earlier with sickness and lack of provisions, so we thought that the advantage lay with us.
The battle began at dawn and men began falling like apples in a storm. By noon, we seemed to be near a victory when, all of a sudden, we were attacked on our flank. In the confusion that ensued, Cromwell took advantage as any seasoned veteran would have done with fighting experience.
By six o’clock, our army was decimated and over four thousand souls lay dead. King Charles and about a thousand of us manage to escape. All our other brethren were taken prisoners. Two weeks later, Crowell had taken Edinburgh, our capital, thus cementing his legacy as one of the greatest men of war.
Since our escape, King Charles II had met up with more volunteers and our numbers were once again a force to be reckoned with. So our good king decided on a strategy that was genius. Instead of trying to recapture Edinburgh as Cromwell would expect, we headed south to capture England
, thus cutting off the head of the dragon.
It was this battle that changed the way I looked at life. No matter how well laid a man's plans are, he is still at the mercy of a higher power. Somehow, Crowell got a hold of our plans and headed south to cut us off and, with unbelievable energy, his troops caught up to us.
On the 3rd of September 1651, we met for the second time at what was to become known as “the battle of Worcester.”
This time, we were soundly beaten; Cromwell's army seemed to materialize everywhere we turned. Cannons’ and muskets’ blasts drowned out the cries of the wounded.
Never before were such tactics executed on a battlefield with such finesse that all who witnessed it had to agree that Crowell must have had the devil himself come up with such a strategy. His men came in waves, overwhelming us and sapping us dry of energy. Our king barely escaped with twenty others, while I had now fallen among the captured.
A few months later, I heard our king had taken refuge in France. I, along with the others who were captured from the first and last campaign, was branded “covenanters and Scottish royalists.” For this crime, we were sold into an indentured ship. Most of my fellow men were sent to the Americas and the rest of us were sent to the West Indies.
So, as fate would have it, I ended up on the French island of La Grenade. By the time of my arrival, the original Carib Indians had been decimated and whatever little was left of them was found in little pockets of resistance to the north.
The work was backbreaking. Some of us worked to complete Fort Royal and the others were sent to work clearing land for sugarcane cultivation, and still others to building up the capital which is called Paroisse de la Basse Terre (Present day St. George's).
So it was at the end of my servitude that my work got easier, for there began the importation of the Negroes. I was made an overseer on an estate northwest of the capital.
The Mandingo Diaries: A Case of Taboo Page 4