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White Lady Sold, a work in progress

Back story:

A few weeks ago, a member contacted me when she saw me reading a thread about White Ladies being sold. We chatted about it back and forth. She 'expressed' certain fantasies and thoughts to me. I liked them so much that I promised, in her honor, that I would write a story based on her suggestions.

This is an early look at the story, in its first edited form. The rest of the story has grown to be 24 pages long! No kidding, the Adventures are that deep.

So that you are not disappointed, up front let me tell ya, there is no sex in this first chapter, but there will be a heck of a lot of it later on. Enjoy!

White Lady Sold
Or "A Lady's New York Adventure" (Still have not decided on the title)
Got2 (copyrighted and all rights reserved for the author, me)

My name is Kate, I am 33 years old, blond hair, blue eyes. I was born in, and still reside in, a small city in Devon, England. I’m told I have very white skin. I keep myself in trim shape at the gym, so guys flirt with me all the time. I tend to be a control freak in every aspect of my life except one: the bedroom. In bed, having sex really anywhere, I like to be dominated, spanked, drilled hard and put away wet. Recently, on holiday to the United States, I was subjected to a horrifying, brutal, degrading and abusive sexual assault. But, honestly, it was a fantasy come true. This is the story. If you are a gentle reader, or easily offended by hard adult sexual topics, stop here, now.

I am married to a wonderful 40 year old man named Jonathan. He treats me so well; indulges my need to be in control in social situations, in our daily activity and around our home. He’s your typical middle age man, balding and starting to get overweight in the tummy. We have been married for just over ten years; I love him dearly. However, there is a problem. Jonathan is lacking ‘in bed’ Lacking physically, and lacking in technique and stamina.

Jonathan’s penis, I never call it a cock, is just three inches when erect. When he’s not erect, his little penis retracts almost into his body. With his foreskin and all, it looks like a tiny acorn. To his credit, when we make love, Jonathan tries to do his best, but I can’t take his little “3 incher” seriously. He mounts me, tries to poke and twirl his cock around inside of me, but in under five minutes, after a lot of grunting and panting, he is done, spent and flaccid. If I am lucky, he will use a big phallus on me so I can achieve orgasm. I keep a large black dildo in the nightstand drawer along with spare fresh batteries, because it gets a lot of use.

We are still, after ten years of marriage, childless. Oh, we have tried. Read books, watched videos, eaten healthy foods, oysters and all, but still, Jonathan and his “3 incher” have not been up to the task of impregnating me. But perhaps, at this moment, after our trip to the USA, I am with baby. That detail lies ahead.

Jonathan and I hoped that our holiday to The United States of America would invigorate our sex life. New excitement, new sites to see, different hotel beds, lots of sex and perhaps I would catch that magic silver swimmer and become pregnant. No birth control for me for the past several years. We timed the trip so that I would be past my period and into the most fertile time of my cycle. I was giddy with the thought of the adventure; little did I realize the horror and the excitement that was in store.

We arrived at the busy New York City's of JFK airport at ten in the morning. After collecting our bags, we proceeded to Passport Control. It was there that I received my first US cultural experience. He was looking straight into my eyes as I handed him my passport, six foot tall and black as a panther in a spotless blue uniform. I was so taken aback by his pure animal power and authority, I almost dropped my passport. His eyes devoured me as he grabbed Jonathan’s passport. Our eyes met. As we spoke, his eyes inspected me, thoroughly, up and down my body. His deep baritone asked simple questions: “business or pleasure”, “how long do you plan to stay”, “anything to declare”, but his eyes, all the while, were undressing me. I was not offended, I admit, it gave me goose bumps realizing I was his distraction from his long boring hours at work.
In my own mind I imagined this large black stud naked before me. His large hands, thick arm muscles, broad chest and deep voice, hinted at immense physical power. I imagined his cock, long, black, thick. He was the sort of man that I always fantasized about, a man who would dominate me, pierce me, take me. My body responded, too. I felt flush, weak in the knees and a bit wet in the knickers.

The encounter was over in moments, unfortunately. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as we arranged transport to Manhattan. I brushed off the feelings as holiday jitters from being in the US for the first time. I was also a bit frisky, sexually, because I was at my most fertile time of the month.

Our drive into Manhattan was uneventful, but the roads were very congested. Check-in at The New Yorker Hotel went smoothly. After that, Jonathan and I took in the usual sights of New York: a tour bus, Rockefeller Center, Times Square, dinner at Del Fresco's on The Avenue of the Americas, then back to The New Yorker. We were both tired, but Jonathan displayed no interest when I put on my slinky nightie and climbed into bed next to him. “So, okay,” I thought, we are both tired. I'll try to knock me up tomorrow night.” He was asleep in minutes, but I stayed awake for a bit more. I slowly fingered myself to orgasm, shamelessly fantasizing of that black Passport Officer’s cock, his cock penetrating, dominating me as he rode me. I slept very deeply.

The next morning, after a little shopping and walking around, we returned to the hotel to get ready for our big outing of the day. Jonathan and I enjoy fine art. Later in the day, there was to be a big and exclusive art gallery showing, black tie/evening dress, wine and cheese event, at Art 101 in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, for which we were lucky to have secured tickets. We were both very excited to be able to attend. The tourist guide book describes Williamsburg as being ‘trendy’ and Hipster along with some poverty stricken areas mixed in.

I spent a great deal of time in the bathroom. Showering, putting on my makeup, I even trimmed my pubic hair, removing all hair from my pussy, leaving only a small triangle of blond hair over my pubic mound. I planned to instruct Jonathan to eat me to orgasm, before his main event. I hoped an orgasm might open me fully, get me more receptive to his sperm.

That work completed, I put on sheer black stockings, garter belt and skimpy black silk panties. I wanted Jonathan to be surprised and fully aroused for our lovemaking. Men so love my long legs. Husband Jonathan likes me in a garter belt, so I rarely wear one for him. A golden dress, somewhat revealing in the front and with a side low cutaway to reveal, flaunt, my shapely legs. Checking the results in the mirror, I felt like a tigress ready for the hunt.

I won’t bore you with the details of the show, but about halfway through, I encountered him. It was not his well tailored Armani suit, his height, his bald black head, nor his Rolex watch or gold chain around his neck that intrigued me. It was his arrogant, demeaning tone and speech.

“Yes,” he went on after my ear caught the first sentence. “My stable now is all White.”

“Horses. . . ?” I thought.

“It’s the White Ladies that bring me the most. White, trim and fine. They are my best earners, so that is all I keep in The Stable now. The sluts, they so enjoy being sold.” He went on, bragging to a well dressed white man who seemed to be nodding in approval!

I don’t know if it was the Champagne, or being in a foreign city, or merely my reaction to his arrogant male tone that caused me to act, but something inside motivated me to do it, to confront him.

”Pardon me," I said as I strode directly toward him. "Did I just hear you discuss the SELLING of White Ladies as though they are horses in a STABLE?” I held my head high, champagne glass raised as though to throw at him.

Without moving a muscle, his eyes locked onto mine. “Of course, miss,” he said in a dismissive tone. “I put my white ladies to work for me. I enjoy beautiful and fine things. White women are no different than art,” he said, waving his arm in the air, “or horses in a stable. I can only ride one or two at a time, so the rest I sell or dole out to other men to enjoy as favors.”

“Sir,” I almost spat at him, “White Ladies are not objects to be SOLD by you or any man. We are not property. No gentleman would ever treat a woman as an object to be sold or lent, as though she were a horse.” This large black was now grinning at me.

“If what you say is true,” I went on, indignant and full of fire, "then you are no man, you are a shameless pimp. Your ladies are nothing but tramps. You are uncivilized and unfit for a place of culture like this fine art gallery.” I turned and walked away.

His brazen laughter, as arrogant as his speech and demeanor, echoed off the walls of the gallery. I stomped my heels louder to drown out his crude sounds, but I did hear his last words, "It will be fun to tame a wild filly like that and teach her to respect her man."

I did not acknowledge such a crude comment, keeping my back to him, not even glancing back, I strode across the room to my Jonathan. He could tell I was upset. “What was that all about”, he inquired.

“I just overhead that ‘man’ back there refer to ‘Selling’ white women. Ladies as if they were horses to sold!”

I paused, my lips still trembling in fury, “While I don’t believe it, to discuss such a thing, so crass, here in Art Gallery, was more than I could take. I gave him my thoughts on the subject. I set him right. Selling White Ladies, like some pimp, like a Barbary Pirate of centuries ago. Indeed!” I was still upset.

“Careful darling,” Jonathan advised, putting his arm around my shoulders as if to shelter me, “In this part of New York City, drug dealers make fortunes. They run their own places like fiefdoms, because, to them, that is what they are. Best not to cross them, best not to insult them.” But of course, I already had.