Miles Sterling was a South African-born, British-educated, properly bred African American boy. His parents were both diplomats when they met in South Africa. His mother a Black American and, father a Black South African. Miles was named after the legendary trumpeter, Miles Davis and given his mother’s maiden name, Sterling, as his parents were not married at the time of his birth. He grew up listening to the cool blue tones of the trumpet player and his band, wishing a life as exciting as this jazz artist he was named after.
Miles led a fascinating life. He was a modern playboy with multiple women around the world even though he had a long-time girlfriend living in London. He dressed like a Black European with skinny jeans, scarves, and custom tailored shirts. He only drank tequila, never lied about his relationship status, and had no problem shrinking oversized egos with his quick wit and condescending British accent.
I met Miles at a job I hated while the world that I knew was drastically falling apart. My marriage was over, but I was still in denial and unwilling to accept my reality by admitting to everyone around me that I was not OK. Miles and I had always had some sexual tension between us, but on that one day when tears poured from my eyes, he showed me the most kindness and genuine sincerity. Shortly after that, he announced that he was engaged and was moving to London to be with his fiancé. I never expected to keep in touch with Miles, but it is amazing the kind of relationship you develop with people texting over an 8-hour workday. I told Miles about the things I refused to talk about with my friends; I shared the dirty details of each tryst and hook-up. I told him almost everything. I was not surprised when he invited me to a private party that may or may not be a sex party via text as he repeated via text on a Friday morning.
Before the flight was over, she made Miles a member of the Mile High Club. Miles never caught her name and was too embarrassed to ask her when all he could do was picture his fat cock rushing in and out of her mouth. Nonetheless, Miles was pleased to be invited to a private adult masquerade party by a strange woman he fucked on his flight from London.
The address of the party was only given to vetted and confirmed guest via text message. When our driver turned into an office/industrial park, I became alarmed. There were barely any vehicles in the parking lot but we saw a small light outside a door. The entrance was through a tiny door where we were led through several empty rooms prior to entering the actual desk of admission to The Social Club. As we walked closer the colors of candlelight and darkness unraveled like twine and converged again. A giant deep-featured woman peered down at us as we approached the velvet ropes. After examining our IDs she waved us through the metal door leading to a black desk where a fair skinned man was perched, wearing black lipstick and feather eyelashes. The black desk had a small LED light which required the black key card Miles was given by the strange woman to attend the party. We were told to wait in the Salon until our hostess was available for our tour.
As I turned around, a brown skinned woman was upon me with her champagne lips swallowing mine. Without words our bodies merged like swirls of caramel lattes sweetening each other with every kiss until her friend joined in dipping the tips of her marshmallow nipples into my mouth. She tasted like a summer night, full of hope and debauchery. My fingers buried between the folds of her thighs pushing aside the fuzzy spot to the warmest place for wandering fingers. Backstroking in her creamy tunnel with the same two fingers I use to pleasure myself. We were scarcely naked; had not exchanged names yet I had tasted each of their pussies like some properly socialized animal before we had even left the dressing room.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Erotic Blog, NSFW