Interracial Erotic Stories

His hair was styled in tight cornrows and his eyes were bloodshot form the beer and weed. He nodded to Dupree. "S'up," he said laconically. Then he looked at Amy and his eyes widened. His face split into a grin. "Dayum," he said. He looked at Tom still standing behind. "Hey, Officer Barkley," he said with a malicious gleam in his eye. "You remember me?" Tom nodded dumbly. He had arrested Antonio Jones years before on charges of repeatedly raping and sodomizing a twelve year old girl. The girl had been so traumatized that she was unable to speak, so the only evidence of Jones' guilt had been circumstantial. He was allowed to plead to a lesser charge and was out after only five years. Jones took the joint out of his mouth. "I'm looking forward to doin' to yo' wife ever'thing I done to that little white bitch," he said. `An' a few other things besides." Tanya dug the gun into Tom's back, keeping him from reacting. Jones turned and walked back into the darkness behind him. They followed down a short hallway. The music became deafening as they walked into a large open room. There was a bar along one wall with liquor bottles behind it. Along the opposite wall from the bar was a low crude wooden stage with what looked like a fire pole rising out of the center and a DJ booth on one end. The air was thick with the stench of pot smoke and beer. A motley assortment of flimsy tables and mismatched chairs was scattered throughout the room. There were a dozen or more men seated at the tables or standing around with beers or drinks in their hands. They all turned to look at the entourage coming through the door. When they saw Amy, a ragged whoop went up. It was an ugly sound, the sound of a pack sighting its prey. Amy turned and tried to run. Tom could see the panic in her eyes. Dupree grabbed her by the back of the neck and tossed her easily, like a rag doll, to the center of the room, where she was caught by a laughing fat man who looked Hispanic. The man pinned Amy's arms to her sides and pulled her back against him. He planted a sloppy kiss on her neck and flung her into the arms of a tall skinny black man with a scarred face. Amy was weeping, her face streaked with tears. "HOLD ON!" Dupree shouted. Someone turned the music down. "Now come on, brothers," Dupree said. "This ain't no way to treat a guest, now is it?" He walked over to where Amy sagged in the scarred man's grasp. "Somebody get this lady a drink and a smoke," he said. Tanya guided Tom over to a chair and sat him down as Antonio Jones stepped over to Amy. "Hol' her up, Jermaine " he told the man holding her. The man pulled her upright. Jones reached up and adjusted the patrolman's hat, which had fallen askew on Amy's head. Then he flipped the joint around and put the lit end in his mouth. He leaned over into Amy's face. "Pucker up," Jermaine said, "Like you was givin' a kiss. Then suck the smoke in." "I never..." Amy protested. Jermaine shook her. `DO IT, cunt!" Tom made as if to get up, but Tanya poked the gun into the base of his neck. "Don't try anything, Tommy," she said, "or you'll miss the show. Here, let's make sure you don't get not any mischief." She undid the cuffs around Tom's wrists, then refastened them so that he was shackled to the chair, his hands still behind him. As Jones blew a long stream of smoke into Amy's face, she puckered up and inhaled. After only a moment, she was racked with a paroxysm of coughing, which sent the men gathering round her into hysterical laughter. "Again," Dupree ordered. Jones passed the joint to the fat Hispanic, who blew her another shotgun. "Now hol' it in," the first man said. Amy held the smoke in, her eyes bulging, until her face turned red and she blew it out. "Do it again, Manuel," Dupree said. Grinning, Manuel complied. This time Amy seemed to be getting the hang of it. When she blew the smoke out, Tom could see that her eyes were beginning to glaze again, this time with the pot. Someone shoved a beer into her hand and she drank deeply. "Now," Dupree said, "lessee the bitch dance." She stumbled slightly as he led her over to the stage. Someone turned the music up and switched on the stage lights. The stage was bathed in read and yellow light. A rap song with a heavy beat came on, an old one by DMX. It's all good, It's all right, fuck all day, fuck all night... Amy stood on the stage, dressed in Tom's old police hat, belt, and uniform blouse up top, only a thong and high heels beneath. She looked terrified. "I said, DANCE, bitch!" Dupree yelled. The other men took up the chant: "Dance! Dance! Dance!" Amy closed her eyes and began moving her hips slowly, her arms crossed across her chest. The men continued to yell at her. "C'mon white bitch!" "Work it!" "This ain't the senior prom!" As their shouts became more insistent, Tom could see Amy's dance became sexier. The throbbing beat and heavily sexual lyrics, combined with the pot and beer forced on her, were obviously beginning to get to her.