Interracial Erotic Stories

Two days before the conference, I heard from her. She was sexually delirious with the idea that we could have the opportunity to renew our passion and told me she was quite anxious to connect in Philadelphia. I could not say no. I could not tell her that in the meantime I had met someone else online and had planned to meet that woman at the hotel where the conference was to be held. I was, indeed, in a quandary. So, here I sat in the conference hall, watching this new woman walk back and forth across the stage, comparing her to the one I had met some months ago. Opposites, to be sure. Where my first black involvement had been tall, willowy and cafЋ au lait in color, this woman was short, compact and as black as the inside of Hades. I wondered where my "friend" might be. I supposed she was conducting a seminar in one of the other meeting rooms, but had not yet seen her. I hoped she would make contact soon and we could slip away for lunch to make plans. I had already reserved a room upstairs and hoped that we could arrange things so that she and I would skip all afternoon sessions and retire to our romantic tryst for the entire afternoon. My sordid plan was to tell her, then, that I could not stay the evening because of family problems and make her afternoon one to remember for a long time. That way, I could meet my new online partner for the evening and hope that my physical stamina would withstand the attention of two women. But I did not see her anywhere during any of the refreshment breaks, in the halls between sessions, or at lunch when we were ushered into the huge banquet hall. I scanned the crowd with anxious eyes but found only the woman from that morning weaving her way through the tables toward where I was standing. I paid little attention to her and continued to search the crowd for my lost lover. I even moved out of her way when she approached the table where I was standing. She, however, did not move; and she stood directly in front of me and extended her hand to take mine, saying, "I think we have a mutual friend." The details of our lunch conversation need not be reproduced here in their entirety. Let it simply be said that we adjourned to a small Italian restaurant a block away for some privacy (her suggestion, not mine) and shared an antipasto. Her contact was deliberate. My previous romantic liaison had informed her about me, about my propensity for a particular type of sexual stimulation, and the fact that I would be at this conference looking for her. At the last minute, she could not be present and thought that this woman might be an apologetic substitute for me. I was stunned, to say the least. To think that two women had actually discussed me. To think that my performance in a romantic interlude had been the topic of several evenings' conversation between friends. Actually, I was immensely flattered. And apprehensive. And here was my way out; a way to clear the way for the already-scheduled meeting with my online friend. I could very simply be polite in my refusal to become involved. I could easily explain to her that last February's activities were a one-time-happening. But I didn't. Why didn't I? Simple. This woman exuded more sexuality than any woman I have ever met. She was so animal-like in her appearance - almost predatory - that I was mesmerized and agreed to everything she proposed. She explained she could only stay the afternoon since she was traveling into the city for another appearance that evening. This, of course, fell directly into the plan I had cooked up for the day, anyway. We returned to our hotel and I led her to the room I had arranged. What was her plan for the afternoon? This was not a romantic liaison, as had been the one in Hershey. This was a deliberately planned afternoon of sex -- simple, unadulterated sex. I honestly did not know if I was up to it. For the first time in my life, I had doubts about what I was going to be able to accomplish. She wasted no time at all in giving me clues as to her intentions. She was wearing a beautiful beige cashmere business suit and removed the jacket to reveal a matching beige silk blouse. Her breasts were huge and stretched the silk to its limit. I could see the lace on the tops of the cups of her bra, also beige it appeared, contrasted starkly against her dark skin. I am not a breast man. I have never been a breast man, or boy, or teen. I much prefer a woman's nether regions - those regions not seen by many, hidden from view until the woman decides to reveal them for her own reasons. But, in this case, I was stunned. My gaze could not be torn from those melon-shaped hills pressing for release from their lacy prison. I resorted to a juvenile phase and whispered, "Oh, my God!" She laughed and lifted them with her two hands and asked if I liked them. I responded in the affirmative, and she remarked that she had heard I was not usually attracted to a woman's breasts.