This isn’t a mere story, a figment of my imagination, or the product of an overheated pussy. This is autobiography. It’s said that an angel with a flaming sword guards our past Edens, that we may not re-enter. I am seeking you, my angel, I am seeking you, and with you I shall re-enter my Eden.
I have always been quiet, many say too quiet, but when the furnace is stoked and the fire is kept low, it can burst into the hottest, most intense flame. I entered my Eden five years ago.
I was comfortably off, so I wasn’t restricted to student housing when I moved to New Orleans for college. Innocent, eager, with my wide brown eyes and ‘Alice in Wonderland’ hair hanging almost to my knees, I thirsted for knowledge. Having been raised by a strict Catholic grandmother, I hadn’t learned that there was more knowledge than the knowledge in books, nor had I fully suspected the intensity of that inner fire–not until I met Michael, the angel at my Eden.
It was in late April, just a few weeks before final examinations, on a warm and humid mid-afternoon. I walked from campus to the streetcar stop, and boarded the St. Charles car to go into town. I took the only seat, next to an unremarkable man, navy blue pin-striped suit, balding, polished black shoes. I usually don’t converse with strangers, but his very mildness intrigued me. He told me that he had an apartment on Dumaine Street, and he invited me to dinner.
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I had never been in a man’s apartment before, but I was 18 and was more than ready to rebel from my grandmother’s strictures. I followed him past a gated, stone wall, through a fragrant garden, and into an aging brick house, covered with moss. He pointed out his balcony on the third floor. I followed him again.
We sat on his couch, and he kissed me, expertly. I was surprised at the flame that surged between my loins, and the cascade of wetness. He began to touch me, unbuttoning my blouse and nibbling at my unbound breasts between kisses. “My name is Michael,” he breathed into my ear as he touched my secret places. He asked, “Would you possess what is already yours?”
I looked at him shyly, questioning. He took my hand, led me into the bedroom, and turned down the lacy spread of the antique brass bed. “Let me shower while you make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll be just a few minutes.”
I thought about leaving, but I was too aroused.
Michael returned, attired in a maroon silk kimono, bearing a porcelain bowl upon which floated a single, perfect gardenia. He placed the bowl on the nightstand and climbed into bed beside me. “Lie in the middle of the bed, then lift up your arms,” he breathed, as the redolence of the fragrant gardenia filled the room, “I want to kiss your soft, secret places.”
Snap! I was handcuffed to the bed! He placed his hand on my face and said, “I always leave my mark on the women I possess. So I shall leave my mark on you, too, my darling. The walls are old and thick. No one will hear you.”
He reached under the pillow and extracted a long, flat box. He placed it on the night table next to the bowl. “I want to fuck you, and I will have your hair, my dear.”
“No, not my hair!” I whimpered, tears rolling down my innocent cheeks.
“Yes, your hair, my dear. Relax. You will remember this evening all your life with pleasure.”
“Pleasure!” I exclaimed. “I’m a virgin, and you’re going to rape me and take my hair.”
“No, not rape,” he breathed, as he expertly massaged my clitoris. “It won’t be rape at all. And I will have a gift for you when you leave me.” He drew open the drawer of the night table and extracted a green velvet box. In it were a pair of the most perfect long diamond earrings I had ever seen.
“Surrender to me, and I will be a part of you for life. Surrender to me willingly, my darling.”
Against my will, I felt the moisture gushing out my clitoris. He insinuated his finger in my vagina. I groaned as his fingertip pressed against my maidenhead. Michael breathed, “Open your legs, darling. Open them. I want to make you ready. All of this is only to make you ready for me.” He began to tweak my clitoris with his tongue. Hating him, hating myself, hating the situation, I nevertheless began to writhe and wriggle with pleasure. He began to gently massage the tip of my clitoris with the purple head of his hot cock. I wondered if I could float upon my own excrescence. “Now, let us begin,” he said. “Your hair shall be your maiden couch and bridal bower.” As I writhed in protest, he pulled my hair over my shoulder. I whimpered again, “No, no, no!”
I heard footsteps on the stairs, a knock upon the door. Michael left the bed and opened the door. Four men entered the room. One began to busily set up video equipment. Another placed a small nylon suitcase on the floor, then exited the room.
The two huge black men looked at me hungrily and began to undress. “I like well-buttered buns, my dear,” Michael said. “Ready!” announced the first man in what seemed like seconds.
“Don’t struggle and don’t question,” Michael said. “I promise you a beautiful initiation into love and an experience you will treasure all your life.” He threw off the robe and climbed into bed. The taller of the black men, meatus throbbing, stood next to the bed. “How much shall I take off?” he asked.
“Cut it off at the nape of the neck,” Michael said thoughtfully, “it’s beautiful hair, and I want to keep it.”
“Rolling,” the first man remarked. The shorter of the black men climbed into the bed on the other side and grinned. “You be ready for some black lovin’?” he asked. “You are going to gets it all the same.”
The short black man began to lick my nipples, which grew painfully hard. I could feel my breasts engorge. “Oh!” I drew back with a cry of pain. He shuddered and extracted his bloody cock.
Michael smiled, “You are no longer a virgin, my dear. You have become a woman.” He nodded to the tall black man, who pulled my head forward. Chop! Chop! Chop! Through the pain and shock, I felt him hacking at my hair. He held it up and said, “It sure am pretty, Mr. Michael.” Michael nodded.
“But I want all of it,” he said. The video man adjusted the camera. The tall black man continued chopping at my hair. The shorter black man, having dressed, left the room. Oh! The tall black man had crawled into bed. He parted my buttocks forcibly, and entered, first insinuating, then demanding, then thrusting. Tears rolled down my cheeks as he shuddered, gasped, and withdrew. I was frightened, hurt, humiliated, but pleased and stimulated, too. I was also strangely curious. My grandmother had told me, “Once you have black, you’ll never go back.” I wondered, was it true?
“I’ll foam her up,” Michael said. “Relax, darling, this can be the ultimate erotic experience when done by the right man.” He extracted a straight razor from the case, applied the foam to my head, and glided the razor over with long, practiced strokes. I felt my nipples hardening even more, and a new gush of fluid came from between my legs. Michael dipped a towel in the water and softly stroked my newly-bared head. “You are beautiful,” he said, “beautiful.” “Relax, for you have no need to struggle. Jackson has your hymen and I have your hair. This is the time for pleasure.”
He climbed into bed, inserted his throbbing cock and fucked me, oh! how he fucked me. I arched my back and shuddered in orgiastic pleasure. He gasped, massaged my shaven brow, and lay beside me.
The second white man entered the room and placed a cloth over my face.
I awoke in my own apartment a few hours later. On my crown was tattooed in script ‘Michael’ next to a small, but perfect rose. Points of light danced through the diamond earrings that extended to my shoulders.
Nine months later, I delivered a perfect cafe-au-lait baby. Michael had made himself a part of me.
As I said, this story is true. It really happened in New Orleans in 1990. I would like it to happen again.