Date: Sun, 22 Dec 2002 16:21:25 +0000
From: J.T. Bottom <luvblkmen@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Zone Part II

First, thank you to everyone who sent me e-mails and letting me know that
they enjoyed the story.  I would especially like to thank those people
outside of the United States for sending me a message.

I did not plan to continue this story. I never would have written the first
one, but the cable went out and I didn't have anything better to do.  But
after receiving the many e-mails I decided I would write more if the
inspiration came to me.

Many people wanted to know if the story was real.  Well the answer is Yes
and No.  I am "Adam", but I am now in my 30s and no longer live in Chicago.
I was and still am attracted to black men.  Being young, blond, and fairly
good looking in Chicago (well I was...) I had my ample share sexual
experiences with these beautiful and dark men.  I did meet one man in a
bathroom on LakeShore drive and went back to his place and got a good
fucking.  I also met one man and after being fucked by him, his roommate
then took me into his bedroom and had his way with me as well.  There was
not one sexual experience in the first story that was not real.  I merely
merged several different experiences into one.  I promise to keep the sex
real, but if allowed I will modify the story line a little to hopefully make
it more interesting.

WARNING - This second installment does not contain much sex.  It is just the
set up for the third installment, which I have not written. There will be a
big payoff (I promise) in the next installment but I just couldn't jump to
the next encounter between Adam and his new "friends" without further
getting to know Adam a little better.  Fucking is great, but throw in a
little drama and it can be awesome.  I hope you enjoy it.


It was a Sunday afternoon and my mother and I were returning home after a
shopping trip to the mall.  It had been a good day for the most part.  My
mother did not get a chance to spend much time with me lately as I was often
running about with my friends.  She enjoyed getting caught up on what was
happening in my life.  I had also had a pretty good day as the car was now
packed full of the new clothes that I would be taking with me when I headed
for college in a few weeks.   It was a good trade off.  My mother got to
hear about what movies I saw with my friends and I got clean underwear.

"So, you never did tell me about that fight you got into last week.  Who was
it with?" my mother asked, keeping her eyes on the road.

"Nobody you know," I answered, quickly trying to think of a way to change
the conversation.  My mother had noticed the red marks of my face the
weekend before.  I had lied and told her I had a fight with a friend.  At
the time she knew that I wasn't in the mood to talk about it, but evidently
she had not forgotten and now wanted an explanation.

"Well, I don't like it," she said.  "I didn't bring you up to get into
fights.  It's not like you."

"Mom, I really don't want to talk about it," I replied, not thinking of
anything that might get her off the subject.

After a pause, "I realize you're a young man now and I can't expect you to
tell me everything, but I've been worried.  You haven't been yourself this
past week.  You've been up in your room every night.  You normally come down
and spend some time with your dad and I, but you haven't all week."  She
wasn't going to let this one drop.

"Mom, really, everything is fine.  I just had a little problem last week but
now everything is OK.  Trust me, everything is fine."

"It's a girl, isn't it?"

I had been sipping a soda and almost coughed up my spleen.  "No Mother, I
can guarantee you it wasn't over a girl," I answered while wiping the
spilled Pepsi from my chin with my shirt and looking out the window so my
mother couldn't see my eyes literally roll into the back of my head.

My mother continued to drive while I just kept my mouth shut.  I knew she
was still thinking about what might have happened to me last week that would
cause me to hide away in my bedroom.  There was no way though I was about to
tell her anything close to the truth.  How do you tell your mother that not
only are you gay, but that also you enjoy getting fucked up the ass by big
black men?  Even if you send it with a gift, that story ain't going to play
well with the folks.  So I didn't say anything and eventually we were
pulling onto the driveway and I sensed my ensuing escape.  But it would not
be a clean getaway.

"Well, if you want to talk about it you let me know," my mother advised me.
"I'm not a boy, but I remember how boys your age acted when I was a girl.  I
know your hormones and juices and all that stuff kind of get in the way of
your brain and normal thinking.  So you just watch yourself, you
understand?"

I was not having a conversation about "my juices and stuff" with my mother.
No way, Jose.  "Thanks Mom, I'll be fine.  Trust me," I said and quickly got
out of the car and headed up to my room.

"Well you know where you can find me if you want to talk!" my mother yelled
as I headed up the stairs and to my room.  Yeah, I knew where she was and I
wasn't going there.

It had been a week and the piece of phone book with the phone number was
still was on my desk.  I had looked at it every time I entered my room.  I
couldn't help it.  The memory of what had happened the weekend before was
still seared into my head and the piece of paper brought that memory back
like a tidal wave every time I saw it.  I instinctively squeezed my ass
cheeks thinking of the experience.

I had been sore for the first couple of days, but not nearly as much as I
would have expected.  That first night before I went to bed I wanted to feel
my ass again to see how much it still hurt.  I found some Vaseline in the
bathroom and put some on my middle finger.  Laying on my stomach I reached
between my cheeks and gently dabbed the jelly onto my ass and then slowly
rubbed around my ass ring.  It was sore all right, but it was neither
stinging nor extremely painful.  It was feeling more bruised than anything
else.  I kept rubbing around the circle and then slowly started to insert my
finger until it was up to the first digit.  With my finger now inside I was
able to feel around the rim of my ass.  Again it was sore, but not painful.

I felt around a while, making sure everything was where it was supposed to
be, and suddenly noticed that I had a raging boner.  Closing my eyes I again
replayed the image of being pinned to a bed and having two huge black cocks
practically rip open my hole.  During the actual experience my cock never
even got remotely hard, but here I was now with my finger up my own ass and
it had never been harder.  How weird is that?  When I was having the sex
with those men my cock didn't even come into the picture, but afterwards
there I was thinking about it and my cock was rock solid.

I quickly rolled over and pulled my legs up to my chest pretending that once
again I was preparing to take a huge black pole up my ass.  I repositioned
my finger at my hole and started to finger fuck myself slowly at first and
then faster.  At the same time I started to stroke my cock to the rhythm of
my finger fucking.  Although it hurt a little because it was still sore I
closed my eyes and tried to mentally get back to where I was that afternoon.

The term that I had given to the mindset that I had achieved that afternoon
was "The Zone".  I had used the same term before when I was working out.  It
was almost that same mental state I had when I was really hitting the
weights hard or going that extra mile in a long run.  It was the same, but
it was different.  When I was working out, getting in this "Zone" allowed me
to do one more rep.  When I was running it allowed me to run a little longer
than I might have otherwise.  When I was being fucked, getting in this
"Zone" was something completely different.  Even though it allowed me to do
things I otherwise might not have been able to do, it was more spiritual
than physical.  When I worked out or ran it was just me.  When I got fucked,
there was someone else involved and they were pivotal in getting me in the
state of mind where I thought I could do anything.

I stroked my cock faster and plunged my hole deeper with my fingers trying
to get into that state of mind again.  Although I was physically enjoying
the pleasure and sensation I was giving myself, it still wasn't nearly the
same as the real fucking I had endured the weekend before.  I felt my cock
getting close to orgasm and I roughly squeezed another finger next to the
first.  It hurt a bit because I had not put on any additional Vaseline, but
it was enough to put me over the top as my cock exploded and I shot the
biggest load in my life.  The first shot landed high on my chest and the
remaining two or three shots landed squarely on my stomach and did not
dribble down the sides of my cock as they normally did.

I pulled out my fingers and went to the bathroom and got cleaned up and went
to bed.

It had been a week since the encounter with the two black men and I had not
picked up the phone.  I had spent a lot of time thinking about what had
happened and why I had allowed it to happen.  Alone in my room I played the
scene over and over again in my head.  Why did I do it?  Why did I let this
guy take me back to his place and do those things to me?  More importantly,
why did I enjoy it so much?  They were questions that had no answer and it
would be some time before I came to terms with who I was and what I was
becoming.

Several times I had picked up the phone and was in the middle of dialing the
number, and then chickened out and hung up the phone.  Was I fucking nuts?
Was I really going to call this guy and let him pimp out my ass to strangers
so he could make money?  That was fucking ridiculous!  Now that a week had
passed the memory was starting to fade a bit into something like a dream.  I
knew it happened.  There was no question about that, but I was starting to
mark it off as just a strange experience - an adventure that would not be
duplicated.  "Really," I thought, "What in the hell was I thinking?"

I finally got up the nerve and took the phone number and got rid of it.  I
not only got rid of it; I burned it on the stove so that there would be no
way for me to change my mind later.  I knew that my hormones might try and
trick me so I was taking no chances.  This number was getting trashed and I
was moving on with my life.  End of story.

It was Sunday afternoon.  It had been a week and a day. I was getting ready
to head out of the house and go meet a friend to see a movie.  I had cleared
my head of all the thoughts about what had happened and I was going to go be
a "normal" kid again.  Yes sir, that is exactly what I was going to
do...until I walked out the front door and saw Martin sitting in his car
parked in front of my house.

I stopped, frozen in my tracks.  This was not happening.  The man who had
practically raped me was not sitting in front of my house in his car smoking
a cigarette.  I turned around and saw my mother in the kitchen window baking
something.  She wasn't looking out the window, thank goodness, but any
moment she would turn around and see this guy parked in front of our house.
I knew my mother and she would not waste any time before investigating.  The
houses in our neighborhood were big and spread apart and no one just came
and parked in front of one of them without having a reason.  She would come
out and ask him what he was doing.

Oh my God, I was in deep shit.  I looked at the car, then my mother, then
the car, then my mother, and back and forth several times before I started
to get a hold of my senses.  I casually walked up to his car - if you could
call walking so stiffly that it looked like rigamortis was setting in - and
bent down appearing to act as if one of my shoes were untied.

Without looking up I played with my shoelaces and whispered, "What are you
doing here?  You have to leave now or I will get in trouble.  Please, just
leave."

"Hey there little man.  I've been waiting for the phone to ring, but it be
silent so far.  What's up with that?" He inhaled on his cigarette, leaned
back in his seat, and casually blew a smoke ring across his steering wheel.
He wasn't going anywhere.  "I've been watching that fine women in there.
That be your Mother little man?  Yes indeed, she is mighty fine.  I bet your
papa is one happy man.  Am I right?  I say, am I right?"

"Martin, please, you really gotta go," I replied, still kneeling down
pretending to tie my shoe.  "If my mother comes out here I will be in so
much trouble.  Please, please, I beg you, just go."

Still staring ahead, Martin did not appear to hear a word I had said.  "Why
haven't you called me boy?  I thought you and me had our selves a little
deal.  You do know what day it is don't you?"  I didn't reply.  "Well let me
remind you, my little man.  It be Sunday.  More importantly, it be more than
a week since we had our..." he hesitated a couple of seconds, "...our little
ren-dez-vous."  He punctuated every syllable as if pleased that he had
thought of such a big word.

My initial plan of begging and pleading for him just to get the hell out of
here was going nowhere fast.

"What do you want?" I asked urgently, looking back again to see that my
mother was thankfully still pre-occupied with her baking.  "We can talk
about this somewhere else.  Please just pull up around the corner and we can
talk about it."  I had had enough with this man and I was taking charge. I
stood up and started to walk down the sidewalk hoping that he would just
start the car and follow.

He honked his horn.

"I'm dead," I mumbled to myself, pressing my hands against my face.

I looked back at the car, and then at my house.  My mother was no longer in
the window and was no doubt heading to the front door to find out what was
going on.  I walked to Martin's window and leaned my head in.  "Martin, my
mother is coming.  If you ever want to see me again, for any reason, I
suggest you leave."  I knew I was cornered and just putting forth the facts
was all I could do.

"Well, Little Man, I'll make a deal with you," he said, flicking his spent
cigarette out the window and onto the street.  "You meet me at the park this
afternoon at 5:00, near the bathroom where we first had our little
encounter.  If you don't show up I will be placing this here picture
somewhere near where that pretty mama of yours can find it."  He then
reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a Polaroid.  It was his
roommate Jake on top of me, with my legs pinned to the bed, and his massive
cock crammed completely up my ass.

Oh my god, when the fuck did he take a picture without me knowing about it?
I didn't have a chance to think about that question before I heard the front
door open and my mother, now looking quite serious, started to walk across
the yard to where Martin and I now stood.

"5:00 Little Man," said Martin.  He then started his car, put it in drive,
and slowly just drove away leaving me standing in the road and looking at my
mother, who was now standing on the sidewalk with her hands on her hips.

"Who was that?"

Think fast Little Man, "I don't know.  He was asking how to get to Wrigley
Field."

"He was looking for Wrigley Field my ass.  What are you up to young man?"
First I was Little Man and now I was Young Man.

"Really, he just asked how to get to Wrigley Field." I asserted, trying to
act as if her assumption of me not telling the truth was absurd.

"Do you think I'm stupid?  Is that it?" she responded.

"No," I replied, not sure where she was going with this.

"I saw what he pulled out of the glove box young man," she continued.  "I'm
not like all your little friends' mothers.  I pay attention to my kid's life
and I know when something is up, and something is definitely up."

Hopelessly caught, I decided to not even try to play the game anymore.  I
had lost and she had won.

"Okay, he wasn't looking for Wrigley Field."  Although I would not lie to
her anymore, I wasn't about to just spill the entire can of beans either.

"What was it pot?  Cocaine?  What was he trying to sell you?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"He was trying to sell you drugs, wasn't he?" she asked.

Maybe I wasn't so busted after all.

My mother, bless her heart, has always lived a very comfortable, yet
isolated life.  Like my father, she had grown up with money, attended
private schools, and for the most part only associated with people just like
herself.  That being mostly rich and very, very white.  She wasn't a snob
exactly, but someone who hadn't experienced the "salad bowl" of colors and
cultures that made up the world.  I think she had a few Jewish lady friends,
but knowing my mother that could be chalked up to plane old ignorance on her
part, confusing the darker tint of their skin to either a good tanning bed,
or regular visits to their vacation homes in the Virgin Islands.

Unfortunately when one is so secluded and protected from the real world,
they tend to make their assumptions about how the "other people" live from
sources other than the real world.  In my mother's case, that would be the
television.  Not being someone who had any interest in situation comedies,
she would often gravitate to the myriad of cop and detective dramas that
flood the airways.  An unfortunate byproduct of such selective viewing is
that one gets the assumption that every Black, Hispanic, and Puerto Rican
man was either a drug user or a drug dealer.  Just as the rest of the world
watches American television and believes that the majority of Americans live
in 10 bedroom homes, with a swimming pool, and a maid, and dance to Britney
Spears music, my mother believed that except for Bill Cosby there was no
such thing as a black man who didn't have a desire to get the world hooked
on drugs.

One time at a drive-thru restaurant my Mother was reaching out the window to
pay the Latino teenager manning the cash register when the young man asked
my Mother if she had a dime.  "I don't think so young man," she responded
harshly.  "And you had better hope that by the time I get home I don't call
the police."  The cashier, looking surprised, handed her the change and we
drove off.

"What was that all about?" I asked.

"Didn't you hear him?  He asked me if I had..." she hesitated, trying to
find the right word "...some Mary Jane."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, amazed.

"A dime bag, stupid!  Weren't you listing?"

"Mother," I replied, putting the palm of my hand to my forehead.  "The food
was five dollars and ten cents.  You handed him a ten dollar bill.  He asked
if you had a dime so he could just give you a five dollar bill instead of a
bunch of change."

"You think so, Mr. Smarty Pants.  Shows what you know.  One of these days me
and you are going to take a drive to South Chicago and I am going to show
you exactly how these people live.  Change my ass."  Why a complete stranger
would assume my mother had a "dime bag" did not occur to her.  There was no
arguing with her knowledge of how the world worked and I didn't try.  I
imagine her meeting Collin Powell one day and although honored to meet him I
can picture her scanning his pockets with her eyes looking for the eight
ball of coke surely hidden somewhere in his military jacket.

She was still standing on the sidewalk, waiting for an explanation.

"Okay, he wanted to know if I wanted to buy some..." I hesitated, trying to
think what my mother would find truthful, "...weed."

She continued to stare me down with her eyes, not blinking, trying to see if
I would snap.  It almost worked before she responded, "Well...that
sonofabitch is damn lucky I didn't get his license plate number.  I mean,
really, does that guy think anyone around here would want to buy any of his
'weed'."

"You scared him off, Mom.  Good job."  I tried to sound thankful that she
had arrived just in time to save me from this stranger who surely wanted no
less than to see me completely drugged out of my mind before the age of
twenty.

"If he comes around here again, just stay away from him and come get me.
You got that?"  She started walking back into the house, stopped, then
turned around.  "One more thing.  If I see you do something so stupid as to
go up to a complete stranger's car again I will shove the heel of my shoe so
far up your ass that you'll need to hire a professional spelunker to climb
in there and retrieve it."  She turned around and walked back to the house
and went inside, closing the door behind her.

End of Part II

As always, send me an e-mail to luvblkmen@hotmail.com and let me know what
you think. If anyone wants to include a picture of what they look like, or
tell me of a special encounter they had, then please do. (Especially those
black men who wrote me and let me know that they wanted a "turn" at that
ass.  Who knows, maybe we can arrange something...wink wink).