Shyamala was undergoing severe depression. So she found reprieve in alcohol. She visited the Koh-I-Noor bar in Goregaon where they sold imported Coors beer. This was also a bar frequented by Africans. There she met Yaar'adua and went back to his flat in Dahisar where they fucked repeatedly. Weeks later, when she was itching for an ass fuck, she visited his flat...only to be told that he was deported for being in possession of 45 kgs of cocaine.
I had been at the Koh-I-Noor bar in Goregaon for a couple of hours now, looking over the male clientele. Mostly they were together in small groups, all Africans on business trip to Mumbai. Their rude remarks had always put me off approaching them. Too many times in the past I had been sent packing by snide comments from the intended “prey’s” friends, rather than the intended himself. The crowd was starting to thin out a little though, allowing better viewing with less movement, which, considering the amount I had drank over the course of the evening, was a good thing. Too many beer bottles littered my table but it was, for me, fairly normal. I wasn’t a real go-getter at bar scenes. But, being the glutton for punishment that I was, I never stopped trying. As the jukebox stopped for the millionth time, the crowd parted and I saw someone new. He was sitting near the bar flap that allowed the bartender to enter and exit from behind the bar.

Wavy, jaw length, braided hair framed his face. He was wearing a nicely filled plaid shirt, with what looked like nothing under it but flesh, a white Nike shorts enough for me to see a pair of unadorned, and shockingly muscular black legs. White Adidas sports shoes finished the look of sensual purity. As I watched he sipped his drink, some fruity concoction based on the colour, in a martini glass, rimmed with what was probably sugar crystals. No one approached him while I was watching and that gave me some small degree of hope for myself. Draining my beer, I headed to the bar for a refill. There was an empty spot immediately to his left. Not even a bar stool was in the space. Stepping onto that space, I waved my empty Coors bottle at the bartender and he acknowledged the wave and headed to the cooler for another. I glanced at the man sitting there and he looked me up and down. After taking another sip from his drink, he crooked his finger at me. Looking around to make sure no one else was behind me that he may have been gesturing to, I stepped closer. He leaned into me and said, in a low and husky voice, “Hey hot stuff, do you dance? I’m getting tired of sitting on my ass waiting for someone to ask, my name is Yaar’adua, I come from Nigeria and I live in Dahisar.”

Glancing down to the stool top where his ass resided, I said, “Yes, I do dance, although Coors here,” I tapped the empty beer bottle sitting in front of me, “may have affected my rhythm somehow. And, if I may say, that’s a pretty fine ass to be sitting on. My name is Shyamala, I come from India and I live in Mira Road.”

The bartender slid my refill over and I dropped a fifty Rupees note on the bar top for him, waving him away to keep the change. He tapped the bar with the bill and walked away. I hoisted the cold bottle and drew a mouthful from it. He did me the honour of laughing at my attempt at humour and his eyes closed down a little as he looked at me some more then grinned. “Well thanks honey, that’s a damned nice thing to say,” he said, holding his glass near mouth level. As the jukebox started its next selection, he put his glass down, took my hand and stood, tugging me towards the dance floor. As we moved from the bar, he waved at the bartender and pointed to his glass. He nodded and started making him another.

We danced to something kind of slow and he made sure I never got too far away from him. He rested his head on my breast, sliding one leg between mine and keeping his crotch pressed to my upper leg, I could feel his massive cock bulging out of his shorts. His warmth was arousing but I knew better than to be too overt about my thoughts, at least not yet. I had gone home alone far too often to let the cat out of the bag this soon. The music changed to a slower song and he snuggled even closer. I felt him take a deep breath and let it our slowly. He was relaxing onto our embrace and becoming more comfortable there. His chest was warming mine nicely, his being so close to my height, and I was beginning to feel his manhood swelling. Because I had both my hands on his back, his being wound around my waist, it was easy to slip one of my hands lower on his muscular buttocks and squeeze, stopping it just at the upper curve of his ass. I thought about slipping it into the waistband of his shorts but then my mind woke up and reminded me, “Slow and easy girl or you will get your ass nuked real quick, he will suspect me of being a prostitute.” He did not react negatively to my hand placement, which I noted with pleasure. The music stopped and a fast number came up. We looked at each other, shook our heads and walked back to the bar for our drinks. His fresh refill was there and my beer was still making a ring of sweat on the bar top. Sitting on his stool, he put one foot on a rung and left the other on the floor. That raised his shorts hem a few more inches up his leg. Trying unsuccessfully not to notice, I waved the barkeep over and questioned him about the price of his drink, then slipped him a bill to cover it. Turning to him, I asked, “What is that you are drinking? It looks a bit on the sweet side.” He laughed and replied, “It’s a Lemon Drop. It’s like a vodka martini made with lemon juice and rimmed with sugar. It’s a business man’s drink, but after enough of them, I don’t notice.” I hoisted my beer to him and said, “Well, here’s to Lemon Drops and the most handsome businessman here tonight.” He looked at me and smiled sweetly, “You can drink to that, but I’ll drink to Mr. Coors and the hottest and prettiest babe in this place.” We laughed about our exchange and drank to each other.
He drained most of his drink with the toast and shivered slightly as the sweetness temporarily overcame him. While he was reacting to that influx of sugar, I looked him over a little more closely. He had tight African hair, brown eyes, pert nose, kissable thick lips, and a sensually curved neck leading to athletic shoulders. Further south it still looked like his chest was unencumbered by anything other than that form fitting shirt and lacked hair. And the open neck of the plaid shirt went far enough to show nice jet black skin on his bald chest. His waist was trim but not skinny. His hips were……..,….. Suddenly I realized I was probably spending too much time on this appraisal and quickly looked back to his face. He was grinning widely at me. “Are you still checking me out? I thought you did all that from your table before you got here.” I’m sure I blushed a little at getting caught being so blatantly. I hoped the lighting was dim enough or bad enough to cover it up. “Guilty as charged. How can I make it up to you?” I replied.

He leaned forward, grabbed my blouse front and said, “Let us take a rickshaw back to my place and I’ll show you how.” Then he planted a lip lock on me that would have done justice to a Hoover vacuum cleaner. The music from the jukebox faded into the background as my heartbeat soared upwards, pounding in my ears. Then, I was breathing again as he picked up his glass, licking the sugar off while gazing at me over the rim. My eyelids were moving almost as fast as my heart rate. But I got the message he was conveying. Boy did I? I took a final swig of Colorado’s best and raised my hand to his. He took it, slipping gracefully off the stool, showing me a bit more of those muscular legs. We walked out into the cool night and headed for the rickshaw. I fumbled for my cell phone as we neared it to call home and tell mommy that I was not coming home until morning. Nerveless fingers are notoriously hard to control. I felt like all my blood had pooled between my legs. Fortunately my wet pussy was not the outward kind, but the inward kind, so I was able to walk without incident. As I reached forward to usher him into the rickshaw, he slipped his hand under my blouse with one hand while stroking my ass with the other. His chest pressed into my shoulder muscle and I finally could tell they were rippled muscles under the plaid shirt. He smiled at me, kissed my cheek and stepped in. As he sat and his left leg went into the cramped space, I got a glimpse under that shorts and saw the tip of his massive cock, peeping out like a hungry snake!, I was relegated to wondering if I actually did see what I think I saw, or was it my imagination. He told the rickshaw driver his address and the driver revved the engine in an uncontrolled manner. I could tell that the driver was not pleased. He made sharp turns, hit potholes at random and applied the brakes abruptly….deliberately trying to make the journey uncomfortable. It was when he spoke in Hindi that I realised how profound Indian men’s racism was. He said, “An Indian woman should never be seen in the company of a Niggar (sic), especially at night…Drug sellers!!!!” To which I replied, “The Indian men should ask themselves why?” I was focused on that glimpse I got that told me there was commando under the shorts as well……….to get involved in trivial racist argument with the illiterate Indian.

As we neared his flat in Dahisar, his body temperature had raised upwards to a very interesting two to three degrees. His ebony skin was soft and very smooth, feeling almost creamy. There was sensual heat from a nearby source that armed the side of my hand. A masculine smell, unique to Blacks exuded from his sweat pores. He kept his strong hand on top of mine so I could not remove it, as if I wanted to. I moved my fingers slightly and felt him groan…. squirm to that touch. I squeezed his leg affectionately and barely heard him take a shallow, quick breath. I was glad it didn’t take too long to drive just over three kilometres. Pulling into the driveway, close behind the other parked cars, the rickshaw stalled and the lights also went off. Before we got out he leaned over and pulled my head to his again. Hoover vacuum cleaner time again I thought. Taking advantage of the fact at least some of his attention was elsewhere, I slipped my hand further up his leg and under the shorts. My fingers hit the top of his now erect cock and I felt smooth skin everywhere. Hot, silky-smooth, and damp skin, I could only surmise that it was pre-cum. My salivary glands shifted into overdrive. I put my other hand behind his head and held him in the kiss for a while longer. As much as I was enjoying the kiss, my ulterior motive was to keep my hand where it was as long as I could. I was soon to find out I needn’t have concerned myself with that.

Breaking the kiss, the rickshaw driver coughed as a reminder for payment. I handed him one hundred Rupees and we rushed to Yaar’adua’s ground floor flat. I hurried to catch up to him, not wanting the cool evening to cool him off. That was one more thing I needn’t have concerned myself with. We walked up to the house where he unlocked the door and let us in. I stepped in and closed the door. He turned and pressed himself to me full length, pushing me back against the door. His passion seemed to explode as he began pulling at my blouse buttons almost frantically. As my blouse came open fully, he dropped his hands to his pants and fumbled with the waist string. He freed his cock and began kissing his way down my breast. Just as he was to take me in his mouth he pulled me upright, picked me up and walked into what I assumed was the family room. I saw a sofa bed nearby and he dropped me onto it. I saw dust, like fine flour, flew into the air as I hit the sofa bed. I inhaled it and sneezed about five times. My legs fell open as I hit the sofa and his mouth was on me in a flash. I gasped with the suddenness of the contact. I took a deep breath and he went to work on me. His tongue ran over my vaginal lips and clit. His lips clamped around my flesh and he sucked inwards. He dipped into my wetness and licked the welcoming juices he found there. I pressed my pussy hard against his face and began moaning. He grasped my hips so I wouldn’t dislodge from his position. As he worked on my pussy, I felt the urge to put one leg on the back of the couch and one on the floor. My head was feeling light; the feeling was more profound than the alcohol I had drunk. In fact, it was similar to the cocaine I had sniffed once on a holiday to Goa, when my then boyfriend Gopalram, bought cocaine in the street of Margaon, and drugged me, so that he can photograph me in the nude and sell my pictures to a web site called “Desai Kama sutra.”

He did and made 9,000 rupees in the process, keeping all of the proceeds to his greedy self! In my drugged state, he even got images of my masturbating using a banana, an eggplant and a Pepsi bottle. This was what my friend Gomati reported to me, having seen the web site. I did not pay attention to my inebriated state; I assumed that it was a combination of alcohol and sex with a sweeeet, virile Black man.

My skirt was now up around my waist and I was fully open to his view and oral ministrations. He reached upwards and fully explored my breasts through my blouse. He grasped my nipples and pulled at them, sparking their interest. As they stiffened into his masculine hands, he pinched them both. I responded by hiking my hips toward him. I was hot and getting hotter by the minute, a fire was burning within me. Stopping to take a breath, Yaar’adua raised his head and looked at my face. My eyes were closed, my head was thrown back on a couch pillow and my mouth was open. I was panting. Seeing that open mouth was too much of an invitation for him to ignore. He quickly stood, dropping his shorts to the floor and kicked them away. He stepped to my side and swung one leg over me to rest it on the couch. This put his massive black cock right at my mouth. I felt the movement, opened my eyes and grinned. Grabbing it by the base I began sucking on it with abandon. Watching this lovely Indian woman work her mouth and lips on his erection sent his passion spiralling upwards. He reached behind me and found my wetness again. He began stroking my clit while he ran his tongue all over me. Arching my back, I thrusted my breasts towards him. Not wanting to miss anything, he caressed them with his other hand feeling my heat increase dramatically. I took my mouth from his cock and stroked it while I said, “I’ve got a problem. I want to have my cake and eat it too. Maybe I should say cock, not cake, but I want to suck you off and I want you inside me too. What can I do?”
I grinned at him. “How about both?” His eyes widened at my suggestion. I continued. “I can make love to you until you cum then just before you come, you can pull out and let me suck you off. That way we both get everything we want. Black man is so sweeeeeeeet!!!” I surprised myself with the degree of intelligence and clarity of thought I was exhibiting, given the circumstances of the evening, and the moment. I saw him think for a few seconds. When his eyes cleared, showing he had made a decision, he stopped stroking me and pushed me off him. I stood and he did as well. As he stepped away from the sofa bed, he pointed to the couch. I lay on it, face up. He straddled me, facing my feet, and slid his 11 inches of fullness into my wetness. I had placed a pillow under my hips as I lay down, allowing me to accommodating him to my full depth better. He rode me like a good cowboy should. I think he was planning to ride me hard and bruise my pussy. Seeing his sweet ass gyrating on me while the white shorts framed it was very stimulating, such stamina, such athleticism…only a Black man was capable of that. I held on to his hips to keep him from jumping off me, he was riding so hard. I came, slowed some, and then started speeding up again. I came again and my frequent orgasms were raising Yaar’adua’s excitement to the point of no return. He finally came once more and I felt mine rising to the boiling point. I began pumping into him more strongly and he must have known I was striving for my climax. I was almost there when he leaped off me, turned and commanded me to drop to my knees next to the sofa bed. He offered me his cock and plunged it to my Indian mouth, sticking me deeply into my throat.

He pumped his shaft in my wet mouth and cupped my tightening breasts with his strong hands. A gentle squeeze of his balls drove him over the top. He began spurting into my mouth; the fishy taste of Nigger’s sperm was soothing to my throat, like a lozenge. He groaned deeply and I sucked him dry. He kept coming and I kept drinking. When he finally began to slow down, he hopped up again, stepped over me and dropped his still dripping wet cock over my stretched pussy.

He rode me again, this time facing me, until we both came once more, slamming himself against me until we knew nothing but our passion and the impending release of it. When we came, it was together and we shouted our pleasure out loudly.

Later, in the afterglow, we held each other closely he was behind. We continued to fuck, this time Yaar’adua was behind me, cupping my breasts as I lifted my leg high for maximum penetration and arousal.

We were drenched in sweat and sex juices. I stroked his back and ass and he nibbled my ear and breasts with his strong African teeth. I chuckled and said, “Hurray for Lemon Drops.” He snickered and said, “No, hurray for Mr. Coors.” We smiled ourselves to sleep. In the morning, we started all over again, without the drinks and the clothes. It was even better that way.

He said that Nigerians liked to suck their women’s pussy as a going home present. He dropped on the floor, put on his reading glasses and asked me to mount his face. He took a good long look at my internals…then went to work.

Next morning, I phoned work and faked illness. After another four explosive orgasms, I got dressed and headed home to Mira Road. I never saw Yaar’adua again.

One weekend I was itching to feel a Nigger’s cock in my pussy so I visited his flat in Dahisar, hoping for a good fuck. This time, I was going to ask for ass fucking. The feelings of the last one we had was so profound that for two weeks afterwards, my ass was still pulsating with pleasure!

At the flat, I saw an old Indian man coming out of it. I spoke in Hindi and asked where the “Niggar” was, he replied that the guy was deported for being in possession of 45 kgs of cocaine which he was selling on a regular basis at Koh-I-Noor bar in Goregaon. He was holding a police picture of a packet of cocaine which was found hidden in the sofa bed in the sitting room.

Anonymous readerReport

2014-04-13 13:49:37
Niggars in India are all drug dealers. Girls, stay clear of them. Or else, you will end up in trouble too. In addition , they carry AIDS which they bring from Africa

Anonymous readerReport

2014-01-05 14:40:32
Pimp's portrayal of Indian society today is so accurate and precise. Yet, in this conservative society, Indians are too proud to accept that such infidelity id taking place. Visit the suburbs of Vasai, Kalyan, Dombivili and Borivalli and you will be shocked at the number of married Indian women sleeping with younf Black students. The winners of all of this is the doctors carrying out the illegal abortions. In the mean time, the Indian husband working his ass off doing menial tasks in the Arabian Gulf States is unaware of what is going on in his marital home!

Anonymous readerReport

2013-12-27 19:46:13
This woman has the uncanny ability to end up where Niggas congregate....How does she do it?

anonymous readerReport

2013-07-31 15:38:15
send the bitch to Africa to love with niggars

anonymous readerReport

2013-06-28 04:49:31
fucking prostitutes, what an example for our daughters????

You are not logged in.
Characters count: