My First Mix Race Cougar

 

I take loyalty very seriously, biblically seriously. My baby mama cheated on me with a mixed-race man she’d been seeing before we even had a child together. I couldn’t believe I had signed up for the military for us. I knew this wasn’t the only time she’d been unfaithful — neither had I, to be honest — but she said it straight to my face: she’d been fucking him because I was “boring.” I was holding down two jobs three hours away from home, and she still called me boring. 

I’m in my twenties, fit, vigorous in my own way, but nothing prepared me for this kind of pain.

 Betrayal.

My friend Ricardo heard what I was going through — hell, I’d told everyone on social media. He reached out and invited me to the Dominican Republic, just to chill for a month or two. My baby mama wouldn’t let me leave for that long, especially not to a notorious sex-tourist destination. She’d heard the rumors: Dominican girls are vicious, relentless; they’ll chew all the meat off your dick and spit out the bone.But was I really the type to cheat for revenge? I’d done it before, sure — but only with escorts. Nothing serious. Men cheat for different reasons, and she knew it; she’d seen the call logs and the transactions plenty of times. Still, I never rubbed it in her face, never bragged about the styles, the positions, the way those girls worked. Meanwhile she straight-up asked me if I could fuck her while she lay belly-down — I’m no pornstar, and I knew damn well somebody had been teaching her that shit.

I made up some excuse about work and flew to the DR anyway. My son would be fine with his grandmother. I knew she wouldn’t hold back now that I was seven time zones away.

Ten hours after leaving Madrid-Barajas, I landed in the Caribbean paradise of Santo Domingo. And I’m not exaggerating — from the airport all the way to Los Minas el Millennium, where I was staying with Ricardo and his wife Zuleyka, every single girl looked like a 10.

Ricardo and I went to school together; that’s how we became boys. He grew up a normal Latino kid surrounded by beautiful women. Me? My parents abandoned me in front of the San Francesco Monastery in Assisi. All I know is they were Black, like me. I was raised by monks being told fornication is a sin, sex before marriage is a sin, lust is a sin — blah blah blah. I swallowed that rhetoric my whole life until high school, when I finally made normal friends. So yeah, Ricardo and I came from completely different worlds, and I was about to get the shock of my life.

Two days after I arrived we hit a bar called El Mango to catch up with his crew and drink some beers. It didn’t take long before he called a girl over to the table a straight 10 with rosy cheeks, perfect white teeth, ass for days, and sexy-ass toes. Ricardo grabbed her by the butt, signaled her to sit, and started spitting cotorra. I’m sitting there thinking:

 Bro, you’re married. How are you entertaining this random girl like it’s nothing? But nobody at the table batted an eye.

I barely finished my fifth beer before Ricardo said, “Let’s bounce.” He told the girl, Emily, to sit in the back and motioned for me to take shotgun. “We’re going home,” he said. I’d literally just gotten started, but whatever — there’d be plenty of time to find my own.

We didn’t go home. He drove Emily to her place and told me to wait in the car.

 Gentleman move, I thought.

 I got comfortable… and fell asleep. Next thing I know, flashlight in my face, two cops banging on the window. Ricardo came sprinting out of the house half-naked, calming them down, telling them I was with him. He asked me for all the cash I had — about €200 — and we paid the cops to disappear.“Bro, what took you so long?”

“She begged me to put just the tip in and fuck her,” he said, laughing.

“So you just cheated on your wife?”

“Eso no es nada, papa.”

I couldn’t look Zuleyka in the eyes after that. 

I had witnessed adultery in real time.

 Yet she kept cooking, cleaning, taking care of everything like the perfect wife, never once acting bothered. She had to know her husband was a dog, but it didn’t seem to faze her.

Dominican girls were too direct for me. The sexual energy screamed hellfire to my still-sensitive religious soul. I wasn’t a virgin, but I couldn’t bring myself to sleep with any of these goddesses throwing themselves at me. It felt too easy… or maybe too hard. 

Thirty days in the DR and my body count was still zero. Not even a whiff of pussy. Worst performance of my life. Even Ricardo was disappointed — he just shook his head when he dropped me at the airport on August 4th.

“Manito, que te vaya bien,” he said as I boarded the plane.

Back in Italy: zero bodies, zero satisfaction, ready to go back to work and charge it to the game. Then one random Wednesday I went to the corner supermarket between Piazza Campetto and Via San Lorenzo to pick up prescriptions. While I was waiting in line I glanced at the next aisle and saw the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my life just browsing. Something about her posture, the way she moved — Dominican. That ass made my heart skip. I had to speak to her.

Her name was Yajaira, from La Vega, DR. Redbone, 5'6" (not 6'5", my brain was clearly delirious), thick in the thighs, ruby-red pedicure, tan lines around her foot from heels. Exotic as hell. I tried talking; she barely responded. So I waited outside. When she walked out she gave me one glance and kept going the other way. I called after her; she turned, I blew a kiss. She smiled and kept walking.

Yes! I whispered to myself.

She had type 2c red hair and wore a distinctive perfume I could still smell hours later. I only saw the direction she went, but I made it my summer mission to find her again.

A month later, by pure luck — or divine intervention — I took a different route through La Maddalena and there she was: Yajaira, in a see-through silk dress, red Ann Summers lingerie underneath, same intoxicating musk-amber-rose perfume, sky-high stilettos, fresh chilli-red pedicure. She was an escort. My heart pounded like a racehorse. She looked me dead in the eyes, smiled seductively, and asked if I wanted to come upstairs.I was hypnotized.

 If this was a robbery, fine — worth it.

We went to her bedroom. “€200,” she said. I didn’t have it, but I wanted that premium pussy more than oxygen.

She laughed, pointed at the door and said, “Go get me some beers then.”

I ran like my life depended on it. Came back in record time. She was impressed. Sexual tension ripped through my jeans. She started drinking, grabbed my rock-hard dick, poured beer over it so it pooled around my prepuce, the most sensitive part, and proceeded to suck the beer, my soul, and every religious teaching I ever learned right out of me. 

Ten minutes straight, eye contact the whole time, prepuce turning purple, then suddenly she took all seven inches of shaft down her throat with zero gag. I’d never felt that vulnerable in my life.

She stripped.

 Pale amber skin, firm breasts, hazel areolas — I almost transcended. I was leaking pre-cum the second I walked in.

She asked if I’d ever been with an older woman. I lied and said plenty of times.

Big mistake. She climbed on the bed, whispered, “Show me how you give it to them,” and got on all fours.

I dove in face-first, licked that pink vulva and terra-cotta labia like a starving man, nose buried from her Venus mound to her asshole. When I came up for air her juices ran down my cheeks into my mouth. Nectar of the gods. 

I couldn’t stop. She begged me to put it back in her mouth. I hesitated just to taste her a little longer.

She was 45. I was 21.  Comment for part 2.

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