Letters to Cassie: From Kathy in Memphis


I had no idea that, when I wrote about my little ‘quickie’ in Costa Rica, it would have any real effect on anyone. While the seminal event itself actually happened, I wrote it as a piece of dramatic fiction- and from some of the responses, it looks like my skills could use a little work. Mia Culpa…

But several women e-mailed me with stories of their own. One woman- Kathy from Memphis- wanted me to tell her story.


My name is Kathy. I’m 46, live in Memphis, and have been married to Frank for 28 years. I guess you could say ‘happily’ since I still love my husband deeply and we are really great in bed, but for the last 8 years I’ve been having an affair with Charles, a man from Chicago. He does things to my body that my husband just doesn’t. Whether Frank can’t or won’t is not important. Charles does, and he does it every time we’re together. Maybe my husband knows about Charles, maybe not. He’s neither said nor done anything that would make me think he knows- no odd looks or cryptic phrases. I guess that’s not important either, is it.

It’s amazing how the internet has changed the way people get to know each other, and how their relationships change and develop long before they meet. So it was in the year 2000 with Charles.

We started talking on Yahoo, in a chat room. I was new to chat at the time and got lost in the chatter but managed to keep up with 2bfree. I forget how I managed to get his attention, what with all the names sailing up the screen, little memes and scrabble words soaring like smoke into cyber skies. He told me how to get into a private chat room and page him, and so it went from there.

When most men start talking about their divorce, it’s always the woman’s fault. She’s a bitch, does this, won’t do that… blah blah. Charles’s conversations didn’t move in that direction. When he talked about his marriage, the subject was the good times they had before they simply drifted apart. Was their rancor and anger? Of course. Was it easy? Some of the time, no. Was his ex a bitch? No more than he was a bastard and a saint. Did everyone survive more or less intact? He did. Our chat room conversation took place over a few months; I heard all of this between laughing about Dilbert cartoons, me bragging about my new car, the snow storms that stranded him in Cleveland for four days, and signing for student loans to pay his daughter’s college tuition. He was a nice guy. And he was black.

Around then we started ‘pillow talk’ e-sex and then exchanged phone numbers. The pillow talk e-sex became pillow talk phone sex, and things got incredibly hot between us. He told me what he would do to my body. How he would bite my nipples and tease my clit with his tongue until I was begging for him to plunge his big black cock into my wet pussy. I shared how turned on I got when I swallowed hot cum and how good he would feel with my lips wrapped around his erect manhood.

He had family in Memphis so he was in the area often. We decided to meet in about three weeks, when he was going to be in town for a business trip. We would meet on a Friday and see what happened after that. He gave xslot giriş me the name of hotel in which he would be staying and, when I looked it up, it was only about 20 minutes from my house. My knees got weak in anticipation and the days couldn’t pass too quickly. I wondered what I should wear. Should it be slutty or trashy? Or sleek and sexy? Or just what I wear every day? I wondered what I should say. Try to be witty? Or just be like we were on the phone? And how quickly should I let him take me to his bed? Be a tease? Or just pull off my clothes and get between the sheets? All of this made me more and more nervous as the days fell by.

A lot of the decision was made when I realized that we’d never be seen in public. Memphis is not Chicago and white women are not seen meeting with black men in intimate social settings. There are consequences for such things. When Friday came, I went with a light blue cotton blouse and denim skirt. I’m a 38D so going braless is uncomfortable, but I put on the laciest white silk bra and briefest silk bikinis I had. Then I sat in my car wondering if I would start it, and when I started the engine I wondered if I would pull out of the driveway. Then I was in the parking lot of Rode Way Inn, Memphis, taking deep breaths, taking my hand on and off the door handle, and trying to get my knees to quit shaking.

I went directly to his room and paced in front of the door, still undecided as to whether I would knock, but I knocked. And there stood Charles, the man who would be filling my pink pussy with his black cock within the hour.

He was barefoot, his tie was loose at the neck, his sleeves were rolled up nearly to his elbows, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. He was dark skinned but not jet black, short hair, clean shaven, stocky without appearing fat, and maybe 6′, 195. Good looking but not a Denzel. Behind him I could see a green wine bottle between pair of long stem glasses sitting on the edge of the night stand next to the bed.

He stood in the doorway looking at me in the same way I was eyeing him- with lust. He whistled almost inaudibly to himself while he mentally undressed me, his gaze meandered down my 5’6″ frame, from my long auburn hair, to my brown eyes, to my full breasts. They eventually came to rest in the cradle between my legs. “Kathy, you are quite a package.” He turned his back against the door and motioned me in with a slow wave of his hand.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, to be honest; I might have said nothing. I knew I wanted him to possess me, to violate me in every way a woman can be erotically, passionately violated. He put is hand around my waist and guided me toward the bed and poured us each a glass of wine. We each had a sip, and we kissed.

His lips were soft, his tongue fluid, his teeth gentle as he played with my lips. He unbuttoned my blouse slowly as I removed his tie, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off his broad shoulders. He kissed down my neck into my cleavage, pulling the bra straps over my shoulders as I unbuckled his pants. I pulled his zipper and he unsnapped my bra. He xslot pinched my nipples and kissed my breasts as I pushed his boxers to the floor and fondled his growing erection.

I got on my knees and took him in my mouth. I stroked his cock with my left hand while I sucked and licked and gently bit. My right hand slid beneath my skirt, under my panties, and nestled into my wet slit. I started teasing the nub of my clit as it poked its head out of its slick sheath. Bliss. I was in bliss. I mean, what more could a woman want than to be fingerbanging herself while going down on a big black cock? I felt the thick head swell deep in my throat. His shaft pulsed like a heartbeat against my lips. He was cumming in my mouth.

“C’mon baby,” he said softly, “take it all.” His hand was behind my head urging thick white ropes of cum deeper down my throat.

I did take it all, every drop. Temblors of pleasure shook him to the core as I sucked him dry.

Finally he popped out of my mouth. “You been doin’ all the work baby. Let me take them clothes off so we can get comfortable.”

He was still hard as a bat, the entire shaft slick and white with his cum and my saliva. I stood up and we kissed again. He unzipped the back of my skirt, slid it over my hips and gravity did the rest. He laid me on the bed. I lifted my hips. He pulled off my lacy bikini with a big wet spot in the middle, then he ate my pussy.

Oh my God did he eat my pussy! My calves hung off the edge of the bed when he started nibbling the inside of my thighs, beginning at the knees. Tiny bites, pecks and prickles, the saliva quickly turning cool in the air conditioned room. It sent shivers up my spine and down into my pussy. He teased his way up, his tongue playing with the outside of my lips while a long dark finger probed deep inside. He flicked his tongue like a feather on my clit. I came, hard, sealing his lips tightly onto my throbbing slit. He drove me mad with the way his lips would massage first one labia, then the other.

I moved back and lay flat on the bed. He climbed on top of me, his pulsing manhood inches away from my wet cunt. I wanted to be mercilessly fucked. I wanted to be punished with his cock until I was crying, begging for him to do it harder. Instead he balanced on one arm, using his free hand to rub the bulbous head, white semen still oozing from an angry looking slit, along my wet slit. I pushed my hips up trying to impale myself on the object of my pleasure, but he eased his hips back, denying me.

“Please Charlie,” I begged, “please,” I pleaded, the tip of his cock teasingly plying the slippery wetness of my gap. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him close. His chests crushed my breasts and our tongues danced.

His cockhead split my womanhood without resistance, the thick shaft moving its way into the dark, moist channel. My hips pushed up to meet his first thrust. My vagina swallowed his throbbing erection until his pubic bone crushed my swollen clitoris. I shuddered and cried out in lust. It was to be the first of many orgasms that went well into the night.

He fucked me real good. Slowly at times, the sensation of friction against my pussy stoking embers of lust. Hard and fast at times, my cries and moans screaming in the primal language of my electrically charged body. I had never been fucked like this before. I was his possession, an object for his sexual pleasure, his receptacle, his slut, he knew it, and he knew he could have whatever he wanted from me for as long as he wanted.

I’ve read a lot of these “fuck stories” where women get excited and have a big orgasm when they feel cum being pumped into their pussy. Me, I’ve never felt that. I can feel a man when the helmet of his erect penis hits my cervix- which almost hurts. And there is the explosive electric pressure that seems to build and build as he moves his shaft in and out of my pussy. That’s what eventually makes me cum. A lot of that is the sensation along my clit and cunt lips as they are drawn in and out with the friction of it all. But the actual sensation of a man when he comes- no.

Now, when I take a man orally and he shoots his thick spunk down my throat, I can feel that. The head of his cock swells and fills my throat, and I can feel the vein at the base of his cock begin to pulse and throb on my tongue and lower lip just as the first ribbon of jizm squeezes out. There’s the taste- it tastes like the ocean smells… unless the guy smokes and then it just tastes foul- and the slick lubricating texture as it mixes with my saliva. I can feel all of that.

But, at least for me, the sensations of a man and his orgasm don’t happen inside, but through the feelings he telegraphing to the rest of my body. Charlie was behind me, fucking me like I was his bitch in heat Which I was. His thrusts became harder, deeper, faster. His breath became choppy, ragged, without rhythm or reason. His hands were on my hips, pulling me savagely onto his thick black shaft with each thrust. I felt his thighs stiffen against mine, then came the animal cries from both of us, then again and again, deep, hard thrusts. That’s when I knew his pulsing manhood was pumping its milky white seed deep into my passion wracked body.

He collapsed onto my back and kissed the nape of my neck. I turned my head and our lips met in a passionate kiss. His cock softened and slid out of my slick, cum-filled cunt. His fingers wandered around my body like homeless pilgrims, running first along my back, to my ass cheeks, teasing my still sensitive clit, and settling finally on my firm nipples. Thick gobs of white semen cooled as they dripped down the inside of my thigh. We laid on our sides facing each other, kissing, touching, allowing this moment to end as another would soon begin.

We fucked two more times that night, and I left at about 11:00. I came back on Saturday and we slept together- well, let’s say, we occasionally slept. Easier to just say I stayed until breakfast. This started about eight years ago. We get together now whenever he’s in town and, since he has family here in Memphis, that is a few times a month. It’s just as good now as it was the first time.


Kathy has read this story from the beginning and, although it’s fiction, says it tells her story. If there are any doubters- and with Kathy’s permission- I’ll be happy to verify her side of the story through our e-mail exchanges.

Thank you, Kathy.

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