I’m not sure why I went to Club 216 that night. I’d joined months before but had gone only rarely. Joining put me on their e-mail list, though, and I kept seeing announcements go by of their semiannual beauty contest. It didn’t pay much attention to it—or at least I didn’t think I had—but that Saturday night found me there, just a couple of table rows away from the stage. I was by myself at the table. I’d had some come by and give me the look, but I was lethargic and just let it ride. I think that was my problem at the time. I was lethargic about just about everything. Nothing was turning me on much. I needed some pizzazz in my life.
I’m not sure I went to the club on beauty contest night with any thought of adding pizzazz to my life. But maybe my subconscious was doing more work than I was. I do know that I was bored and out of sorts.
The contest was done in rounds, with the tamer contests coming earlier in the night. The one going on on stage when I arrived was an evening gown contest. Some of the dolls up there were real beauties who, I thought, could stand their own in a state pageant. All had great figures and good faces and looked terrific in the often highly suggestive gowns. That round went off really well with the audience too.
There was a packet of thick-papered cards on the table I sat at giving the names and numbers of the contestants in various rounds with boxes that patrons could tick off to vote their favorite. Half of the vote total came from the patrons who voted and half was done by a panel of three judges. It all was quite elaborate and well thought out, to my mind. An announcer repeated the names and numbers as the contestants strutted across the stage, each with a number pinned to a hip.
I hadn’t planned on doing any voting, but the surprisingly high quality of what was up there swept me up into the spirit of the contest. I found myself looking and comparing. After each had walked across the stage alone and stopped at a mike and breathed their name into that and done what they could to sell their personality, all of them were brought out to stand in a cattle line for several minutes. This, I assumed, was to give the patrons a last chance to compare them and vote. That’s when I did that—considered them as a group and started picking out my favorites.
It only took me a couple of moments to isolate my three favorites: Sandi Sweet, Ernestine Boudreau, and Linda Lays. At first I didn’t realize that they all had something in common. Then I realized the ones I’d picked were all black. There was another black one in the contest, but a bit too much weight on the bones was what didn’t sell me on that one. There were whites, Hispanics, blacks—and even a Filipino up there. So I thought for a moment about why I’d focused on the blacks. Maybe that was something I’d been missing. I never had considered color in my choices. Maybe it was blacks that attracted me and I hadn’t even known that before.
The night was young and already it wasn’t a loss to me. I got a little thrill out of considering blacks. Got a little of that pizzazz buzz. I’d meant to leave after that, not knowing if I could endure the talent round, but just that little buzz was enough to keep me there.
I scrutinized the contestants again and voted Ernestine Boudreau. That one had the best set, I thought. Like two ripe cantaloupes. And a good face too. Curvy thighs and a big butt.
The talent part wasn’t much better than I thought it would be, but I endured. Nearly all sang and nearly all sounded alike. I didn’t vote that round at all. They did it in their evening gowns.
The swim suit competition was a bit buzzier, and I concentrated on the three I’d picked out earlier. Once again the vote went to Ernestine Boudreau. Those melons and that big butt just couldn’t be beat.
First thing I knew, it was midnight, and a good many of the patrons were gone. The lights were turned down, almost ceremoniously, at the stroke of midnight. I was ready to gather myself together and head on home when they announced that the next round was a wet T-shirt competition. What was left of the crowd put up a pretty noisy sign of appreciation with cat calls and pounding on the tables. With a thought to Ernestine’s rack, I settled back into my chair.
As far as I was concerned Ernestine Boudreau won that one hands down. Ernestine came out in hot pink short shorts and black mesh stockings and spike heels. A slit up the sides of the shorts showed that the stockings were held up with a red garter belt. The white T-shirt, which had “Fuck You” emblazoned in pink across the front, was a couple of sizes too big, but once the bucket of water was slashed down Ernestine’s front and over the shoulders, it clung so tight along the contestant’s chest that the words got sucked right into the cleavage. Those hard, round melons just took my breath away. The nipples were huge, black through the opaque material of the wet T-shirt, with dusky aureoles the size of silver dollars.
One of my hands, almost too shaky to mark a box, went to the score card. The other one went to my lap. No lethargy in me now. I was pumped. And I could hardly wait to get home to do the pumping.
At the end of that round, the MC said to hold off on the voting, because the contestants were going to come out and do a walk-through in the audience. I about hyperventilated.
I really did think I was going to die on the spot when Ernestine Boudreau sat down at my table, right next to me, and gave me a really big smile.
“You all liked what you saw up there, honey? You give little ole Ernestine your votes?”
“Sure did,” I answered, my voice thick as molasses so that I could hardly speak.
“I was watchin’ you too, hon. You’re a real looker. Haven’t seen you in here before. I like what I see too.”
“Um, I think they’re calling the contestants back to the stage now.”
And indeed the MC was calling them back, saying it would be a few minutes, but that the next and last round—the topless competition—was coming right up.
The topless competition. I practically melted. I moaned. But I didn’t realize why I had moaned until it dawned on me that Ernestine had a hand underneath the surface of the table, resting on my groin and not exactly motionless.
“My, you is a big boy, ain’t you? And enjoying this show, I can tell. This because of me?”
“Yes, I think so,” I squeaked.
“And how about me? You like what you feel here?” A hand was guiding one of mine to between the thighs of those pink short shorts.
After a little involuntary yelp, I breathed a “Yes.” This was almost too much for me to take, though. I couldn’t take my eyes off the cleavage waving in front of my face.
“I . . . I think you’re being called back to the stage,” I mumbled. This had to stop or I’d shoot off right here.
“Fuck ‘em, Sweetie. I think I got my prize right here. I think you’re what I came for tonight.”
I know I mumbled something then, I just never remember what. I’m sure it was brilliant, though, because Ernestine came up with an idea then. The hand went away from my crotch, though, which was both a blessing and a tragedy.
“You ever been to Boudreau’s Books?”
“No, I haven’t. Boudreau. Is that you?”
“Yep, that’s me. I got my own bookstore. And I got books in the backroom that I bet you’ve never seen before.”
“I’m sure,” I answered. And I was sure, very sure. I’d never any thought about any of this before. I’d never imagined what a turn on it could be.
“How about we go to my bookstore for a little private reading.”
“Now?” I burbled.
“Why sure. That would be what would make it a private reading. It’s just three blocks from here.”
I’m sure I answered something witty and worldly to that too, but it’s a matter of lost history, whatever it was.
I remember being relieved it was pushing 1:00 a.m. and pitch dark for those three blocks, as Ernestine was hanging onto my arm like I might cut and run at any second and there’d been no change of clothes. The T-shirt was beginning to dry—but not enough not to draw the attention of any cop that was cruising by. Luckily, none did.
Ernestine was right. I hadn’t seen anything like the books that were on the shelves in that back room of the bookstore. I hadn’t even thought of anything like this going on—or that I’d find it a turn on. But I did.
I was standing, facing a bookshelf, and leafing through a book that had very explicit illustrations when Ernestine came around between me and the shelf, sank down in front of me, fiddled with my zipper, extracted my hard cock, and laughed a guttural laugh.
“Got me a big white boy, I do. All mine. Real sweet.”
I groaned and sighed as ruby-red lips descended over my bulb and stopped there for me to feel the pressure and hear the sucking sound—and to release a deep moan—before the lips sank down my shaft and started a slow pumping rhythm.
After several moments in gloryland, I heard the breathy instruction cut through the fog. “Now me. Over on the desk.”
The mouth was gone. After a minute of savoring the sensations I’d been awarded, I turned to find Ernestine already at the desk, that big butt resting on the edge; legs spread; stilettos flat on the floor, with well-turned ankles turned in; pink short shorts on the floor off to the side; heel of hands pressed into the desk top at either side of the slim hips; and giving me a saucy “Come hither” smile.
“On your knees. Taste what Ernestine’s got for you.”
I went down on my knees between the spread, black-mesh-stockinged thighs. I started with kissing the ebony brown flesh above the tops of the stockings, where the garters of the belt snapped on.
Ernestine groaned and gave a little sigh of appreciation. “Chocolate candy for my baby.”
The bikini panties had a crotch slit in them and I reached in and pulled Ernestine’s big, black cock out. I rubbed it, lovingly, on both cheeks and hummed low. That was the first time I realized that she had turned on sound somewhere, and there was a low-volumed, sensuous instrumental tune, with a steady beat, playing in the background. The lights had also been turned to a subtle bluish tint and were preprogrammed, I guessed, because they went through a cycle that would turn purplish and then, by the time we were finished, a virulent red.
As Ernestine obviously wanted me to do and enjoyed, I worshipped that cock before sliding it into my mouth. I’d sucked and fucked before, but never like this. Never with someone dressed as a woman—and a luscious one to boot. The thought of that made me rise from giving attention to that cock and bend over her as she arched her back and pulled the T-shirt off. My lips and teeth went to those firm, ripe melons, and I engorged on the fruit, as she sighed and growled and emitted deep rumbling noises from the gut.
Her voice was a rich baritone. The success with which she’d carried herself on stage had made that escape me, although, for the talent part, she’d sung a smoky song in a deep alto just like most of the other contestants had done.
I looked up. The wig had either been taken off or had fallen off. Ernestine’s head was covered in short, black, kinked hair. The contrast with the dangling earrings, heavy eye shadow, and ruby-red lipstick was startling. But it was striking too. It gave me that buzz of something unexpected, something new and different, arousing. Highly arousing. Overpoweringly arousing.
I went back down on my knees, and slid as much of her cock inside my mouth as I could. I couldn’t manage it all—and I had trained myself to this, to deep throating. But she was gigantic, and thick. And jet black. I shuddered at the thought of the blackness of her. I was trembling with lust, with want. I’d never known. Never known I could be turned on like this by a transvestite. Never known how I subconsciously lusted after a black cock.
“I wanna fuck you now,” Ernestine said with a low growl. “You take black cock, don’t you, baby?”
“Damn straight, I do,” I answered in a growl.
“Oh, I can keep it straight until you come, doll.”
It had taken an eternity—a glorious eternity—for me to sink down on the cock. Ernestine hadn’t moved from being perched on the edge of the desk. She had made me open the condom packet and crown her first—her assurance, she said, that I knew what was happening and wanted it. At her instruction I had mounted her, facing her, my knees on the desk on either side of her hips. Her fists were locked behind the small of my back, and my torso was arched back over empty space. The edges of the fake gems in the gaudy rings on her fingers were cutting into my back, but I didn’t care. All of my attention was elsewhere. I was relaxed everywhere but in my channel, which was strained, muscles undulating over the big, fat, buried black cock. All of my attention, sensations focused there. I hadn’t thought it possible. But it was all inside me. Deep inside. I had all of her. Hard and throbbing. My arms were dangling, useless, at my side, my head was flopped back, my eyes counting the tiles in the ceiling, and then the dots inside the tiles, although I really wasn’t thinking about anything but the cock working inside me.
My voice with a mind of its own, murmuring, “fuck, fuck, fuck, oh, god, fuck, fuck, fuck,” in a low monotone.
“Fuck yourself on it now, littl’ darlin’.” The voice low, thick with want, a rich baritone. Commanding. It be obeyed.
Using my knees for leverage, I began to pump my channel up and down on the throbbing cock. Groaning, grunting, moaning, sighing. The music was getting louder, the beat heavier, the tempo faster. I fucked to the changes in the tempo. The lights were turning a hot red.
“Yes. You’re so sweet. Sugar sweet. I’m goin’ to the beach next week. Might take you with me.”
“Yes,” I hissed.
“My friends, Sandi Sweet and Linda Lays, they’s taggin’ along too. They’s like sugar too. White sugar. You gonna let them fuck you too, sweetie?”
“Yes, oh god yes!” I cried out as we shot off together.