The HOA Encounter (Lisa’s POV)
by DCDave
My hands clawed at Beth’s scrawny white arms, nails digging in as I tried to shove her off me, my burgundy sundress bunched around my waist, those damn five-inch platform heels slashing the air. She snarled down at me, her teal sundress hiked up, her bony ass grinding into my chest, those ridiculous wedges kicking at my shins. We rolled across the rug in their great room, my 36DD tits bouncing free, her perky little 34Cs flapping as she twisted my hair. Roger watched, wincing like a coward, while Dave glowed, both their cocks hard as our suburban masks burned away. It was raw, ugly, and all because of that stupid fence permit I’d fought for.
Friday evening, the sun hung low, casting long shadows across our back patio. I lounged on the cushioned sectional, a glass of rosé in hand, my bare feet propped on the ottoman. Roger sprawled across from me in a wicker chair, his beer dripping condensation onto the glass-top table. The pool shimmered a few steps away, its water lapping against the tile, the spa bubbling softly beside it, steam curling into the air. The sauna’s cedar glow peeked from the corner, and our outdoor kitchen gleamed—stainless steel grill, stone countertop, a bar sink Roger swore he’d master someday. Twinkle lights draped the sitting areas, plush pillows scattered across the furniture. This yard was our heart, our escape, built from scratch over years of grind and grit.
The current fence—a four-foot split rail insufficient at stopping any more than leaves—barely marked the boundary, leaving us exposed. I’d just submitted the variance request again that afternoon, pushing for an eight-foot solid wall, and I felt a thrill of hope. “It’s a big jump, Roger,” I said, swirling my wine, my voice warm with possibility. “Four feet to eight—it’s not some little tweak. We need it. This yard’s too good to be on display for every busybody in Briarwood Estates.”
He nodded, sipping his beer, his broad frame easy in that navy polo I loved. “Think it’ll fly this time?”
“I do,” I said, leaning back, my sundress riding up my thighs, catching the breeze. “I laid it out clean—pool, spa, sauna, all ours. The grandkids should splash around without eyes on them. And those Clarksons next door? I’m tired of their peeping.”
I glanced at the split rail, where the old white couple’s house loomed just beyond. The Clarksons—gray-haired, sour-faced—were always watching, binoculars glinting or curtains twitching. I’d catch them staring when I floated in the pool, my bikini hugging my 40-inch Oakland booty, or when Roger grilled shirtless, his black skin shining. They didn’t like us—our blackness, our vibe, my package: big, firm 36DD tits, full, sexy lips, smooth complexion, and eyes that could stop a man cold. I figured they hated what they couldn’t have, and I wanted that eight-footer to shut them out for good.
Roger smirked, following my gaze. “Probably glaring at us now, mad we’re living better than they ever did.”
“Let ‘em glare,” I said, a grin tugging at my plum-glossed lips—the kind white women like Beth probably envied, even if they’d never admit it. “Won’t see a damn thing once that wall’s up. It’s not a castle—just peace.”
He chuckled, and I felt that heat—optimism, pride, a little mischief. At 47, I was still a knockout—curves that owned any room, a fire that hadn’t dimmed since our broke days with kids tugging at my hem. The house was quiet now, the yard ours, and I wanted to play. I slid off the sectional, my platform heels clicking on the stone, and sauntered to him, my 36DDs swaying free under the dress, no bra to tame them.
“Feeling frisky, huh?” he said, eyeing me as I knelt between his legs, my red nails grazing his khakis.
“Real frisky,” I purred, unzipping him slow, freeing his cock—thick, black, glorious, already stirring. I smirked, my full lips parting as I leaned in. “You still love this mouth, baby?” His nod was followed by a dry-throated “God, yes. Since the day I met you.”
I beamed, slipping between his legs, his knees spreading wide. “Well, let me remind you what this mouf can do,” I purred, intentionally going ghetto in my pronunciation and watching his balls flex and tighten as I did.
He groaned, head tipping back, as I started teasing—my tongue flicking light across the tip, tracing the veins, tasting the salt of him. I locked my eyes on his, dark and sultry, letting him see the heat in them, my fingertips dancing along his shaft, barely brushing, tormenting him. His cock jumped, twitching under my touch, and I grinned, loving the power. Then I went for it—lips wrapping tight, sliding down slow, my tongue swirling as I took him deeper, inch by inch. He grunted, hands gripping the chair, and I hummed, the vibration buzzing through him, making his hips shift.
I pulled back, teasing again, my tongue lapping at the underside, flicking fast, then slow, watching his eyes roll. My nails grazed his thighs, light and wicked, and his cock pulsed, hard as steel now. “Goddamn, Lisa,” he rasped, and I dove in—full-on sword swallowing, my throat stretching, taking him to the hilt. Spit slicked my chin, my lips stretched wide, and I bobbed, slow then fast, my tongue working overtime, curling around him, sucking hard. His glorious cock—thick, long, a masterpiece—jumped again, throbbing as I gagged just enough to make it messy, real, the way he liked it.
I played him like an instrument—eyes up, fingertips tormenting, tongue relentless—until he was panting, hands tangled in my hair. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, and I pushed harder, deep-throating him, my throat clamping tight, spit dripping onto my 36DDs as they brushed his legs.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I felt the eyes of old man Clarkson on my work. I hated his disapproval, but I reveled in it. No way was I going to let some decrepit white man slow my roll. I made sure my feet were tucked evenly under my big Black ass, and I arched my back to give him a flash of my pussy. See if your wife can match that, cracker, I thought.
And then I gave Roger my all: a drooling, spitty, deep throat worthy of PornHub. When he came, it was a flood—thick, hot ropes hitting my throat, and I swallowed every drop, gulping slow, savoring it. I pulled off with a wet pop, gasping, my lips swollen, triumphant, a queen who’d just claimed her throne.
“Best damn cock I ever tasted,” I mused aloud, wiping my mouth with a grin, still kneeling there, admiring him. “Glorious, Roger. Every inch.”
He laughed, breathless, pulling me up to straddle his lap. “You’re a menace, Lisa.”
“Damn right,” I said, sipping my wine, his taste lingering on my tongue. The Clarksons could peep all they wanted—soon, they’d be staring at a wall, and I’d still be out here, winning.
My grandmother used to say “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” Well, that night my winning was snatched away from me. Snatched by the white bitch who had been a thorn in my paw the entire time: Beth.
I had sweet talked two of the three members of the committee, leaving Beth aside as I knew she would oppose my plans. She didn’t want a yard nicer than hers, a backyard lusher than hers, and she sure as hell didn’t want a black family to have that. But I flashed some cleavage for the old white man and talked about the Biblical importance of family to the old white woman, and I was sure it was in the bag.
Tuesday night, the HOA meeting hit me like a freight train, and I walked in riding high. The clubhouse smelled of stale coffee and cheap pine air freshener, the kind that stings your nose and lingers too long. I sat tall at that chipped folding table, my burgundy blouse hugging my proud, firm Black tits, the fabric stretched tight across my nipples, already hard with the thrill of it all. My wide hips shifted as I crossed my legs, those five-inch platform heels gleaming black under the buzzing fluorescents, my red nails tapping the table’s edge. I’d sweet-talked Tom and Susan—flashed a little cleavage for that balding perv, spun a compelling Bible family story for the twitchy old ofay—and I could taste it: my eight-foot fence, my win, my yard locked away from the Clarksons’ prying cracker eyes. Roger wasn’t there, stuck late at work, but I didn’t need him. This was mine.
Beth sat across from me, all prim and smug, her teal nails clicking that damn pen like she owned the room. Her lean frame screamed Pilates and spin class, those perky 34Cs poking through her top, her green eyes glinting like she knew something I didn’t. I hated her—hated her wiry little body, her smug white face, the way she’d sneered at my fence like it was some ghetto eyesore instead of the privacy I deserved. But I was winning. I felt it in my chest, a hot rush swelling my breasts, my nipples tightening against the blouse, aching with the power of it. My pussy throbbed once, a quick pulse, and I shifted, thighs brushing together under the table, slick already from the sheer joy of sticking it to her.
I laid it out, voice smooth and steely. “I’m asking for reconsideration. It’s my property, my right—” Before I could finish, Beth cut me off, her words sharp as a slap. “Lisa, we’ve been over this. It’s unchanged, it’s excessive, and it’s a waste of time. Have you not learned anything?” Her tone dripped with condescension, and the room tilted. Tom piped up, his nasally voice agreeing—“Uh, yeah, not in line with guidelines”—and Susan nodded fast, her nervous chirp echoing Beth. “Beth’s right. We can’t keep revisiting this.”
The shift hit me like a gut punch. My win—my fucking win—slipped through my fingers, snatched by this bony white bitch and her spineless cronies. My chest heaved, my heavy boobs straining the blouse, the ache in my nipples sharpening into something raw, angry, like they could cut glass. Heat flooded me, my face burning, my big ass clenching tight on that creaky chair as fury coiled in my gut. I glared at Beth, her smug tilt of the head, those teal nails touching her chin like she was posing for a goddamn victory portrait. I wanted to lunge across that table, grab her by that auburn hair, and slap the white off her—crack my hand across her smug little mouth until her coral lips split, until she choked on her own bullshit.
The thought made me wetter. My pussy pulsed again, harder this time, slickness coating my thighs under the table, my clit swelling as I pictured it—her yelping, stumbling back in those stupid wedges, my red nails clawing her scrawny arms. My ass flexed, a tight, involuntary squeeze, and my breasts throbbed, heavy and full, the anger twisting into something feral, sexual, unstoppable. I didn’t care about the fence anymore—just her, broken under me, my thick hips pinning her down, my big lips snarling in her face. I shifted again, the chair creaking, my thighs so slick they slid against each other, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from growling. Beth caught my glare, smirked faintly, and I swear she knew—knew she’d lit a fire she couldn’t handle.
The meeting dragged on—mailbox colors, lawn schedules, meaningless crap—and I sat there, silent, seething, my body a live wire. My nipples stung, my pussy dripped, and every time Beth’s voice cut through the hum, I imagined slamming her into that rug at her house, my 40-inch hips grinding her into submission. By the time it ended, I was a mess—furious, soaked, and ready to explode.
Later that night, back home, the house was dark, the pool lights casting a soft glow through the patio doors. I paced the hardwood in our living room, barefoot, my burgundy sundress swapped for a loose tank and leggings that hugged my curves. Roger lounged on the couch, beer in hand, still in his work polo, watching me with that quiet patience of his. The air smelled of grilled steak from dinner, but my stomach was too knotted to care. I stopped, hands on my hips, my 36DDs swaying free under the tank, nipples still stiff from the meeting’s aftermath.
“She shut me down, Roger,” I snapped, my voice thick with venom. “That skinny white bitch—Beth—tanked my fence again. Had Tom and Susan eating out of her hand like trained dogs. I had it, baby—I had it—and she snatched it away like it was nothing.” My fists clenched, red nails digging into my palms, and I could feel my pulse hammering, my big ass flexing as I paced again. I didn’t tell him the rest—how my pussy had soaked through my panties at that table, how my thighs were still sticky with it, how every thought of Beth’s smug face made my clit throb. That was mine to hold, a secret fire stoking me higher.
Roger set his beer down, leaning forward, his broad shoulders tensing. “What’d she say?”
“Cut me off mid-sentence—‘It’s excessive, Lisa, a waste of time.’ Like I’m some dumb kid begging for a toy. Uppity little cracker thinks she runs the world.” My lips curled, my full, plum-glossed mouth baring teeth as I spat the words. “I wanted to slap the white off her, Roger—crack her right across that smug face, watch her stumble. Still do.” My hands twitched, imagining the sting of it, and my breasts ached again, heavy with the rage I couldn’t shake.
He raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You serious?”
“Dead serious,” I said, stepping closer, my voice dropping low. “I’d take her down, baby—yank that auburn hair, shove her flat, make her eat every word.” My ass clenched again, a tight, hot flex, and I stopped myself from saying more—how wet it made me, how I’d nearly rubbed one out in the car ride home just thinking about it. Instead, I went to go get another big glass of wine. And while I did, Roger got the bright idea to text Dave.
I walked back in to a husband with a guilty look. I wondered if he’d been looking at porn or shopping for another pistol…but then his phone dinged, and his expression changed from guilt to something much more complex.
The text thread was short: Hey Dave, got a sec? then Yeah, what’s up? and my husband’s text bubble Lisa’s pretty upset about the meeting. Beth pissed too? The photo hit as I reentered the room, wine in hand: Beth, kneeling between Dave’s legs, her teal nails digging into his thigh, his thick cock buried deep in her throat, her green eyes defiant, drool slicking her chin. A taunt, a gloat, her smug victory shoved in my face. My pussy clenched hard, a fresh flood of wet heat soaking my leggings, and my nipples stiffened to points, poking through the tank. She thought she’d won—thought she could rub it in with that sloppy, white-girl blowjob. Fuck that.
I snatched Roger’s phone, shoving him back on the couch. “Move,” I growled, yanking his khakis down, his glorious black cock springing free, thick and already half-hard. I didn’t waste time—knelt fast, my big ass swaying, and wrapped my full lips around him, taking him deep in one hungry plunge. My tongue swirled, slick and relentless, my throat opening wide as I swallowed him down, gagging just enough to make it wet, messy, real. He groaned, hands gripping the cushions, and I went harder, my red nails raking his thighs, spit drooling from my stretched lips, dripping onto my 36DDs as they bounced free under the tank.
“She thinks she’s hot shit,” I mumbled around his cock, pulling off just long enough for him to snap a photo—my dark eyes blazing into the camera, his shaft glistening with my spit, my big lips hovering an inch away, that thick strand of drool swaying. He hit send, totally picking up on my need to one up this white cxnt, then I dove back in, sucking him like a woman possessed, my throat clamping tight, my tongue lashing the underside. Beth wanted to play? I’d bury her. Roger’s grunts filled the room, his hips bucking, and I pushed deeper, my pussy dripping through the leggings, my ass clenching with every thrust of my head.
When Beth’s video came—her gagging on Dave, taunting me with that smug “You lost, Lisa”—I didn’t flinch. I grabbed his hand, brought the lens close to my face, told him to hit record, and went to work. My lips stretched wide, my throat took Roger to the hilt, spit pouring down my chin, pooling on his balls, my 36DDs swaying as I powerhoused him. Then I pulled off, gasping, stroking him fast with both hands, my red nails flashing. “I’ll kick your ass, Beth,” I snarled into the lens, my voice low, venomous, drool swinging from my huge lower lip like a pendulum. “You’re done, cracker.” He sent it, tossing the phone aside, and I finished him—sucked him dry, gulping down his thick load, four huge swallows, my eyes never leaving his as he came apart.
I collapsed beside him, panting, my tank soaked with spit and sweat, my pussy a slick mess I wouldn’t admit to. Roger caught his breath, grinning. “You’re taking this too far, babe.”
“Maybe,” I said, smirking, my voice rough. “But I fucking love it.” And I did—every wet, angry, over-the-top second of it. Beth had no idea what she’d unleashed.
Wednesday morning crept in slow, the bedroom dim with gray light seeping through the blinds. I woke tangled in the sheets, my body still buzzing from last night’s fury and that sloppy, spit-soaked showdown with Beth’s video. Roger lay beside me, his broad chest rising slow, his black skin warm against mine. I shifted, propping up on an elbow, and let my hand slide under the covers, finding his cock—thick, heavy, stirring at my touch. My fingers curled around it, stroking slow, teasing the veins as he groaned awake. My proud black tits pressed against his upper arm, my hard nipples scraping his skin, sending little jolts through me, my pussy already waking up, wet and needy.
“Morning, baby,” I murmured, my voice husky, my full lips brushing his ear. “Still thinking about last night?” My red nails grazed his shaft, and he twitched, hardening fast under my grip.
“Hard not to,” he rasped, eyes half-open, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You were a damn wildfire. That video—Jesus, Lisa.”
I smirked, stroking firmer now, feeling him swell. “She started it—gloating with that white-girl blowjob. Thought she’d bury me. Fuck that. I’d fight her, Roger—right now, in this bed if I could. Pin her scrawny ass down and make her choke on it.” My tits ached, pressed tighter against him, the heat of my anger mixing with the slickness building between my thighs.
He shifted, turning toward me, his hand brushing my hip. “You’d take her? For real?”
“Damn right,” I said, my grip tightening, pumping him slow and deliberate. “We’d set rules—no marks that show, keep it under the clothes. I’d wear my platform heels, five inches, black and steady—let her try those prissy wedges. Sundresses, nothing underneath, just skin and hate. Hair-pulling, shoving, slaps—nothing wild, but enough to break her.” My pussy clenched at the thought, a fresh drip of wet heat soaking the sheets, and I couldn’t wait anymore.
I swung a leg over him, mounting him cowgirl-style, my knees lifting off the bed, feet planting flat on the mattress. My big black ass hovered, then sank down, taking his glorious cock in one deep, hungry slide. I was drenched—slickness coating him, dripping down my thighs as I bottomed out, his thickness stretching me wide. “Fuck, yes,” I growled, my proud black tits bouncing as I started to ride, knees high, ass flexing with every thrust. My hands braced on his chest, red nails digging in, and I fucked him hard, my pussy gripping him like a vise, wet slaps filling the room.
He groaned, hands grabbing my 40-inch hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as I rode him like I needed it—because I did. Every bounce was Beth’s smug face under me, every grind was her defeat, my clit grinding against his base, sparking heat up my spine. My ass clenched, thighs trembling, and I came fast—shuddering, a sharp cry tearing from my throat as my pussy spasmed, soaking him more, a flood of wet heat drenching his balls. He wasn’t far behind—his cock pulsed, unloading thick ropes inside me, and I kept going, milking him dry, my big lips parted, panting, triumphant.
I collapsed beside him, chest heaving, my proud black tits slick with sweat against his arm. “She’s going down, Roger,” I said, voice raw. “I’ll make her eat that fucking fence.” He chuckled, breathless, and I knew he felt it too—the fire, the need, the clash coming.
Afternoon rolled in, the kitchen bathed in pale sunlight, the smell of coffee lingering from breakfast. I stood at the counter, barefoot in a loose tank and leggings, my 36DDs swaying free, nipples still stiff from the morning’s ride. Roger sat at the table, phone in hand, his navy polo rumpled from lounging. He’d texted Dave earlier, on his own—Hey, man, Lisa’s still pissed about last night. How’s Beth holding up?—and I’d walked in just as the reply buzzed through. He tilted the screen toward me, and there it was: Beth, kneeling between Dave’s legs, her teal nails on his thigh, his cock deep in her throat, drool shining, her green eyes defiant. A gloat, a slap in my face.
My pussy throbbed, a hot pulse of rage and want, and I snatched the phone from him. “That white bitch,” I hissed, my big ass clenching as I leaned against the counter. “She thinks she’s won. Look at her—smirking like some suburban queen. I’d slap that smug off her, Roger—right now.” My nipples hardened, poking through the tank, and I handed the phone back, my hands shaking.
“Ask for her number,” I said, voice low, venomous. “I wanna talk to her.” Roger raised an eyebrow but typed it out—Hey, can I get Beth’s number?—and Dave’s reply was quick: Sure, here it is. Well, here we go. Ominous, cocky, and it set my blood boiling. I grabbed my phone, fingers flying as I texted Beth, Roger hovering close, reading over my shoulder.
Lisa: You think you’re hot shit, don’t you? Shutting me down, sending that nasty pic. I’d wipe that smirk off your cracker face.
Her reply came fast, sharp, and it hit me like a spark to dry grass.
Beth: Keep dreaming, Lisa. You lost—deal with it. That fence is dead, and you’re just mad I’m better at this game.
My chest heaved, my proud black tits rising fast, the ache in them sharp as my fury spiked. She didn’t say it outright, but I felt it—the closeted racist bite, the way she sneered at “this game” like I didn’t belong in her white-bread world. I’d seen it in her pursed lips at meetings, the way she’d say “uppity” with that edge, like my blackness was some affront to her HOA kingdom. She hid it from Dave, played the perfect wife, but I knew—knew she hated my curves, my big lips, my proud black skin thriving in her perfect little Briarwood Estates.
Lisa: Better? You’re a petty white cxnt who can’t stand a Black woman winning. I’d fight you—break you over that fence you hate so much.
Roger’s eyes widened, but he nodded, feeling it too—her racism, my sensitivity, the clash that’d been simmering since we moved in. My thighs pressed together, slick again, my ass flexing as I typed, the heat of it all making me wetter.
Beth: Oh, please. You’re all talk, Lisa—no class, just noise. I’d put you down easy, keep it neat—unlike your ghetto mess.
There it was—veiled, but bare enough. “Ghetto mess.” The dog whistle blared, and my hands shook, red nails tapping the screen hard. She saw me as some loud, trashy stereotype, not a woman who’d built this life brick by brick. I hated her race right back—her pale, bony entitlement, her smug white privilege that thought it could gatekeep my peace. Roger muttered, “She’s showing it now,” and I nodded, my pussy dripping through the leggings, my clit throbbing as I fired back.
Lisa: Fight me then, cracker. No marks that show—sundresses, heels, nothing under. Hair-pulling, slaps—enough to shut your racist mouth. You win, I back your fence bullshit. I win, you drop it forever.
Her reply took a minute, but it landed like a bomb.
Beth: Deal, you loud bitch. Five-inch wedges for me, platforms for you—let’s see if you can handle it. I’ll bury you, keep it under wraps—wouldn’t want your kind embarrassing yourself too loud.
“Your kind.” The mask slipped more, and I snarled, my big lips curling, my 40-inch hips shifting as I stood straighter. She meant Black—meant me—and I wanted her blood, her tears, her defeat under my thick thighs. Roger’s hand brushed my arm, steadying me, but he saw it too—her hate, my rage, the racial line drawn in the sand.
Lisa: Bring it, white trash. I’ll grind you into that rug—make you eat every word. Tonight, your place.
Beth: Fine, jungle bunny. See you at dusk—prepare to lose.
“Jungle bunny.” My breath hitched, the slur cutting deep, and my pussy flooded, a twisted mix of fury and lust soaking me through. She’d gone there—full-on, no hiding—and I loved it, loved the excuse to unleash everything. Roger stared at the screen, jaw tight, but his cock was hard in his pants, the tension turning him on too. I tossed the phone down, my proud black tits heaving, my ass clenching, and turned to him. “She’s dead, baby. I’m taking her apart.”
He grinned, dark and wicked. “I know you will.” He texts Dave—I’ll drag her out when you’re done. I smirked, my body alive, wet, ready—Beth’s racism was her funeral, and I’d fuck her up with every ounce of my Black fire.
Evening settled over our house like a heavy cloak, the sky bruising purple as I stood in our bedroom, the air thick with the scent of my ritual. I was girding for battle, every move deliberate, a warrior prepping for war. Roger leaned against the doorway, his broad frame filling the space, navy golf shirt hugging his chest, khakis tented already as he watched me with that hungry glint in his eyes. I caught his gaze in the mirror, smirking as I stepped into my Pleasers—five-inch stripper heels, black patent leather, sky-high and shameless. I knew he loved them, the way they made my thick calves pop, my 40-inch hips sway, my big black ass a hypnotic curve with every step. I’d worn them enough to move like they were sneakers—dancing at clubs, strutting for Roger, owning every inch of my power. Tonight, they were my weapons, steady and fierce, ready to grind Beth into the dirt.
I spritzed perfume next, a heavy cloud of oud and jasmine, the kind that clings to the air and announces you before you arrive. I doused my neck, my wrists, the deep valley between my proud black tits, letting the scent settle into my skin, a battle cry in fragrance. My burgundy sundress came next, the fabric skimming my curves, hugging my 36DDs, the hem flirting mid-thigh to show off my legs. No bra, no panties—just skin, heat, and hate, like we’d agreed. I leaned into the mirror, applying my makeup with a boxer’s focus: plum gloss on my big lips, a glossy challenge to Beth’s coral smirk; smoky shadow to make my dark eyes burn; a sharp wing of liner to cut through her bullshit. My red nails gleamed, shorter than Beth’s but beveled sharp by my Black nail tech, ready to claw white skin and leave marks she’d feel for days. I was a queen armoring up—hand wraps, gloves, mouthpiece—and Beth was about to learn what a real fight felt like.
Roger stepped closer, his hands brushing my hips, his cock hard against my ass through the dress. “You look like a goddamn goddess,” he murmured, voice rough, and I grinned, turning to kiss him, my glossed lips smearing plum on his. “I’m gonna break her, baby,” I said, my pussy already wet, a slow drip starting as I pictured her under me, sobbing. “Watch me.”
The short drive to Dave and Beth’s was a march to war, exiting our polished sedan, the dusk air cool against my skin, my Pleasers clacking loud on the polished stone walkway. Their house loomed ahead, a pristine suburban castle—two stories, white siding, black shutters, the kind of place that screamed old money and HOA control. The garden was fragrant, jasmine and lavender mixing with my oud, the lawn manicured to perfection, every blade in line like Beth’s smug little life. My heels echoed with every step, a steady clack-clack-clack that rang out like a drumbeat, my 40-inch hips swaying, my 36DDs bouncing softly under the sundress. Roger walked beside me, his loafers scuffing the stone, his broad frame tense but proud, his cock still rigid in his khakis. I felt his eyes on me, felt the neighborhood watching, and I didn’t care—I was here to conquer.
Beth opened the door, her teal sundress clinging to her wiry frame, her five-inch wedges lifting her tall, her auburn hair loose and ready to be yanked. I stepped inside, the air shifting, charged with our mutual loathing. My gaze raked her over, noting every detail through the haze of my focus. Her nails were longer, teal and sharp, but mine were beveled for damage—my nail tech knew what I needed, and I’d have white skin under them before the night was done. My proud black tits ached, heavy and full, my nipples stiff like pen caps, straining the burgundy fabric. I saw Beth in the same state—her smaller 34Cs perky, her nipples poking through, but they were lesser, tiny compared to mine, her body a pale shadow of my curves.
The great room was cleared, a gray wool rug center stage, sofas pushed to the edges, a battlefield waiting. Dave stood there, gray polo and tan chinos, a mirror of Roger, his cock hard in his pants as he shook Roger’s hand. But I didn’t care about them—my eyes locked on Beth, and the world narrowed to her. She stood five feet away, her green eyes boring into mine, her coral lips set in a disdainful line, her shoulders squared with that gym-honed strength. I met her glare, my hips cocked, my Pleasers lifting me higher, my 36DDs straining the sundress, my ass a bold curve of power. My dark eyes burned, my plum lips gleaming, and the air thickened with our hate—HOA snipes, racist texts, video taunts distilled into this heavy, wordless clash. My shorter nails curled, ready to claw, my body a live wire, every muscle coiled.
I didn’t hear much of what the men said—Roger’s low murmur to her, Dave’s brush against her cheek—my focus was a laser, cutting through to Beth’s smug face, her pale skin I’d mark, her wiry frame I’d break. Then Dave’s voice cut through, sharp and final: “Ladies, settle your differences. Fight it out.”
I was so ready—my pussy drenched, my nipples throbbing, my big black ass flexing as I stepped forward, heels sinking into the rug. Beth wanted a fight? I’d give her a fucking war.
The rug felt rough under my Pleasers as I lunged at Beth, my body a coiled spring snapping free, my dark eyes blazing with hate. I didn’t think—just moved, my hands shooting for her auburn hair, fingers tangling in the loose strands. I yanked hard, a vicious tug that jerked her head back, and a thrill shot through me, my pussy clenching as I hissed, “Got you, cracker bitch.” Her gasp was music, her green eyes wide with shock, and I gloated inside—I’ve got her, this white cxnt, her precious hair in my grip. My 36DDs bounced under the burgundy sundress, nipples like pen caps scraping the fabric, my big black ass flexing as I pulled harder, my five-inch heels steady on the wool.
Beth flailed, her bony hands clawing at my arms, her longer teal nails raking my skin—hidden marks, per our rules, but they stung like hell. Then she grabbed my hair, her fingers twisting into my dark locks, yanking with a snarl. Pain seared my scalp, a white-hot burn, and I raged, my lips curling as I spat, “Fuck you, pasty slut!” My head arched back, my neck straining, but I held on, my red nails digging deeper into her hair, both of us stumbling sideways, a tangled mess of hate and fury. My sundress rode up, the hem catching on my 40-inch hips, my bare pussy slick against my thigh, the heat of the fight making me wetter, my clit throbbing with every move.
I shoved her shoulder, my thicker frame powering through, and she rocked back, her 34Cs bouncing under that teal dress, her wedges skidding an inch. I yanked her hair down, forcing her head to dip, and her grunt fueled me—I’m winning, I’m breaking this white bitch. But Beth twisted, her wiry strength surprising me, and slammed her shoulder into my chest. The air whooshed out of me, a sharp hiss escaping my plum-glossed lips, and I stumbled, my Pleasers catching the rug. She grabbed my dress at the neckline, pulling hard, the fabric stretching tight across my proud black tits, and I clawed at her hands, my beveled nails leaving red welts on her knuckles. “Get off me, you ofay whore,” I snarled, shoving her back, my ass clenching as I fought to stay upright.
We crashed together, chest-to-chest, my 36DDs flattening against her smaller tits, her hands scrabbling at my shoulders, her longer nails biting through my dress. I hooked an arm around her neck, pulling her close, her hot breath on my cheek as we spun, a clumsy, feral dance. My thighs burned, my Pleasers scraping, and I tried to trip her, my thicker hips pushing hard. She shoved back, her 34Cs pressing into me, and I hissed, “Your little white tits can’t handle me, cracker.” But she broke free, stumbling back, her coral lips parted as she sucked in air. I saw my chance—swung an open-handed slap, wild and raw, cracking across her cheek with a sharp smack. Her head snapped to the side, hair whipping, and I gloated, my pussy flooding, I marked her, fuck the rules, she’s mine.
Beth froze for a heartbeat, her hand trembling, a pink imprint blooming on her cheek—against our rules, but I didn’t care. Then her eyes flashed, and she lunged, grabbing my hair with both hands, yanking viciously. My scalp screamed, my body bending backward, and I clawed at her arms, leaving more scratches. “Don’t you dare, you uppity cow!” she spat, her voice shrill, the racial venom slicing through me. My rage boiled over, my big black tits aching as I twisted free and shoved her hard, my hands slamming into her chest. She staggered, her wedges catching, and fell to one knee, her teal dress hiking up to flash her pale ass. I pounced, grabbing her hair from behind, pulling her head back, my red nails digging in as I snarled, “Take it, you white trash cxnt!”
She thrashed, reaching up to snag my wrist, and pulled me down. We hit the rug hard, rolling once, twice, our dresses twisting, heels scraping. I landed on top, straddling her hips, my thick thighs clamping tight as I pinned her shoulders. I slapped her arm—thwack—a red welt blooming under the sleeve, safe from prying eyes, and I grinned, I’m owning her, this skinny bitch. But Beth bucked, her wiry frame surging, and flipped me off, reversing the hold. Now she straddled me, her 34Cs bouncing as she leaned down, hands pressing my wrists to the rug. I kicked, my Pleasers flailing, one catching her thigh with a dull thud—another hidden mark—and she hissed, her coral lips baring teeth.
We rolled again, my hair a wild mess, my sundress twisted halfway up my stomach, her teal dress bunched under her arms, her perky tits bouncing free. I clawed at her back, my nails dragging through fabric, while she shoved a hand into my chest, flattening my 36DDs. Pain shot through me, my nipples screaming, and I raged, “Don’t touch my big black tits, you cracker slut!” My pussy was soaked now, slickness dripping down my thighs, the frenzy of the fight driving me wild. I shoved her off, scrambling to my knees, and lunged, yanking her hair again, my nails sinking in. She cried out, and I gloated, I’ve got her again, she’s mine to break.
The rug burned my back as Beth tackled me down, her wiry frame slamming into me, my 36DDs spilling out of the burgundy sundress, dark nipples stark against the twisted fabric. She sank her long white fingers into my big black tits, twisting hard, her teal nails digging deep, red welts blooming under the dress line. “Take it, you ghetto slut!” she snarled, her voice a venomous hiss, the racial jab slicing through me. Pain seared my chest, my proud black tits screaming under her grip, and I thrashed, my Pleasers kicking, my red nails clawing at her arms, leaving hidden scratches. Tears stung my eyes, my strength ebbing as sobs mixed with gasps, my scalp still burning from her earlier hair-pulling. I raged inside, This cracker bitch, abusing my tits—fuck her! but my body was faltering, my thicker frame trembling under her relentless assault.
Beth shoved me flat, her knees sliding up my body, and I felt it—her thigh brushing my bare pussy, hot and soaked, steaming with the twisted mix of fury and arousal that had been building all night. My sundress was bunched around my waist, my 40-inch hips splayed, and there was no hiding it: I was drenched, my clit throbbing, slickness coating my thighs. Beth felt it too—her knee pressed harder, a deliberate drag across my wet heat, and her green eyes glinted with cruel triumph. “You’re fucking soaked, you Black whore,” she hissed, low enough for only me to hear, the slur cutting deep. I tried to buck her off, my ass clenching, my Pleasers scraping the rug, but my strength was gone, my body betraying me as her weight pinned me down. My pussy convulsed, a shameful pulse of lust and fear, and I realized I couldn’t stop her—she was mounting me, claiming me, and I was powerless.
Her knees slid higher, clamping onto my upper arms, pinning them to the rug with a bruising grip. My proud black tits ached under her thighs, her weight flattening them, her bare pussy hovering just above my breastbone, the heat of it radiating against my skin. I could smell her—her arousal, sharp and musky, a rival’s scent that made my stomach churn with dread. Her tight white ass pressed into my diaphragm, squeezing the air from my lungs, and my own pussy spasmed again, a mix of terror and unwanted heat as I realized I couldn’t stop this. For the first time, I saw the men—Roger on the sofa, his face twisted with distress, his cock straining in his khakis; Dave standing closer, glowing with pride, his hard-on raging in his chinos. Both of them, turned on by my defeat, and the truth hit like a blade: I was losing to an ofay, a smug white bitch who’d broken me, and they were loving it.
Beth slid further up, her thighs squeezing my chest, her pussy now inches from my face. I stared up, helpless, as her bare vagina came into view—pink, glistening, her clit swollen, her labia parted with shameless arousal. She looked down at me, her coral lips curling into a sneer, her green eyes burning with victory. “Eat my delicious white twat, you big-lipped spearchucker!” she growled, the slur a final dagger, and then she planted herself on my face, her pussy slamming down with brutal intent. Her clit pressed into my lips, her labia smearing across my chin and nose, her slickness coating me as she started to grind. What the men saw—Beth’s tight white ass flexing, swaying—was her pussy rubbing on my face, her clit dragging over my mouth, her labia sliding wet and hot across my nose, my breath stolen by her victorious cxnt.
I squealed beneath her, my voice muffled by her pussy, the taste of her sharp on my tongue, her scent filling my lungs. “I give up! I give!” I wailed, the words smothered by her grinding heat, my hands slapping the rug in surrender, my Pleasers beating the floor in a desperate tattoo of defeat. My legs splayed wide, my own pussy exposed, wet and dark, as her weight pinned me, my 36DDs heaving under her thighs, my sobs shaking my thicker frame. The grind went on, her clit rubbing harder, her labia smearing my face with her triumph, and I broke—deep in my soul, a wound that cut to my core. This ofay cxnt had bested me, a proud Black woman, and the despair was a black wave, drowning me in shame. My fire was snuffed out, my pride shattered, and as Beth’s pussy claimed me, I knew I’d never forget the taste of her victory—or the sting of my defeat.
I lay sprawled on the rug, beaten, my body a wreck, my soul shattered. Beth’s naked pussy had just smothered me, her white cxnt grinding on my face, her clit and labia smearing my lips, chin, and nose with her victorious slickness. The taste of her lingered, sharp and bitter, a reminder of my defeat. She’d called me a “big-lipped spearchucker,” a “porch monkey ass,” and I’d surrendered under her, my voice muffled by her heat, my pride crushed by this middle-aged white woman who hated me down to my Black bones. My 36DDs heaved, half-trapped in the twisted burgundy sundress, my Pleasers twitching faintly, my pussy still soaked, a shameful flood of arousal I couldn’t stop.
Beth wasn’t done. She shifted, swinging a leg over, and planted her tight white ass right on my big black tits, flattening them under her weight. The pressure was brutal, my nipples screaming, my chest aching as she settled, her teal dress bunched around her waist, her bare pussy still glistening, now pressed against my breastbone. “How’s that feel, you uppity bitch?” she taunted, her voice dripping with venom, her teal nails tapping my shoulder like I was her trophy. I whimpered, my hands limp at my sides, my 40-inch hips quivering, my pussy exposed and dripping, my defeat absolute.
Then she turned her head, her green eyes glinting with cruel triumph. “Roger, get over here,” she snapped, her tone commanding, sharp as a whip. I froze, my breath hitching, as Roger hesitated, his broad frame tense, his khakis still tented tight. But he shuffled forward, dazed, his loafers scuffing the rug, his face a mix of shame and arousal. Beth didn’t wait—she reached out, her slender white hand fishing into his pants, and pulled his glorious black cock free, thick and rigid, a match for Dave’s. I stared, pinned beneath her ass on my tits, helpless as she gripped his shaft and started stroking, slow and deliberate, her teal nails flashing against his dark skin. “Watch this, Lisa,” she said, her voice low, taunting. “Your man’s mine now too.”
Roger groaned, his head tipping back, powerless under her hand, and I watched, my heart breaking, as her white fingers milked my husband—my big buck, my love. His balls tightened, pulsing, the veins in his cock swelling, and then he erupted, a thick load bursting out, splashing across my tear-streaked face, my proud black tits, my burgundy dress. Ropes of his cum landed hot and heavy, streaking my cheeks, dripping onto my chest, soaking the fabric, white against my dark skin. Beth laughed, sharp and triumphant, smearing a streak of his mess across my cheek with her thumb. “Only load in a pussy tonight’s gonna be Dave’s,” she said, her voice a cruel sneer. “You’re done, honey.”
I sobbed, the humiliation cutting deeper than her slurs, my body trembling under her weight, Roger’s seed cooling on my skin. Roger staggered back, drained, his face a mask of shame and exhaustion, collapsing onto the sofa, unable to meet my eyes. Beth stood, wiping her hands on her dress, and nodded at Dave. “Help her out, like you promised,” she said, her tone casual, like I was trash to be hauled away. Dave grinned, stepping forward, and hauled me up by my arms, his grip rough, unyielding. I stumbled, my sundress hanging off one shoulder, my boobs still out, slick with Roger’s cum, my Pleasers dragging as he pulled me toward the door.
Then his hands roamed, crude and invasive, his white fingers groping my big black tits, squeezing their weight, pinching my sore nipples until I gasped, the pain sharp and degrading. His other hand slid lower, dipping between my thighs, two fingers shoving into my soaked pussy, pumping once, twice, his touch rough and careless. “Still wet, huh?” he muttered, his breath hot on my neck, and I shuddered, my body betraying me with a fresh flood of slickness, my clit throbbing despite the shame. I raged inside—Roger, stop him, don’t let this white bastard finger me, grope me, humiliate me more!—but Roger just sat there, slumped, his eyes averted, his cock still hard in his khakis, doing nothing as Dave violated me. My soul burned, the betrayal a fresh wound, my pride in tatters as Dave’s fingers pulled out, slick with my shame, and he gave my ass a final smack, shoving me toward the door.
Roger trailed behind, carrying my purse like a whipped dog, as we stumbled into the night, the cool air biting my cum-streaked skin. We made it to our big BMW, the sleek black car gleaming under the streetlights, a hollow symbol of the life we’d built. Roger opened the passenger door for me, his touch gentle now, his eyes pained but loving as he helped me in. I collapsed into the seat, my dress a wreck, my face and tits still glistening with his seed, my pussy aching from Dave’s crude fingering. I was humiliated, aroused, and ashamed—ashamed that I’d loved it, loved the raw degradation, the twisted heat of being broken by Beth, violated by Dave, abandoned by Roger. My body still buzzed, my clit swollen, my thighs slick, and I hated myself for it.
Roger slid into the driver’s seat, his broad frame tense, his khakis still tented—he was throbbing, I could see it, the bulge undeniable. I turned my head away, staring out the window, sobbing quietly, my chest heaving with the weight of my defeat. Then his hand brushed my thigh, a soft, tentative touch, and I shuddered, my body so wound up that the smallest contact sent me over the edge. My pussy clenched, a sharp, involuntary orgasm ripping through me, a low moan escaping my lips as I trembled, my thighs squeezing together, slickness flooding the seat beneath me.
Roger’s breath hitched, his hand freezing on my thigh, and I glanced at him, tears streaking my face. His cock throbbed harder in his pants, the sight of my shuddering release stoking his arousal, his dark eyes glinting with a mix of guilt and desire. I turned away again, my sobs quieter now, the shame and arousal a tangled knot in my chest, and we drove off into the night, the weight of my defeat—and my twisted pleasure in it—hanging heavy between us.
