Dancing Queen: A British Interracial Cuckold Romance Novel

1

A nother early Friday night in bed with the wife, Mark thought as he lay facing away from Helen, one hand under his pillow, the other pulling the bed covers tightly around himself. Superficially, everything sounded great. Though in reality, their sex life had all but dried up sometime between twelve and eighteen months ago. Mark wasn't sure of the exact date and time he and his beautiful yet reclusive blonde wife had last made love, though Helen knew exactly. All of the perfunctory details had been diligently noted down in immaculately neat writing inside her diary. It had been Friday, October 9th which uncoincidentally had been another Friday. Sex, when it was to be had, was always on a Friday. Once a week at most, best not to overdo it.

Helen, approaching forty, missed the excitement of her younger years. Her body had changed, no longer the well-toned frame of her youth, she had filled out somewhat. Her pear-shaped frame all the more womanly in Mark’s eyes, yet so unattractive in her own. In her late teens and early twenties, Helen had been for all intents and purposes an entirely different person. Adventurous, daring, her parents worried she was rebellious. A string of bad boy boyfriends, it had been by some small miracle that she didn’t have at least one child in tow. Mark had always been there, in the background since their teenage years in high school. A family friend, Helen’s parents had pushed them together, hoping his more studious and sensible lifestyle would tame their defiant daughter. And by their mid twenties, it had finally worked. Worn down by her parents' constant nagging, they had finally begun dating. Helen, now a tad older, saw a stabilising influence in Mark.

From the off, their sex life had never been like she had been used too, though in many ways she held back in fear of scaring him off. Slowly, over the course of several years, she retracted into a safe and secure shell. Mark, aware of her past, though certainly not quite all the details, provided financially with everything she could want thanks to his so-far successful career in wealth management for Davis & Hawkins, a boutique asset management company the likes of which would be off-limits to all but the one percent. And so it was shortly after a promotion that meant working away in London, that Mark proposed, Helen accepted, and together they had moved away from their home town of Stockport, just south of Manchester, down to the outskirts of Birmingham in order to keep Mark’s commute more manageable. Away from her friends and family, Helen would be free to reinvent herself. Instead, now betrothed and without a circle of friends to call upon, she seemed to only recede further into her shell.

Mark stared at himself in the brass etched full-length mirror hung on the door of their en-suite. He couldn’t help feeling frustrated, noticing the ever-deepening stress fueled troughs burrowing across his forehead. Another long week had passed of London hotels, train and tube travel, followed by over-priced sandwiches eaten alone. The only thing keeping him sane midweek was their nightly video calls and the subsequent ensuing lurid fantasies that kept him occupied after they had disconnected from one another. One thought that frequently ran through his mind was of Helen being with another lover whilst he was away from home. Though Mark often tried to steer their conversations towards more risque subjects, Helen was something of an expert on shutting him down almost as quickly as he had begun. Now, as he lay only a few short inches from Helen’s warm, soft, and supple flesh, he felt certain another rebuttal was just a sentence away.

The night hadn’t gone as expected. At least, not in the mind of Mark. He had formed the cunning plan of buying an expensive bottle of red wine whilst shopping for his midweek evening meal. After returning home and unpacking his case, Mark deftly uncorked the rich French merlot and poured a large glass of the ruby red liquid into one of the two cut glass wine glasses given to them by Helen’s aunt and uncle on their wedding day over ten years ago. He’d made sure to dust them first.

Is that for you, or me? Helen enquired.

"It’s for us", replied Mark.

Oh. Helen glanced pensively at Mark, then back at the glass. You have that one. She said, matter of factly. Pour me a smaller one. In fact, no, I’ll have water. And with that, she disappeared into the kitchen to continue preparing their meal. Mark downed the contents in one, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, muttered under his breath, and poured Helen a smaller glass. If she left it, fine, but he was going to put it on the dinner table all the same. Filling his own back to the brim, he took another large mouthful, swallowing heavily. He couldn’t even taste the rich chocolatey afternotes, let alone the ripe cherries and back notes of plum the extravagant description next to the bottle on the supermarket shelf had promised him.

Just acrid bitterness.

After consuming nearly three-quarters of the bottle by himself, for Mark, the room became a tipsy spin. His hopes of lowering his wife’s inhibitions and leading her to the bedroom had failed. On the plus side, Helen had suggested they both go to bed early. Though she reasoned that Mark seemed drunk, and she confessed that she was tired. That one word enough to put the brakes on whatever ideas Mark may have been formulating whilst consuming the wine.

And so, here it was. Frustration.

Yes, Mark was tired. No doubt about it. It had been a very long week, and travel had taken it out of him, as it always did. But he needed sex. Badly. Or more specifically, he needed to orgasm.

When in his hotel room, if Mark struggled to sleep his tried and true tactic was to masturbate. Of course his phone carried a veritable treasure trove of filthy videos, and should he ever get bored of them, he had memorised the URLs of several illicit websites including the one for which he held an active paying membership subscription. Mark had explored all manner of pornographic genres, though his reliable go-to selection was what some adult sites called hot wifing or hotwives, and others called it cuckolding. This particular kink fascinated Mark. Men who liked to watch their wives, girlfriends, or significant others, with other men. In some cases, the men were fairly involved in the acts, and at the other extreme, the man was a humiliated observer. The homemade aspect thrilled Mark, knowing that these women were real — not pornstars — giving some semblance of possibility that one day, it might be his wife doing unthinkable deeds with some hung stud, ideally big and black. A man Mark and others like him referred to as a bull.

Thoughts raced through his mind. Was tonight the night that he would finally share this fantasy with his seemingly innocent and unsuspecting wife? That he wanted to see Helen with another man. Maybe even, gasp and shock horror, a black man? He could picture it now. Helen on all fours, dressed in a peephole bra, crotchless knickers, and hold-up stockings, waiting and willing to get penetrated by several long, hot inches of thick mahogany brown flesh … Mark rolled over, immediately not quite as committed as he ought to be to what he truly, deeply wanted to ask. Helen paid small attention to him, over the tops of her glasses, more in the annoyance of him disturbing the bed with his turning than wondering if her husband had anything of import to say. Mark sat up, staring down at his feet beneath the covers, then at Helen, then back to his feet. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. Helen sighed. Her pen went back to making its almost imperceptible scratching sounds as her unconcerned thoughts transformed into words on the pages of her journal.

Oh, umm, Mark flustered, realising his dick was now quickly hardening. I need the loo, he lied, as he dashed stiffly out of the room, struggling as he went to cover his erection beneath his blue striped pyjama bottoms.

Under the warm glow of her bedside light, Helen watched inquisitively as Mark skirted around their marital bed, her eyes following his straightened arms downwards, towards hands trying — albeit badly — to cover the small but growing bulge between his legs. Chuckling silently to herself as he left the room in a flushed haste, she recorded this in her diary, her beautiful handwriting noting how her husband had tried to conceal his erection from her. Writing for a few more moments, Helen finished up summarising her day’s events, clicked off the bedside light, and turned to lie on the side that would be facing away from Mark as and when he returned to bed.

It wasn’t that Helen didn’t enjoy the act of sex. Together they had shared many intimate moments, and infrequently some extremely sordid ones, too. All could be recalled, whether in brief or at length, among the pages of her meticulously kept diaries. Other lovers had entries in her earlier books. Her second serious lover may well have shocked Mark. He was not at all the type of man he may ever have imagined she would have been with. His entry was large. And very detailed. Even now, after all these years had passed, Helen felt a stirring between her legs brought on by thoughts of that tall, very dark, and equally handsome man. Such a pity Mark had run away like that. He was to miss all the fun.

Helen didn’t wait for him to come back, and had finished before his return.

Orgasms came quickly for Helen as of late. She was physically unsatisfied, but because of this, whenever she did touch herself it didn’t take much in the way of stimulation to fulfil her needs. In some ways, this contributed to Helen’s frustrations, though having deliberately pushed her sex life to the bottom of her list of priorities, she was in many ways quite pleased with the efficiency she had attained.

The last thought on Helen’s mind before she fell into a sound sleep was as to why Mark had used the main bathroom rather than their ensuite.

2

Unable to hold back the tide of debauched thoughts gushing through his overactive imagination, Mark had found his way downstairs into his home office. With his dick still hard and his pyjama bottoms pulled down sufficiently to allow his left hand to eagerly grasp at his prick, Mark expertly typed and moused with his right hand, desperately keen to load up his favourite adult website. On a whim, in a bout of midweek hotel loneliness, he’d bought a monthly subscription to a website that seemed to perfectly cater to his specific fantasies. It was all about well hung, ripped black guys having their way with young, beautiful white girls. By now Mark had his personal picks of the best guys to watch, knowing everything about them, from their names, ages, and cock shapes and sizes, to the specific scenes in which he enjoyed watching them the most.

As if on autopilot, Mark loaded up one of his sure-fire favourite videos: DeShawn Brown railing the fluffy plump curves of a lingerie-clad blonde Michelle Moana. He loved this scene in particular because Michelle looked so similar to Helen — albeit a sluttier, far more filthy version of his wife than he’d ever been able to expose before. Her beautiful bottom and soft full white thighs formed the lower half of her pear-shaped frame, her small tits with lightly browned nipples so visually inviting. Placing his around-the-ear headphones over his head, he kept his left ear free to listen for any sounds that Helen might be approaching. This seemed in many ways so counter-intuitive. Didn’t he want her to know of his fantasies? Wasn’t his ultimate ambition to see his darling wife with a hot male specimen of African American origin? Well, that would be difficult, what with being based in Birmingham, England, rather than Birmingham, Alabama, but still, a man could dream.

The revealing outfits that would adorn the girls was a big part of Mark’s arousal. If the scant dresses came off too quickly, or the lingerie was removed before things had even begun, that was usually the sign of a bad scene. However, if the lingerie was kept on, or even better, crotchless, Mark found his enjoyment increased tenfold. Kissing was another huge turn on, the more passionate and sloppy, the more Mark found himself thinking of his seemingly shy wife, having her lips parted by the snaking tongue of another lover. Roving ebony hands of one (or more) black adonis undressing a moaning, ivory-skinned harlot, revealing that first hint of her sumptuous flesh, watching how this turned her on, exposing the horny cock hungry slut that Mark — and many other men of similar tastes — had paid to see.

If he was being honest with himself, Mark found watching the girls pleasure those guys with their mouths to be among the hottest parts of any video. In many ways, he envied those girls and had on more than one occasion wished to see how well his own oral skills might fare, given the chance. One of his repeated fantasies involved a faceless, strapping black bull penetrating his hot wife, Helen, in the reverse cowgirl position. Mentally he could picture himself licking and lapping at the heavy ball sac of his wife’s thick cocked lover, face only centimetres from her well-stretched mound, his tongue caressing two hot and hairy, sweaty black balls. Rarely Mark would wonder what it would be like to be one of the black studs, with so many insatiable girls greedily giving up their bodies to be interracially filled with chocolate cock and jets of their creamy cum. Never did he imagine the girls with him as he was. They wouldn’t be interested in his paunchy white tummy, his tuft of blonde pubes, and his comparatively minuscule cock. No wonder Helen wasn’t turned on by him anymore, he thought, punishingly.

With all of his pent up frustrations coming to fore, and some rapid jogging backwards and forwards through the video to all the best shots of penetration, all it finally took was to see the bulging chocolate coloured mushroom tip of DeShawn’s mammoth appendage parting Michelle Moana’s blushing pink puffy pussy lips, and an ejaculation began that was henceforth unstoppable from that moment on.

And then suddenly, as if on perfect cue, right at the peak of his orgasmic bliss, Mark’s heart skipped a beat as what sounded like a footstep against a floorboard on the landing above. In fluster, Mark jerked himself out of his seat, desperately striving to enjoy an orgasm whilst simultaneously closing browser windows and trying not to get cum all over his keyboard. In the dying moments of his interrupted eruption, whilst balancing precariously in pyjamas bottoms that had now crumpled between his shins like cloth handcuffs, Mark found himself stood stock still. Listening. There was no noise. It had been a false alarm. Truly a perfect end to another stressful and frustrating day.

Pulling his pyjamas back up, Mark made a half hearted attempt to wipe off the sticky white goo from the desk, his hands, and his keyboard. Pressing the computer’s power button, he sent his machine to sleep, knocked off the light switch, and crept back upstairs to bed.

Their bedroom was in perfect darkness now. Helen’s lamp turned off, cutting a shadowy figure lying on her side, facing the opposite direction to a sticky but momentarily satisfied Mark. With three-quarters of a bottle of wine inside him, and the last of the interrupted endorphins still running through his body, Mark felt content. So this was life for a late 30’s guy, was it? A demanding and draining job during the week, with weekends in a sexless marriage with a pretty yet prudish wife. It wasn’t what he’d pictured for himself when he was younger. But all things considered, life could be worse. Maybe if he could land the Williams Brothers account then with the resulting bonus he could treat himself to an extra special holiday. Maybe to one of the Carribean islands, filled to the brim as they were with handsome black men who could seduce his willing white wife. And with those thoughts lulling slowly through his mind, he soon slipped off to sleep.

3

Helen held that happy home was a clean home, and whilst they employed a cleaning company who visited once a week, Helen still found time to declutter, hoover, and generally tidy up for a few hours each morning. Even on Saturdays. And so it was the following morning that Helen was dutifully cleaning up Mark’s home study, saving the noisy vacuuming until her husband was awake, she was hard at work wiping down surfaces and banishing dust from wherever it may lie.

As Mark lay sleeping off his hangover, Helen’s rubber gloved hands were dancing over his desk.

What on Earth are all these sticky, stubborn stains? Thought Helen, as she pressed her finger nails through her yellow gloves, into her cloth, scratching and scraping at the dried on crust. It was coming away, but it took some doing. And my, it was everywhere. Had he spilt some glue? Satisfied that she had cleaned the oak panelling of his desk, Helen’s eyes scanned the surface for further occurrences. Lo-and-behold, she found more. Mark’s keyboard also showed signs of similar spillage. And unable to leave such a stain once it had been spotted, Helen continued cleaning.

Suddenly, the computer made an electrical beep. Awoken from its slumber by her pressing down the keys with her