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Imagine a newly married couple. The groom is a young man made good after growing up on a farm in the midwest. He’s a recent college grad with a degree in accounting. The bride is a sorority girl who majored in elementary education. They have the whole lives ahead of them.

Imagine this same couple welcomes a baby to the world 11 months later – a boy. It is 1977 and they name him John David. Two years later, the have a daughter they call Amy. The four people live in an Oklahoma town of about 12,000 people. Their home is nice and quaint with a well-manicured lawn.

Imagine that to their k**s’ life is idyllic. Their dad leaves for work early in the morning and comes home in the afternoon to play toss the ball, play games, and make them laugh. Their mom is of the stay-at-home variety. She bakes brownies from scratch, perfectly starches their clothes, and doctors their sc****s & bruises.

Imagine that Amy is diagnosed with a Wilms Tumor – one that grows in the k**ney – when she is 3 years-old and within 18 months, she is dead.

Imagine the horror, the pain, the grief, the blaming, the loss of faith felt by that same couple who, only a few years ago, had their whole lives ahead of them.

Imagine their descent into the abyss. The husband begins drinking heavily becoming a sobbing alcoholic. He still works yet earning much less than his potential. He is emotionally absent. The wife turns to the affections of other men to deal with her life. She cheats openly. Young John David misses Amy terribly. He observes his parents’ despair and becomes introverted. He reads voraciously in an effort at escapism. The house looks gray to passersby.

Imagine the family muddles through daily existence for the next nine years. The father still goes into his flailing accountancy practice daily chugging a fifth of Jim Beam to get through it all. He often passes out in the office. The wife hosts her latest suitor in the marital bed during the day. She loathes her husband, her life. John David is the perfect student getting straight ‘A’s’. He is so eager to leave home that he graduates from high school at 16 and earns a scholarship to his folks’ alma mater.

Imagine a year later the husband is tired of it all. He stammers home in the middle of the day. He sees a FedEx truck parked in the driveway. He hears wild moans coming from upstairs. The wife is in the master bedroom underneath a tall, well-built, ginger-haired delivery man. John David is away at college blissfully unaware still devoting all his time to his studies. The husband goes into the front closet and grabs the Colt Python .357 Magnum revolver with 4-inch barrel that had belonged to his father. He creeps up the steps and shoots both his wife and her amour.

Imagine the sensationalism that follows. A double murder trial with a drunken assailant. The media, the accusations. John David does his best to avoid. Swift justice in Oklahoma. The husband is found güvenilir bahis guilty, but the jury has pity on him. They know him and the life he has had. Life with no possibility of parole.

Imagine a phoenix rising. From the ashes. Reborn. Renewed. John David rallies back to life. This is an existence he has never known. He is no longer shy. He begins to interact with others and actively make friends.

Can you imagine? Can you really?

Well, that’s my life. Or, more accurately, it was. After that incident, I have never returned to my hometown. Somehow, I was able to put it all behind me. It was like that dark, desolate chapter of my life closed and I was given permission to live. It was freeing. I don’t think I ever knew what it was to be John David Snyder.

I stayed at OSU and graduated summa cum laude with a B.A. in political science. I had spent two summers as intern for a my local Congressman – once in the district and once in Washington. His chief of staff offered me a job in D.C. as an assistant. I took it.

By some grace of God, my dad maintained life insurance policies on him and my mother. I was the sole beneficiary of each. The amount I got after hear death was $100,000. I had thrown her a small funeral and still had most of it to my name. So, I set off for D.C.

I shared a crash pad with three other low men on the totem pole from various members’ offices. There was a Dartmouth grad serving an eccentric blue-haired Congresswoman from Ohio. Another roomie had finished school at Stanford and worked for a larger-than-life Texan. And I could never forget the prankster from Georgetown who answered constituent calls for a Mississippi senator – he’s a federal trial court judge now. We were a sight. We all worked such long, crazy hours having so many in one apartment was hardly an issue.

I spent a few years working my way up as most Congressional staffers do by changing offices to take higher positions. And with the frenzy felt immediately after September 11th, the number of good jobs began to really open up. I joined the staff for the majority on the House Committees on Homeland Security.

Did I mention that I lost my virginity on the night 9/11? I didn’t think I had. It’s pertinent to the story. It was a crazy day. Everything was a scramble. A haze. We had been evacuated and I was at home. I decided to walk down to a neighborhood bar. It was packed, but very quiet. Most people were sitting silently watching the news or huddled in small groups speaking in hushed tones.

I ended up sitting at a table near the back. The guy seated next to me ended up being a Deputy Assistant Secretary of something or another at Commerce. We shared a couple of pitchers of beer before ending up at his place. He told me how sexy I was. I mean I had never considered myself very attractive. I was only five-six and weighed 110 pounds. He, on the other hand, was tall, square-jawed, and lean, but in an athletic sort tipobet giriş of a way.

“We might be headed for World War Three,” he’d said.
“I know,” I lamented.
“No sense in ignoring how we both feel with total world annihilation on the horizon,” Mr. Secretary reasoned.
“I guess you’re right.”
“I know I am, beautiful. And my cock is so hard for you!”

I pulled out his rod. I’d never seen one hard closeup other than my own. It was pinkish is color with large veins running through it. It was oozing precum. I put it in my mouth unsure of what to do. He coached me. I sucked the 7-inch pecker. He sucked me too. We ate each other’s asses. He fucked me on the floor of the living room. It hurt like hell, but he tried to be gentle.

“Oh, my god,” I cried in pain.
“Relax,” he advised me. “It’ll get easier.”
“Ohhhhhhh,” I groaned.
“You have some good ass, pussyboi!”
“Thanks, baby!”
“Call me, daddy!”
“Yes, daddy!”

Turns out the goober was married with c***dren. A native Montanan who had played baseball at Oregon and been drafted by the Oakland A’s. He never played professionally. But, I was drawn to him. I became his fuck puppet. I developed a need for his cock. He gave me good sex until his wife found out about me a couple of years later.

The power hungry, social climbing pariah appeared at my door. I knew exactly who she was. I had seen her picture in his apartment. Her speech was clipped, “You’re a passing phase. Dan is going places. You need to disappear. How much is it going to take?” I protested. She was undaunted. By the end of the conversation, I was making plans to leave Washington. I was $20,000 richer and owned a little spot of land Ohio. I handed in my notice and never looked back.

I wasn’t ready to go right to work. I had some cash so I took it easy. I met a truck driver via an AOL chat room. I to accompany him around the country in his big rig. His name was Bill. He was nearing 50 and had a beefy, bristly body. His dick was six inches, but he was a great fucker. That was a fun seven months.

After Bill, I met Conroy. He was a ranch hand in Texas. Ughhhhhh. Texas. At any rate, Conroy was a handsome cowboy. Average height. Suntanned skin. Bulging biceps. I lived with him in his trailer and took care of all the womanly duties – cooking, cleaning, sex. That lasted a good little while.

I spent two years on a reservation with a Native-American guy named Gary Big Eagle. He was the same age as me. The first time that had been the case. Gary had the biggest dick I had encountered up until that time – 8 inches. He was a good lover, very domineering, and demanding. It was with him I became the more and more feminine. I stopped going by J.D. which I had done professionally. I began to refer to myself as Jana. Unfortunately, he drank heavily and I decided to call it quits when he became progressively physically abusive.

Eventually, I wound up back in Ohio living in a mobile home on my perabet property. I went to work as a program coordinator at a senior citizens’ center. I built a modular home in 2011 and settled into life. I still connected with fine men for sex. Some of the most memorable included a former quarterbacks coach at Miami, a young firefighter, and even a German business traveler.

I visited my father a couple of times during this period before he died. There’s a C.O. at that prison named Hatchett that was great in bed and built like a Clydesdale. Shaved head. Blue eyes. Puts me in the mindset of Stone Cold Steve Austin. Honestly, it was the main reason I went to see dear old dad. I even flew Hatchett out to see me once.

Up until last year, I had never had the pleasure of getting fucked by a Black man. I guess I had been avoiding it subconsciously. My piece of shit washer went out one Saturday. I decided to go to the laundromat to wash that evening; I was the only person in the building when a black 2015 Chevy Suburban pulled up. Out stepped, a large Black man with obsidian skin.

He said hello and we chatted. Derrick had a booming voice, mammoth hands, bright smile, and infectious personality. He asked questions about my background and I was curious about his. He owned this laundromat, two ready-to-eat pizza restaurants, a strip mall, and a mini storage. He was seven years older than me with a wife and three k**s.

“Wow! You’re quite accomplished,” I said with genuine admiration.
“You don’t think a Black man can be accomplished,” his brow furled.
“I didn’t mean to…”
He busted out in hearty soulful laughter. “I’m just fucking with ya!”
“Oh. Thank god!”
“Hey! Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!”
“Derrick. I…”
“Still fucking with ya,” he roared.
“You’re enjoying this too much!”
“I can’t help it.”

Then, he asked why I was in this place on a Saturday night and not out partying. I explained that as I’d gotten older I became more a homebody. He told me that people my age should still have fun. I agreed. I fretted about having no one to play with that night.

Derrick said, “What? I guess I’m not here?”
“You must not like Black men.”
“That’s not it at…”
“Well, let’s go back here in this office and see how much you like me.”

Immediately, Derrick forced me to suck his cock. It was thick and veiny. 8½ inches. It tasted salty. He fed it to me with protracted delight. “Suck it good, white boi,” he ordered. I slurped feverishly. I wanted to please him ever so much.

He bent me over the desk and stuck his manhood into my pink asspussy. The large head pushed through to open me up.

“Shit, baby! This pussy is tight,” he remarked.
“Fuck me,” I begged him.
“Damn! I love faggit ass!”
“Gimme that big Black cock, sir!”
“Yeah, baby! Give daddy that shit hole!”

Derrick banged me with gusto until he came deep inside me. It was the most serious banging I had ever gotten. Now, I belong to him. I’m a total Black cock whore.

My life has been interesting to say the least.

Imagine an eager little White sissy crossdresser turned out by a strong, overbearing Black Daddy. She’s happy to do nothing but suck his cock all day and serve his friends when instructed.

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