I must confess at the outset that I was a very naive young lady when I married at age 23. I certainly did not quite understand the ways of men and their all-powerful sex drive. I gave the gift of my precious virginity wrapped in white to my delighted husband. Wedded bliss continued as expected, then came the invitation.

The West Indian Cricket team was touring and Craig, my husband, due to his position in the job he held at that time, received an invitation to attend the cocktail party at a large hotel in the capital city. Plans were made, hotel room booked, clothes bought and all the preparations for a flash event covered. I chose my clothing with care, and with my husband's suggestions. I wasn't sure if the little black party dress was appropriate. But hubby assured me it looked fine.

'Not too short?' I asked.

'Not at all,' came the reply. 'The weather's pretty hot and we will be outside for the party,' he reasoned.

He was right, my little black party dress was light and cool and would be ideal for the evening. It was high-waisted and pleated, and as I would not be dancing was discrete enough, if a little too short. It would certainly show off my legs.

'Stockings or pantyhose?'

'Definitely the thigh highs, the black ones.'

'Really? Not too slutty?'

'Not at all,' he lied. 'Besides you will turn heads, that's for sure.'

This appealed to my female vanity. So I decided on the little black party dress, thigh high stockings and high heels with the ankle straps. I nearly drew the line when Craig suggested my black high cut panties and no bra. But he won in the end. The bodice top would be fine. At only 56kg and 5'3", there was not much of me to cover up. Besides, I reasoned, anything to deal with the oppressive December heat.

The party was very well attended, and a bit noisy. I'm not very good with noisy crowds. We had gone to our hotel room and left our stuff there and then came to the courtyard at the back of the hotel to enjoy ourselves. I found myself quite fascinated at the presence of the West Indian team. There were about 30 men in all, counting coaches, managers, support staff and reserve players. They were tall, powerful and athletically built. They were nearly twice my size and I felt like a little school girl walking around them. Then in my naive imagination I began to wonder if the rumours about black men were true. I was only 25, only been married 2 years and had only one sexual partner. Was it true? Were they all as well hung as my silly friends back in high school had suggested?

The party was well under way, the sun had set, the lights low, and I was bored. Craig had gone off to talk business with others and I was sick of wearing a fake smile and trying to make small talk when disaster struck. One of my stupid high heels caught lightly on the edge of the path and I fell forward, wrenching my ankle and banging my knee as I did so. I face-planted in the bushes to the side of the path. Hands were eagerly offered to help me up.

'I'm ok,' I insisted but one sweet man would have none of it.

'I insist,' he said in his gorgeous West Indian accent. 'Come to my room and I will get you some ice on that ankle. The sooner we get it seen to the better.'

I relented. Besides being right, he had such a lovely accent that I wanted to hear more. He took me by the arm and supported me back into the hotel and along the cool corridor to his room. I was a little self conscious, and I stole a glance up at my rescuer. He was tall and muscular, and his skin was smooth and ebony. But my mind wandered and I wondered about the rumours of the 'well-endowed black man'. I blushed at the thought but deep down I felt a twinge of lust.

His room was cool and quiet, a welcome change to the heat and noise of the reception. He sat me down on the bed and retrieved a couple of ice packs from his small freezer. Gently he took my leg and raised it onto the ottoman and applied the packs. I involuntarily flinched at the sudden cold on my ankle and knee.

I learnt that his name was Chris and that he was in the 2nd Eleven, that is, the reserve team. He wanted to make the 1st Eleven but he needed to work on his batting. But I confess to not really listening to him. I was more interested in the fact that he had gone into his bedroom to change into more casual clothes but he left the door ajar. I could see everything in his mirror in the corner. The rumours were indeed true.

This left me quite flustered and upon his return, I was transfixed at the sight of his 'casual' clothes, which were a T-shirt and a pair of tight lycra boxers that left little to the imagination. It took my breath away and I became somewhat nervous.

What was I doing here?

Should I leave?

How should I respond if he wanted to...?

He came over close to where I was sitting.

'Let's move you to a place more comfortable,' he purred. He slid his hands around my back and under my thighs and carried me to the sofa. He placed me down gently and sat next to me.

'Let's have a look at this ankle of yours,' he said, removing the ice pack. 'Good, no swelling. Let's have a look at the knee.'

He slid his hand along my leg to my knee and even that small amount of contact made my head throb with lust. He could have done or suggested anything to me at that point and I would have accepted it meekly. He left his hand on my knee and I almost involuntarily opened my legs just a little. My little black party dress had ridden up and was doing a very poor job of keeping me modest. The tops of my thigh highs could be seen along with that delicious flash of white skin above. Then it happened.

He placed his arm around my back and the other under my thighs and lifted me over onto his lap like a little girl. I felt his very hard and large cock nudging against my thigh and I melted. My head was just under his and he kissed me gently on my forehead. I panted with lust.

I shouldn't be doing this!

But it felt so good!

I must stop this now!

Oh! That hand... Those fingers...

Chris was gently kissing my cheek and lips and caressing my hair and side of face with his left hand. His right hand was slowly sliding up my stocking-clad thigh.

Oh god, he's got me! He is going to end up fucking me!

Nothing was said, no asking, no volunteering, no permissions. He was controlling me. And I had lost control of my passion. I was panting and my pussy was wet. My skin was flushed. My womb was involuntarily preparing itself for breeding. His hand slid to my panties.

'Oh!' I panted. My hips started to do little thrusts towards his fingers. It's as if my pussy had a mind of its own and was trying to entice his fingers further in. More juice flowed and my panties were now quite wet. Chris was teasing me, stroking my inner thigh. I'm very sensitive there and I knew that when he finally touched my pussy, I would probably orgasm.

I panted; I thrust my hips. Small spasms went through my womb. I started to cry gently at the emotions I was feeling. Chris stopped and looked down at me with alarm.

'Sarah, are you OK? Why are you crying?'

'It's OK, I always get like this. Please keep going.'

He smiled and kissed me. He touched my pussy through my panties. I lost control. My hips thrust against his hands, I sobbed out an orgasm of pure lust, and I squeaked with each spasm. My legs clamped around his hand, and as a crescendo, I squirted into my already damp panties. I went limp and exhausted.

I panted, 'Please, please fuck me.'

End of part 1