I clicked on the Submit button, yet again. I'd written and rewritten my relationship listing so many times; I was tired of reading it. Yet, I held out hope that there would be someone out there that wanted the same kind of unusual relationship I wanted.

The day after I posed my relationship listing on Craigslist, I got two quick responses. Usually, these were people trolling for email addresses. I responded to both emails, on the off chance that they were serious replies. They weren't.

I forgot about the listing until a response came a couple of weeks later. The message was short and to the point:

I saw your listing. It sounds like the kind of relationship I want to experience. Send me a picture and your number.

Whitney

The email came from an .edu address, which was unusual. I replied, hoping it wasn't another troll. I'd sent my picture a few times in response, only to not hear from the woman again. I guess they didn't notice in the listing where I put my age, 47.

I was pleasantly surprised to come home from work one day, and find this message in my email.

I've been thinking about what you wrote in your listing. I'm pretty sure we would be compatible in the bedroom. I would like to meet you and see if we have other mutual interests. My phone number is 555-8503.

Whitney

I called Whitney, and we talked on the phone for about an hour. Her voice was pleasant, and the call consisted mostly of her asking me questions about my life, my experiences, and to fill in some of the details about my Craigslist listing. I was happy that someone who sounded interesting had responded to my listing. Her background didn't matter to me as much.

I asked her to meet me for dinner Friday night, and she agreed. Since she knew what I looked like, she agreed to wait for me in front of Fortunado's, an Italian place a few miles from my townhouse.

I didn't think too much about my date the rest of the week. Sure, I was happy, but I'd had so many disappointments before. I figured that I'd have a nice time talking with Whitney over dinner, and that would be it.

I was pleasantly surprised when Whitney introduced herself in front of Fortunado's. She was a young, pretty, black woman. Her hair was kinky, but her demeanor was calm.

"Hi, I'm Whitney. Are you surprised that I'm black?"

I smiled. "I'm more surprised at how young and pretty you are."

Whitney smiled, and said, "Thank you." I followed her into the restaurant. We sat down, and the waitress came to take our order.

I ordered first. "I'll have the Shrimp Fra Diavolo."

"Ooh, that sounds spicy. I'll have the Scallops Alla Sambuca."

After the waitress left, I asked Whitney, "So, tell me about yourself. You already know a lot about me."

Whitney smiled. "I'm a college student at Spelman College. I work at Hooters to pay for college. I want to be a novelist."

I smiled, imagining Whitney wearing a Hooters top. "Oh, what do you want to write about?"

"It's complicated." Whitney took a sip of her water. "I want to write a novel about a black man growing up in a poor neighborhood that succeeds in spite of the odds against him."

"Oh, a fantasy," I quipped.

Whitney gave me a dirty look, and suddenly looked sad.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"I've been studying the black community for a couple of years, and you're right, it is a fantasy for most black men."

"A couple of years? Didn't you grow up in the black community?"

Whitney took a sip of her water. "No, I didn't. I grew up in a middle-class area of Durham, North Carolina. I was the only black in my elementary and middle school. My first exposure to the black community is when I moved to Atlanta to attend Spelman."

"Oh." I took a drink of my water. "So what keeps black men from succeeding?"

"Well, the community has poor role models, for one thing. The drug dealer is the most respected man, but not everyone can be a drug dealer. Black men grow up in fatherless homes. Who's supposed to teach these boys how to be men, the mothers?"

"Those are good points. What about the effect of government programs?"

Whitney didn't miss a beat. "You're right. Most girls know that when they're 16 and they get pregnant, the government will set them up in their own apartment. Other women try to tell them that a baby is a huge responsibility, but they say they want someone to love them unconditionally. They should get a dog."

I laughed.

"And another thing," Whitney continued, "Black mothers treat their kids rougher than middle-class women. It isn't just the economic difference; it's an attitude difference. It seems like black mothers have less patience."

"Could that be because of the age difference?"

"What do you mean?"

"Inner-city women are younger and less mature when they have children, on average."

Whitney thought for a moment. "You're right. On the other hand, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers are around to guide inner-city kids. So I'm not sure how that balances out."

The waitress brought our dinners. Whitney took a sample of my Shrimp Fra Diavolo, and made a face.

"Ooh, that is spicy. Would you like to try my Scallops Alla Sambuca?"

I smiled. "No, that's ok."

We quietly ate our dinner. I thought about Whitney's novel, and what she was trying to accomplish. I wondered if I could write a novel about something as foreign to my experience. It would be hard, but maybe I could write a short story about something I hadn't actually experienced.

We talked for another hour or so after we finished eating. I'm not going to bore you with the rest of the conversation. I'm sure you're wondering if I'll ever get to the sex part of the story. Don't worry; we're almost there.

After I paid the check, I walked out of Fortunado's with Whitney. I was wondering how this date would end, when she asked, "Would you like to come to my place?"

"Sure," I grinned.

Whitney wagged her finger in my face. "No funny stuff. We're just going to talk."

"Yes, ma'am," I replied.

Whitney giggled. "Good. Follow me. I live a couple of miles from here."

Great, I thought. We only live a few miles apart. I was happy as I followed Whitney in my car to her apartment. It wasn't the nicest part of Atlanta, but it was only a mile from Spelman.

Whitney led me inside to her apartment. The living room was empty, except for a sofa against the back wall. Using a commanding voice that surprised me, she ordered, "Sit down."

I sat down on the sofa and watched Whitney leave the room. She returned in a couple of minutes with a length of cotton rope in her hand. "Stand up, turn around, and put your hands behind your back," she commanded.

I was wondering what I gotten myself into, but I stood up and put my hands behind my back. Whitney took my wrists and tied them together tightly. I was impressed by how quickly she'd bound my wrists. She obviously had some experience with rope.

Whitney pushed me down on the sofa. She left the room for a moment, and returned with a cigarette and lighter.

"Yes, I smoke. Your listing said you had a preference for a smoker."

"Yes," I replied.

Whitney lit her cigarette and took a puff. "So, why do you want a relationship with a smoker. Most non-smokers don't want anything to do with a smoker."

I cleared my throat. "I have a smoking fetish."

Whitney laughed. "Why am I not surprised? Go on."

"I like to watch topless and naked women smoke. It arouses me."

Whitney had a surprised look on her face. "Really? I'd never heard that before." She put her cigarette in an ashtray, and whipped off her blouse and bra. She picked up the cigarette and took a puff. "So, what do you think?"

I'd seen several women smoke topless or naked before, but this was the first time I'd seen a black woman smoke topless. The contrast between her ebony skin and the white cigarette was interesting. Her breasts were even more amazing. They were large, pert, torpedoes. It looked like she could poke my eyes with her stiffening nipples.

Whitney smiled. She put the cigarette down again, and took off her jeans and panties. I could see that she kept her pussy area neatly trimmed. I was a little surprised. Most young women shave their pussies. It took me a minute to realize that she would probably have ingrown hair if she shaved.

Whitney picked up her cigarette and took a puff. She looked at my crotch and smiled. "Yep, watching a naked woman smoke arouses you. So, are you interested in having a relationship with me?"

I grinned. "Yes, very much so."

Whitney finished her cigarette and put it out. She straddled me, with her breasts right in front of my face. It was difficult to pay attention to what she was saying.

"Since you're so much older, this relationship will be on my terms. I will be your Goddess and you will be my pleasure toy.

"You and I will never fuck. You will wear a cock cage when you're with me. You will eat my pussy whenever I want for as long as I want. I will masturbate you when I choose, and I will decide if you cum or not.

"I will have as many other sexual partners as I want.

"You may not touch me without my permission. You will sleep on the floor by the bed, and you may not get into my bed without my permission.

I enjoy a man fondling my breasts and licking my nipples. You will have to earn these privileges. For each orgasm you help me have, you will earn 2 seconds of breast fondling time, which you can accumulate. When I want to, I will tie you to a chair, straddle you, and let you lick my nipples while I blow cigarette smoke in your face. You may kiss me only when I'm smoking.

"Do you have any questions?"

I sat stunned, absorbing everything Whitney said. I was surprised and happy. It was obvious that she'd given a lot of thought to my listing, and was prepared to do what I wanted. Well, except the sleeping on the floor part. That wasn't in my fantasy, but if that was the only additional thing she wanted, I could live with that.

"No," I stammered.

Whitney smiled. "Good. Now kiss me."

Whitney straddled me and kissed me. I could taste the cigarette smoke in her mouth. Smiling, she lit another cigarette and blew the smoke I my face.

"Lick my nipples," she commanded.

I licked her nipples while she smoked and blew smoke in my face. I was very happy that this young pretty woman took such an interest in my fantasy. I assumed it was her fantasy too, although I hadn't asked her.

After Whitney finished her cigarette, she got off me and sat on the floor. She played with herself in front of me while I watched. After she came, she smiled at me. She put her clothes back on, and untied me. As she was walking me to the door, she smiled and said, "Call me."

I called her later that week. We talked, and she invited me to spend Friday night and Saturday at her place. I agreed, and looked forward to our time together.

When I arrived at Whitney's apartment Friday night, she answered the door naked, smoking a cigarette. We kissed, and she showed me her bedroom. The only furniture in the bedroom was a double bed and a nightstand. There was a throw rug on the floor beside the bed. I understood now why I would sleep on the floor.

I gave Whitney my cock cage, and she watched me undress. After I was naked, she locked the cock cage on me.

Whitney took a piece of cotton rope and tied my wrists behind my back. She put a pillow on the floor by the end of the bed, and helped me to kneel down. She got into the bed, her legs dangling off the end of the bed, her pussy right in front of me.

I moved to lick her pussy. Whitney put her hand over her pussy. "Not now," she explained. "We're going to discuss my novel."

We talked about Whitney's novel, and the research she was doing to make it more realistic. I was enjoying the conversation, when all of a sudden she grabbed my hair and pulled my face into her pussy.

Whitney was already wet. I licked around her pussy, when I heard her say, "My clit." I nibbled on her clit, and I heard her moan. I alternated between licking and nibbling, and kept at it until I felt her body tremble. She pulled my face out of her pussy by my hair, and I could see her with her eyes closed, smiling, still shivering.

I was pleasantly surprised that her scent wasn't overpowering. I was concerned, since black women generally have a stronger scent than white women, and I wanted to please Whitney and not gag. I assumed that her clit was sensitive after an orgasm, and she would need a break before I could resume eating her pussy.

We continued our conversation about Whitney's novel. She gave me one more opportunity to eat her pussy and help her have an orgasm before it was time to go to sleep. Sleeping on the floor wasn't so bad. Whitney untied my wrists, and gave me a pillow and a couple of blankets to lie on.

Saturday was more of the same. We spent the entire morning after breakfast in Whitney's bedroom. Whitney stayed naked, lying on her bed with her legs hanging off the end of bed. I knelt on a pillow on the floor, with my wrists tied behind my back. We would discuss her novel, and when she felt like it, she would grab my head and pull it into her pussy. After I ate her to an orgasm, she would let my head go, and we would continue our conversation like nothing happened.

Whitney untied me for lunch. After lunch we went back into the bedroom for more of the same discussion and pussy eating. I never touched her, except for my mouth, and she never touched me, except for my head, the whole day.

When it was time for me to leave, Whitney reminded me that I'd earned 16 seconds of breast fondling time. She unlocked the cock cage, I got dressed, we kissed, and I left.

The next Friday and Saturday was more of the same. Whitney asked me to massage her Saturday morning before she had me kneel at the foot of her bed. After lunch, she surprised me again by masturbating me. She tied a rope to the four legs of her bed, and tied me spread eagle on the bed. After unlocking my cock cage, she poured some baby oil in her palm and stroked me. I was wondering what she would do, and sure enough, she stopped stroking when I was near an orgasm.

Whitney waited for me to get soft before she resumed stroking. She brought me to the edge of orgasm twice more, stopping before I came. She locked me back in the cock cage. Right after depriving me of an orgasm, she had me eat her to one. My cock was throbbing inside of the cock cage the whole time, which was frustrating.

I saw Whitney regularly on Friday and Saturday. It took a month of weekend visits before I accumulated 62 seconds of breast fondling time and decided I had enough time to cash in.

Now, Whitney had commanded me to give her several back and leg massages. But this would be the first time in our relationship that I touched her breasts. I sat down on her bed with my back against the wall. Hoping the bed wouldn't move, she sat on the bed in front of me, her back against my chest. She set a kitchen timer, and put it on the bed.

"You may fondle my tits now," she cooed.

I reached around and squeezed. I was surprised at how soft they were. I'd half expected that she'd had breast enhancements; they were that perky. After squeezing for a moment, I played with her nipples. They stiffened to my touch. She closed her eyes and purred while I played with her nipples.

I knew Whitney's nipples were sensitive. She'd tied my hands behind my back a few times, and had me lick her nipples while she blew cigarette smoke in my face. After a cigarette or two, she would sit on the floor and play with herself in front of me.

But this was the first time I actually felt her nipples with my fingers. I caressed her nipples and her breasts until I heard the timer ring. Reluctantly, I took my hands off her breasts. The memory would have to do for another month.

Lately, I've been thinking about Whitney and I moving in together. While it would be great to spend more time together, my townhouse is too far from the college, and she doesn't feel I'd be comfortable moving into her apartment. I suspect she fucks other guys during the week, and it's nice that she doesn't want to rub my face in it.

In the meantime, I'm enjoying my weekends with Whitney as her pleasure toy. I never would have thought an interracial relationship could be so enjoyable. I hope this relationship lasts for a long time.