Interracial Erotica -
Diary of a Reformed Harlot
By Tracy Ames
Published on August 24, 2011
The True and Unabridged Diary of Lena Amelia James, Reformed Harlot.

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Diary of a Reformed Harlot
Age: Thirty-eight

Occupation: Ad exec.

Physical makeup: Five-seven. Trim. Far younger looking than my years. Shoulder length hair. Dark, haunting eyes. Skin the color of blanched wheat.

Personality: Brims with confidence. Social butterfly with very few people I consider true friends. Career driven when it counts—sloth when it doesn’t. A selfish, giving, extroverted introvert.

Misc stats: Homeowner. Financially stable. No children. Travel often. Family lives far, far away.

Relationship status: Hopelessly single and currently juggling four men.

I guess this is where I’ll begin, seems as good a place as any. And since this diary is my emotional catchall and the four men involved are the root cause of my recent dilemma, it’s perfect. I thought my life was pulled together; no responsibilities, sexually liberated, and independent. Now I’m not so sure.

Mr. Britain (Brit): Brit is my thirty year old, tragically hot and consequently equally arrogant subordinate. To his credit, his mouth doesn’t write checks his ass or professional prowess can’t cash. His first day in the office was a circus of women falling at his feet—he stepped over them, marched straight into my office and greeted me in his thick British accent with, “So, when are we going to fuck?”

I laughed it off but later that night in the parking lot he bent me over the hood of my car, ripped my panties off, and fucked the living hell out of me! Two years later, we’re still addicted to one another and no matter how hard we try to distance ourselves, we can’t.

There aren’t secrets between us—we’re not exclusive—we just can’t seem to move on and neither of us wants to do so. Not really. Before Brit, my relationship record was littered with liars and cheats. He has never lied or hurt me in any way. In fact, he’s quite reliable and unbelievably generous with his time and affection; no one takes precedence over me. I’m his queen and he’s my king.

The Innocent (TI): TI is a sweet, twenty-one year old farm boy from Oklahoma. We met at a local pub during one of my many ‘breaks’ with Brit. He landed a job as a graphic designer within days of coming to New York fresh out of college. Unlike Brit, TI took his time; he courted me.

After four months fingering me to orgasm and me swallowing his cock, we finally made love. We didn’t fuck. He made love to me body and soul—inside out—upside down—wholly and completely from top to bottom. That’s who he is; he loves me unconditionally. And since then we’ve spent many hours with him pile-driving me over a plethora of pieces of furniture.

But sex isn’t the end-all-be-all with him. He isn’t naïve but he is green. He loves me too much and sometimes I think I could love him but this causes a heavy emptiness inside because I know I’ll break his heart. I’ve tried to talk to him about our situation but it’s a little difficult to concentrate while my ankles are entwined around his neck or when I’m on all fours with my head buried in a pillow, hands clasping the headboard to stop my body from being pushed through the wall. During a mind-shattering orgasm isn’t the right time.

The only snag is, while TI is mature for his age, the pub-crawls and the mindless banter of his bubble-headed friends makes me feel like a relic, which is why I avoid socializing. Still, our bond defies all logic.

The Bishop (Bishop): Bishop is, as his alias suggests, a Catholic bishop. He’s a gorgeous forty-two year old with a doctorate in canon law from Catholic University and provides pastoral governance for the diocese. He took Holy Orders at the urging of his family but soon dove into the faith with genuine zeal. However, his zeal wavered as the numerous scandals unfolded. Still, he pressed on sans the rose colored glasses.

We met when I decided to reconnect with my faith. He took my confession then took me to his bed. Since then he spends an equal amount of time kneeling between my legs and kneeling in prayer. We never let fucking get in the way of his church duties, though.

Given that Bishop occasionally drinks and smokes, swears like a sailor when angered, and nails me to the headboard at every opportunity, I’m sure he slid into the College of Bishops when John Paul was on his last leg. But even with his backsliding ways, there’s something almost holy about him. Yeah, he’s a clergyman so of course he’s easy to talk to. That has nothing to do with it. He’s a great guy who performs his duties without the pomp and ceremony and fluff and bubbles of others. What you see is what you get. He doesn’t pretend to be perfect which endears him to everyone who meets him. A fellow bishop once suggested he was more Anglican than Catholic. To this Bishop replied, “Bite me.”

Most important and most saddening, he cares for me more than I deserve sometimes. We’ve talked about marriage but marriage isn’t a possibility unless he leaves the church, which I don’t see happening, so I’ve written him off as a potential mate. But if I’m being honest, Bishop is “the one”. He is the only man I’ve ever slept with unprotected and I’m still coming to grips with the fact that we will never be more than what we are.

Prince Charming (PC): PC is a childhood friend; my first love and my first heartbreak. He’s tall, dark and handsome, well educated, and witty. Add to this his successful marketing career and you’ve got the perfect man. Well almost perfect. Four years into our relationship, he cheated and, to add insult to injury, this affair produced a child which he ‘forgot’ to mention until the night before our wedding.

Needless to say, the wedding was off. He broke my heart. And while I’ve forgiven him and think we could have something beautiful, I’m afraid to trust him again. He understands this but that doesn’t stop him from trying. We see each other when he’s in town or I make the flight from New York to Seattle.

Professionally speaking, we’re soul mates. Personally? Well, when I’m in his arms it feels like old times, perfect. Too perfect. Perfect to the point where I begin thinking he’s holding something back. I want to trust him. It’s just tough, you know. 

We all have a story to tell. But if left in the hands of others, we become convoluted characterizations of ourselves—they tell our story as they see us. This journal will follow my journey of redemption; it will be my way of working through the issues in my love life in my attempt to find true happiness. It will be brutally honest and undiluted by my desire to paint an angelic picture of myself. I’m neither an angel nor demon; I’m Lena 24/7. Right now I’m at a loss.

Diary of a Reformed Harlot
Brit has been away in China for two months and I’ve heard from him only twice, which is fine since TI is also away, and PC is clear across the country and their absence affords me more time with Bishop. Strangely enough, the intractable problem of Bishop being an ordained Son of The Church and the constant threat of burning for all eternity in the fires of hell proves less tiresome than my other relationships. Go figure.

Bishop’s faith is tinged with common sense and an earnest desire to do away with century’s old, unscriptural dogma. None chaffs him like the question of clerical marriage. The law, born out of the church’s need to keep the papacy and its valuable assets from being inherited through powerful families, has absolutely no scriptural basis yet it stands. Bishop and other progressive thinking clerics believe this is the root of many atrocities within the church and for the decline in priestly number and if done away with will form a stronger church. Sadly, with the Nazi Pope, the dream of matrimonial bliss has never seemed so distant.

I once asked Bishop how he reconciles his doubts with his faith. He replied, “No parent is perfect. Everyone makes mistakes; this doesn’t mean you stop loving and trusting them – you simply do your own research and live as closely to your parent’s beliefs as rationally possible.” This is a logical way to look at papal infallibility. But it doesn’t keep me warm at night when he’s trotting from parish to parish getting his Holy on.

Feeling a little neglected, I entered the confessional and sat on the small, cushioned bench. Immediately I knew Bishop sat on the opposite side of the curtain-covered grill. There were no secrets between us—he knew every explicit detail of my life. We made the sign of the cross and I began. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been seven days since…”

“It has been five days.” He corrected me in his husky voice.

I rolled my eyes. “It has been five days since my last confession. I accuse myself of the following sins: Engaging in pre-marital sex, rebelliousness, and immoral thoughts.”


“A man of the cloth, Father.” I paused and gave him details of my moral sins. “He and I arranged to meet at my house where he’d cooked dinner. However, I was late and when he asked what kept me I told him I’d gotten hung up at work when in fact I’d gone to Victoria Secret and lost track of time.” I grinned when he coughed. “After dinner, he cleaned the kitchen while I curled on the sofa with a glass of wine. When he joined me, I made lewd comments about us spending too much time apart to which he knelt and replied he’d make up for lost time—he then lifted my skirt, removed my panties, pulled me to the edge of the cushions, and spread my legs. He asked me to play with my clit while he licked my pussy and I obeyed.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes. I always enjoy it. I didn’t want him to stop.” I looked towards the curtain and spoke quietly. “He fingered me to orgasm twice …”

“You came three times on his fingers and once on his tongue. You were soaking wet, remember? You licked it off his fingers?”

“I licked it off his fingers and his cock after he took me to bed and fucked me.” I gripped the cushion beneath me, closed my eyes and imagined his growing arousal as I recounted the details of our last night together. “On my knees,” I continued. “I did the most unspeakable things with my mouth.”

“I can’t absolve your sins unless you tell me.” His authoritative tone was inked with a trace of longing. He never touched himself in the confessional; even for him this crossed a line, but our chats always inspired a nightly visit of ‘penitence’. “What did you do with your mouth?”

“As I was about to cum, he withdrew from my pussy, pulled me to the floor and forced my mouth around his cock. He twisted my hair in his fist and thrust frantically, hitting the back of my throat and the roof of my mouth while calling me his bitch.”

“Are you his bitch?”

“Always, Father.” The tingling between my thighs was on razors edge. “I sucked as his thrust—he thrust and thrust, I screamed and held my mouth firmly on his cock, and he came in my throat. Then, still hard, he pulled out and asked if I liked it. I lied and told him no. He then tossed me on the bed flat on my stomach.” I paused for affect. “He fucked me from behind and spanked me until I collapsed with orgasm, Father.”

“You lied.” Bishop sighed and lapsed into silence. “Did you deserve the spanking?”

“Yes. I loved it, actually.”

“And these immoral thoughts. Are they of the same man?”

“Yes. I can’t stop thinking about him.” I placed my hand on the small ledge of the divider, my fingertips peeked through the grill. “It’s not the sex. I miss him.”

His fingers touched mine. “He misses you.”

We sat silently for a while, our fingers played softly with each other as the honesty and hopelessness of our declaration hung between us. Truth is we do miss one another when we’re apart for stretches of time. Above all else we’re friends and not seeing each other drives us ape shit. Our situation is hopeless at best and depressing at worse. I feel it every time his skin leaves mine.

“Ten Hail Marys.” His withdrew his hand and made the sign of the cross as he said with a little pain in his voice, “I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Go in peace.”

I made the sign of the cross. “Thanks be to God.” We exited the confessional; the church was empty. He called my name but I couldn’t look at him. Seeing him in clerical dress, today a black cassock with a violet sash and matching skullcap saddens me. He called out to me again; this time he gripped my wrist and turned me to him and planted a deep kiss on my lips. I melted.

“Don’t leave.” His whisper echoed off the stone walls.

Woefully, I tugged on his sash; a clear indicator he’d prefer that one of his priests performed evening vespers. “You’re on tonight?”

“Yeah,” he mouthed and my heart sank. “Go home and relax. Give me an hour. I’ll cook dinner and we’ll talk.” His eyes dripped optimism.

I smiled despite myself. He kissed me again before the alarm on his iPhone chimed. He looked at the clock mounted on the wall behind me.

“I have to go. I’ll see you later.” Another kiss and he walked towards the altar.

“Hey, I never agreed!” I barked.

“You can’t deny me,” He shouted, walking backwards with his arms outstretched and his beautiful smile beaming, “I’m a successor of the Apostles and one of JC’s representatives on Earth, baby! Woohoo!!” He gave some long forgotten saint a high-five before disappearing into one of the side galleries.

“He’s so going to hell.” I told myself as I left. I hate sharing him. No matter how many hours a gal spends in the gym, it’s kinda difficult to compete with the Omnipotence of God. I know. I get it I used to say; now Bishop says it more often. He has to live with the knowledge that he’s not the only man in my life and to his credit he doesn’t see me any differently. Sometimes I wish our relationship was strictly sexual and sometimes I wish we had the courage to speak those three little words and go hell for leather. We don’t. We bite our tongues lest we inflict undue pain on one another.

He came over later last night and made dinner as promised. We had our weekly “We can’t be … you know, together” chat which at this point felt as if we were spewing doctrine, trying to convince and remind ourselves why we can’t be rather than meaning what we were saying. Honestly, without my carrousel of men, the outdated dogma of the Catholic church, and the all seeing eye of the Almighty, we’re in a relationship.

We made love into the early morning, and spent a few hours discussing us before he had to leave. His grief over leaving me and racing off to his office is always etched on his face. I put him at ease by throwing myself in his arms and kissing him passionately. We laid in silence for a while, and then he asked if I had dinner plans. He looked so disappointed when I replied yes.

“I have to go.” He shifted from under my weight and tried to rise but I held his wrist and pulled him back beside me. He guessed the meaning of my wicked smile. I slid down his body. “Lena, we don’t have … oh shit.” He settled back and watched breathlessly as I rubbed my lips over the head of his semi- hard cock, occasionally parting my mouth with it, licking it tentatively with my tongue. “Suck it.” He moved my hair to one side. His hips moved gently under me.

“No.” I licked his spot, making his knees jump. He loves being teased more than he loves fucking my face, which is quite a lot. I pressed my mouth directly over the head of his cock, giving it a slow full-lipped kiss, my lips wrapped around his bulbous head, prolonging his agony by licking and releasing him without warning; each time he tried to inch deeper into my mouth to no avail.

“I hate when you do this.” He grumbled.

“Really?” I mumbled. He stared down at me with neurotic fascination as his cock incrementally entered my mouth.

His head flopped back. “No, I love it.”

I looked up at him, stroking and sucking his shaft until it glistened. I stopped sucking and stroked rapidly, his head danced on my lips.

“Lena. Shit,” he said, “You’re going to make me cum if you do that.”

I stopped. “No, I’m won’t. You’ll cum when I tell you to.” I held just the tip of his cock in my mouth and sucked quietly and imagined his orgasm receding into his groin. And then in one swift move, I took him completely in my mouth, cupped his balls, and sucked like a woman possessed. In and out, my mouth around him, my hand just below—up and down in tandem I worked my hand and my mouth. I felt his orgasm ripple up from his toes.

“I’m gonna cum,” He gripped my sheets. “Can I cum?” Again he was disappointed when I told him no.

His swelling orgasm faded as my tongue idly toyed with his head before I swallowed him whole. Down my throat he fell, my tongue lapped his balls—my mouth danced up and down, up and down, rhythmically his cock fucked in and out of my pre-cum slick throat. My clit dripped and pulsed.

“Baby,” He sat up and took my face in his hands. His stomach muscles were tense, his hips fucked ceiling ward. “Let me come.”

“Not yet.” I pushed him down, and crawled up his body. Positioned with the tip of his cock in my pussy and my left hand between my legs, I kissed him deeply. Eyes locked, my middle finger incessantly diddled my clit. “Fuck, you’re cumming on my head.” He loved color commenting on my impending orgasms as if I needed the boost of morale. “Play with your clit and cum for me.”

I groaned his name into his mouth as I came. I knew his orgasm would be on my heels so I released his cock which naturally sent him into a stream of expletives ending with him demanding to be fucked.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” I mewed, indifferent to his plea and returned his tip just between my pussy lips. “I’m going to ride you very, very slowly.” I tensed and released my muscles with him barely inside my shallows, humping it while rubbing my clit and looking in his eyes.

“I can feel you.” he whimpered, a look of euphoria on his face. “Don’t stop.” His hands rested quietly on my hips. My pussy massaged the cum-kissed head of his cock. He was so beautiful laying there at my mercy, damn close to begging to cum. Delicately and infinitesimally slow, I slid my pussy down over his shaft—so slowly, I felt him begin to convulse, and each time I did, I took him deeper until he rested entirely inside me. I rocked back and forth, my finger on my clit, my eyes locked with his. “You’re not going to come. But I am.” I said into his eyes. “I’m going to use your cock to make myself cum. Lay there. Don’t move. Don’t take your eyes off of me. Don’t cum.”

I fucked him voraciously. I slid and rubbed and pushed and pulled my hips forward and back. The rhythm of my hips seemed to come from somewhere outside of myself-I was neither in nor out of control—Bishop, on the other hand, was enslaved by it; my orgasmic pussy was literally drilling the cum from his balls and still he resisted albeit with great openmouthed pain.

“Cum now.” I nodded.

He took my hips in his hands and thrust into me, bouncing my open pussy on his cock like a rag doll. My finger played with my clit as best it could but, shit, I was about to pass the hell out.

“Fuck!” His finger dug into my flanks and with one swift move, I was on my back with my legs over his shoulders being fucked senseless. He thrashed and thrashed—and my headboard crashed and crashed into the wall as his cum filled my belly leaving him spent. I love the way his body contracts when he cums, as if whatever orifice he’s pillaging at the time is the Promise Land.

He looked at the clock and sighed. It was six-thirty. He had an hour. We lay in each other’s arms and, again, briefly discussed our relationship. Having repeated ourselves countless times, he climbed on top of me, ignoring my warning about the time. He chuckled and penetrated me.

“Oh my God.” I closed my eyes and moaned as he filled me. I lifted my pelvis to meet his rolling strokes. As if my groans and moans weren’t a testament of his all powerful dominion over my pussy, he ordered me to say it…hell, I shouted it!

“Say it,” he ordered.


With one hand gripping my ass, pulling me to him, and the other with a firm hold behind my head, he has his way with me. We clung to one another well after we came. Finally, he showered and kissed my forehead before leaving.

I was having dinner with our new clients when he called earlier sounding a bit distracted, as if something was weighing on him. I’ve called him twice since I’ve been home-both calls went to his voicemail. Who knows what’s going on. I’m not a mind reader.