Save the blouse!

This mean black man has you cornered, your back pressed up against the window and your head held still by a strong grip on a handful of your honey-blonde curls. "Oh, sweet Jesus," you exhale desperately, "Please, I'm a good girl..." Your big green eyes stare down at the ebony meatpole, so dark it's nearly invisible in the unlit bus except when passing a streetlight outside, but his other hand continues to work up and down the footlong shaft while the oozing purple head points at your chin.

Then your eyes move downward and just beyond the the throbbing african fuck cannon to your impressive DD-cup rack clad in a thin pink cotton blouse, which had been a present to you from your now dear-departed German grandmother back when you were adolescent (and didn't have the big titties that made the once-demure garment now quite revealing and alluring). 'This big black bully is going to spray all over my favorite top!' you sudenly realize.

"You're going to cover me in stinky jungle juice!" you whisper disapprovingly, but could certainly be interpreted as prophesy, even an invitation. Then you frantically begin to unbutton the blouse, carefully at first but increasingly frantically as the black man grunts and his legs begin to stiffen, and you manage to pull the blouse open and just manage to pull your arms back behind your sides to expose your pale creamy skin and your impressive breasts clad in a simple white bra in time...