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Dying For His Big Black Cock free porn video
I understood, of course, I did. I was just one of Marcus's bitches. He owns so many other wives and a few are casual conquests too. That leaned a certain humility to proceedings. I had to beg for cock. Marcus has so much pussy on offer he can pick and choose. That affected how I then treated Paul, my husband. If I was getting enough of Marcus's thick meat between my legs, then I was reasonably sweet with my husband. If I wasn't getting it, well, then Paul suffered. My husband is stoical, long-suffering. I have been owned by Marcus for nearly two years. I've been at that place, consumed by envy because Marcus gave another married bitch a baby. It's very hard being married to a woman crazed on black cock.
Trying to describe the dynamic is difficult. For Paul, forever and always it seemed to be a waiting game. From the start, he'd thought it kind of sexy that I took a lover. It was even raunchy that that was a big black guy. The way Marcus dominated me though, the way I thought, acted and dressed then, that was less welcome. Paul lost control and quickly after that dignity too. My craving for Marcus's attention was so all-consuming that it shaped everything else. If Marcus was around then Paul was suddenly nothing, a nuisance, a toy sometimes. If Marcus wasn't around then for a time Paul's stature rose a little. He was sweet, tolerant, generous, broad-minded, he was 'nice'. But living with a wife who was owned, who really spent much of the day wanting black cock, was humiliating. I would stare at handsome black guys when we were out. I would constantly check my phone for messages from Marcus. When they came, I would drop everything to be with him. When they didn't arrive I was tetchy.
One of the things that changes in this dynamic is that you dress constantly as though you are needing a quick fuck. You dress available to the black man. It's a necessity, in case your man calls and he wants you over there immediately. The need to have his cock inside you is relentless. I'm a businesswoman and in my thirties. I'm not a silly wench in her early twenties. I used to dress in business attire. Now, I dress in the tightest and shortest skirts, often with exposed zips for easy access. I look like an upmarket slut for that is what I have become. The need for Marcus's cock is all-consuming. Dressing that provocatively has consequences, of course it does! There are other black guys, young bucks who come up to you in bars and other public places. They kiss you, feel you languidly, their fingers sliding up beneath your skirt to touch your cunt. Their big hands travel your breasts like casual tourists and they kiss you, open-mouthed like they have been in your bed dozens of times. Paul waits, humbly, at a distance, staying
Sweet Paul, dear Paul, he tries to console then and I let him. He kneels before me and I direct him to my sex. I stroke his hair whilst he licks delicately at my cunt. He's never allowed to fuck me. I'm stretched out, taken, occupied, even in the fallow times whilst I wait for my lover. I am always wanting, always needy so that every lick of my husband's supplicant tongue is but a memory trigger for what Marcus does with me. Every kiss and every caress down there is a submission, to my status, my ascendency over him. A young black dude in a bar has been feeling me up, I am dripping wet. Paul has come to me in the dark corridor and started his patient and humble ministrations.
'Just fucking lick it will you! Worship it!' I demand. I am grinding my sex against Paul's face, rubbing my juices all over his nose and lips. I take hold of his head and wipe myself across his face like he is a rag.
I'm quite petite and slim, Paul is big and gentle. But he is nothing, nothing because all I want is Marcus's cock. So I humiliate my husband. Sometimes, after I have climaxed on his face I have him remain kneeling there. I pee into his open mouth. That is how it is and it shocks me still.
The other week Marcus called. I was thrilled to hear his voice on the phone. There was no complaint, no mulish sulking because he hadn't contacted me in a week. I zinged inside, my head whirring with excitement.
'Hi darling, how are things?! I'm so pleased you called!'
Paul listens. It is a critical moment. If he interrupts now, if he breaks my concentration, if he distracts me I will slap is face redraw. So he watches and waits as the tableaux of sex and master cock is played out once again. He watches me light up. It is as if I have had super-powered batteries fitted. I didn't realize it, but when Marcus calls like that, I u*********sly stroke my hair, run a hand over my nipples until they stand out proud. My husband watches me sensualize.
Marcus is going to a theatre opening night. He wants me there, his cultured bitch on his arm. I am so made up. I have spent subtle time assessing my opposition. I'm not his youngest bitch but I am well educated and cultured. I am ideal for this kind of evening. His friends Ambrose and Wesley are going to be there too so he expects me to 'party' afterward. I am going to be passed around, fucked over and over by the three of them and I am so grateful, so excited that I can barely sit still. Paul has no say in this. Marcus doesn't even ask about my husband. I am simply to be used, fucked, taken, played with and it thrills me. If I 'fuck real nice' (one of Marcus's favorite phrases) then I am going to get a lot more cock. 'You like that kinda thing bitch?' Marcus asks. Well, you guess, you tell me! Marcus says that after the theatre he will have us all drop by our place. I know what he means. He wants the guys to see how much control he has. He wants them to see how bitch comes to cock whilst the husband sits meekly in the corner of the room.
After the call has ended, I am transformed. I am the haughtiest, cruelest cow you can possibly imagine. Instead of being tetchy I am arrogant. Paul stares at me. He cannot quite believe just how easily Marcus can switch me on that way! I know that it awes him, that it makes him feel incredibly small. No matter how charming, or romantic, or funny he is, he can't make me light up like Marcus does. My black bull plugs me in at the cunt, that is the difference. The charge goes up me and I am made new.
be a new one. I have to have a new basque and expensive stockings. Then there is a new choker to go about my throat and another luxury watch to add that cultured bitch cache to my looks. I am desperate. I want Marcus to move in. I want to dominate Paul so much for him so that the dynamic becomes an endless sensual playtime for him. I will do anything with or to my husband, just to have the big man's love, his cock, all of the time. At first, for a while, I knew that this was unhinging me. Marcus mesmerized me in that way black men do mesmerize white women. But I stopped fighting it. I stopped pretending that I wouldn't whore for him, commit the most depraved and wanton acts. I was completely hooked on his cock and what it did to me.
We toured the shops and by the time that I had finished I have spent my husband's credit card to the max again. He has taken a second job to pay down the debt. Sometimes he looks exhausted by work. But I can't stop this, I am Marcus's.
'Marcus and his friends are coming back to our place next Friday evening' I tell Paul, 'you will be on your best behavior.'
If I have to beat it into Paul he will learn to work for the project. He will learn to make it so easy, so smooth for Marcus to occupy my bed. He asks about preparing a light supper and arranging drinks. I instruct him on the matter. Before Marcus picks me up for the theatre Paul will lacquer my nails, trim my quimy hair and make sure that night stiletto courts are immaculate. He will fix that new choker about my throat, my watch on my wrist. Then, he will wait, frightened, anxious, expectant, hoping that I get all the cock that I need...a new and even more intense life with Marcus in our residence.
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