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Peter Morton had the perfect life. He was an annuities manager at an investment firm on Wall Street making more money than most people could ever dream of making. He’d made a few sound investments and done some trading that wasn’t really above board but he didn’t get caught and he made a bundle in the process so debt wasn’t a huge issue. He and his wife were empty nesters; their two boys were in college and staying relatively out of trouble, at least not the sort of trouble that would get them expelled. Considering they were spoiled rich k**s who grew up on Long Island and didn’t know the meaning of the word restraint, Pete was pleased that he wasn’t paying for them to fail every class. One son was on a full scholarship for Baseball so his coach arranged to keep his grades up and the other son had been lucky enough in freshman year to find a girlfriend who didn’t mind writing all of his papers. That left he and his wife Tricia all alone in their 5200 sq. ft. custom built home.

They weren’t a particularly loving couple, it’s not like they fought excessively or argued, they got along pretty well in fact, but they weren’t particularly demonstrative towards one another either. Their friends and family would swear up and down that the couple loved each other, and in fact, they did, it was just a pseudo/sterile love that was based more on function than affection. Tricia was still “hot” according to Pete’s coworkers and friends. She stayed in the gym, had standing, weekly appointments in the salon to make sure her dark roots never showed, and her Barney’s credit card never went more than a few days without some activity. At the annual Christmas Party and cookout, she would wear something juuuuuust revealing enough to show off her saline’s but she was far from the only desperate housewife in attendance who had fake knockers. Pete and Tricia were taking advantage of their freedom and they had some friends with whom they would swap and swing and have hedonistic parties where they would all get high on X and screw until the wee morning hours. Ahhh, life in the burbs was good.

If there was ever a man who was the master of his own domain, it was Pete. He had money, power, freedom, and a wife most men would kill to have. So of course, he was miserable. He hated every second of his life and was consumed with thoughts of extremes. Peter craved more. He wanted more money, more power, and more sex. Well, he didn’t want MORE sex; he wanted dirtier sex, perverse sex that bordered on the obscene. He was a sex addict, addicted to stimulation from any source: gay, straight, transgender, alien, a****l, vegetable, or mineral. At work, he would look at hardcore porn on his laptop all day long. He got a thrill from having his office door open and pretending to work while he was looking at porn. Of course, there were times when he would close the door and take off his clothes and stroke his cock to completion because he was just so desperate to cum. One of his favorite lunchtime activities was to go to the bathroom on other floors of his office building and “leave his mark” on the stall walls. There were a few bathrooms that had glory holes and if he timed it just right, he could suck off a few cocks and have a “three cum martini” lunch with no one the wiser. Butt plugs and frilly lace and satin lingerie completed his wardrobe under his conservative suits almost every day without exception. On the train ride home he would pull out his cock and stroke it furiously beneath a book, hoping to get caught but terrified that he would. If anyone had paid attention, they would have wondered why he’d been reading The Secret for five years straight.

In his car, Peter would drive by apartment buildings, hospitals, shopping centers and even schools so he could take out his cock and pull it with the hopes that someone would see him and get aroused. When he got bold, he would expose himself to some poor woman and when she screamed in horror, he would race off and swear to never do it again, until the next time the urge hit him. If there was ever a case of someone being a pervert, Pete was a textbook example.

Pete’s wife was totally fucking clueless to her husband’s dark side. Years ago, when Peter told Tricia that he needed time to wind down after a stressful day at work and that he was NOT to be disturbed for at least an hour, she didn’t question him nor did she care what he did during that time. She never went in his “man room” downstairs and while she figured he had some porn down there to watch on his 52-inch flat screen, it didn’t really bother her one way or the other. As long as she could buy whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, Tricia really didn’t care if he had a Cambodian sex slave chained up down there.

Pete was meticulous in taking off his lingerie and putting it in the secret closet he had built. He had more stilettos than his wife and his wardrobe was probably just as big as hers but certainly more trampy. Mini skirts, wigs, rubber and fetish gear, every sort of fetish attire lined the walls of his covert dressing area. The fact that he had enough sex toys in there to open a small sex store would be impressive to most but it was never enough for him. He wanted to own every sex aid known to man and almost monthly he’d spend several thousand dollars buying toys off the Internet. There was a full-length mirror in the closet so when he got completely naked and pulled out his butt plug, he could see his gaping, red, swollen hole. He liked looking at himself lick and suck that filthy butt plug straight from his asshole, first smelling it and getting turned on by the scent of his ass and then making a show of licking the brown streaks and tasting the bitter remnants that made him crazed with lust. The filthy, raunchy nature of his actions would make him desperate to ride a huge dildo while he reveled in his disgusting pleasures. When he finally emerged from his play area, showered and dressed conservatively in his khakis and polo shirt, he would kiss his wife on the mouth and get aroused all over again with the knowledge that she had no clue what he had just done.

Dinners were always mundane. The food was excellent but the conversation was always a bore. It seemed the only things they could discuss were the boys, their plans for vacationing in Hyannis Port, and if the landscapers killed off the azaleas. They were superficial people with superficial lives and content to stay that way.

On a typical day, The Morton’s would retire to the family room, share a cognac, and watch a little TV. With a few hours of the formalities of married life out the way, they would each go they own separate ways, Tricia to scrapbook or gossip with the neighbors or something, Peterto indulge in his fetishes. Safely secluded in his private domain again, it was then that he could really let his hair down so to speak and spend several hours indulging in whatever his twisted mind could conceive. When it was time for bed, three or four times a week, they would “have sex”. Most nights, sex would consist of Pete going down on Tricia and eating her pussy. Penetration was a rare occasion for the pair because his cock wasn’t big enough to satisfy her even when he could pop a full boner. He much preferred to stroke his cock and imagine different scenarios being played out in his head.

One would think that because he and his wife were relatively distant, that he would never fantasize about her. In actuality, Tricia was the primary focus of his sexual imagination. Pete dreamt of seeing his outwardly conservative Junior League, Daughter of the American Revolution, PTA wife in the most degrading, undignified, shameful scenarios. In fact, on the rare occasion he could get completely hard, it was always to fantasies of her being savagely fucked by a group of black men with enormous cocks that treated her like less than trash.

It never failed that when they were coming home from visiting her parents in NJ, Pete would “get lost” in Harlem, driving up and down streets, secretly hoping to get carjacked. In all of his travels, the worst thing that ever happened was somebody offered to give him directions to the L.I.E. Tricia would heighten his arousal by bitching and complaining the entire time, fueling his desires with her paranoid, racist rants. “JEEZ Pete, can’t you ever fucking get anything right? I swear, it’s bad enough that you insist on driving the Jag every time we go to my parents but you ALWAYS get lost up here ‘in the hood’. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me to get ****d by a bunch of those filthy, black guys.”

It probably wouldn’t have made any difference to Pete to know that his wife was secretly craving the exact thing she was complaining about. He didn’t hear her anyway, he was too lost in his own fantasies of seeing her abused, degraded, humiliated and used in ways that would make most people’s stomachs turn. In his mind, it wasn’t about her desires anyway; his arousal came from the fact that Black men with big dicks would take what was his and use it practically to the point beyond recognition. He got off on the idea of filthy, dirty black men making his pristine property something untouchable. Yeah, he wanted to see his wife writhing around in pleasure, to see her coming in an endless string of orgasms that left her weeping and shaking but it was the idea of Black men defiling her that got him off. His cock wouldn’t even get a tingle at the thought of his wife being gangbanged by Asian guys or Latino men. He’d seen his wife pleasured by a group of white men before and, while it certainly was hot to see Tricia being passed around like rag doll, he needed to see the contrast, he was desperate for Black dudes to fuck her because to him, Black men were like a****ls, barely human savages bred for fucking white women.

Peter saw the opportunity to make all of his dreams come true when he got careless at work. As usual, he was pulling his cock and looking at one of his favorite websites where white wives were getting gangbanged by Black guys. He was on the verge of cumming when he heard someone clear their throat. He slammed his laptop closed and looked up, cock in hand, and saw the new guy from the mailroom. “What the fuck is your problem? Don’t you know to leave my mail on my assistant’s desk? Get out you dumb . . .” He desperately wanted to call him a nigger, inspired by the way the Black men were throwing it around in the video he was watching, but he got scared at the last second and refrained. “What are you looking at? Get OUT!” He shoved his cock back in his pants and felt his face change to crimson red but his sense of superiority and arrogance outweighed what should have been his shame.

Calmly, the young man placed the mail on his desk, stared Pete in the eye, and said, “I’ll be sure to leave your mail on your secretary’s desk in the future. For the rest of the day, Pete waited for the backlash. He was sure within an hour, everyone would know what happened and he was busy constructing lies and figuring out a way to get that guy fired. By the late afternoon, no one even seemed to look his direction and by the next morning, everything seemed normal. He saw the guy walk past his door and deliver the mail without even looking in his direction. He casually walked out to his administrative assistant’s desk and said, “Is that a new mail guy? I’ve never seen him before.”

Lourdes, his sassy Puerto Rican assistant said, “Yeah, that’s Deshawn, he just started this week.” Pete saw her lick her lips and stare at his ass that couldn’t be hidden in his baggy khakis. Her admiration only lasted a second and she went right back to the overwhelming amount of work she had on her desk, having to shoulder most of the work that Pete was supposed to do that he put off on her. While he was able to see the lust in her eyes, what he didn’t detect was any indication that she knew what had had happened yesterday. He walked back in his office, afraid to engage in his usual routine of looking at porn, and sat in a daze for several hours.

By lunchtime, his curiosity got the best of him. He went out looking for Deshawn to find out what his deal was. Any normal person would have blabbed to everyone and then some. As luck would have it, he saw Deshawn enter the men’s room at the far end of the 18th floor. Looking around to see if anyone else was around, he entered a few seconds later.

Standing alone at the urinals, Pete could see the broad shoulders and muscular back of the mail boy. At 6’ even and maybe 230 pounds of hard flesh, Deshawn turned his head slightly when he heard the door open and then went right back to his business. Pete walked to the urinal next to him and pulled out his cock. He glanced down to see Deshawn’s dick. The strong yellow stream of piss hit the back of the urinal and Pete could see what had to be nearly 8 inches of soft dick extending from Deshawn’s fly. Pee shy, he willed himself to urinate and said, “Listen, about what happened—you know, yesterday. What do we have to do to make sure that none of that gets out?”

Putting his dick back in his pants, Deshawn said, “Yeah, don’t sweat it,” turned to wash his hands and left without saying another word.

That didn’t register with Ronald. In his white world, everything boiled down to money or sex or some combination of both. There was no way he was going to let some punk 25 year old get away with having anything over his head so he followed him to the lunch room. Sitting down at the table next to him, he quietly said, “Look, I’ll give you $25,000 bucks, no questions asked, but you have to sign a paper saying that you won’t say anything.” There, that should fix him, that was more money than that k** would make in a year and it was barely a drop in the bucket to Pete, nothing a few strategically misplaced zeroes on a balance sheet wouldn’t take care of. He glanced down at Deshawn’s lunch and made a mental note that he found it odd that someone with such obvious muscle definition was eating nothing but a salad and fruit.

This time, more assertively, Deshawn said, “I told you, don’t sweat it.”

Pete felt like a reprimanded c***d. His anger raged and he wouldn’t be held hostage by some fucking high school dropout who couldn’t get a better job than dropping off mail. Unfortunately, his perversion got the better of him and he started calculating in his head how he could use the situation to his advantage. He inched his chair closer, his leg touching Deshawn’s under the table. Leaning in, he whispered, “Okay, I was just doing what all us guys do, you know. And—look, it’s no big deal but I just don’t want everyone knowing my business and I have an offer for you. I think I have something that you might want that’s better than money. I’ll make a deal with you. You come out to my house this weekend, bring some friends why don’t you, as many as you want, and I’ll make sure you have the time of your life. You can split the money with your homies any way you want. In exchange, we can make sure my little secret is kept and it’s all good, right b*o?” He smiled and put out his fist like he wanted a pound.

Deshawn pushed his chair over several inches and said, “Look, I don’t want whatever it is you are offering and I told you twice already that it’s no big deal. If you want to jerk your little dick off at work, I don’t really give a damn. You white boys are all crazy any damn way.”

The fucking nerve of this k** was outrageous. Pete was pissed. How dare he refuse to negotiate like a man. Forget the fact that he hadn’t even heard that Deshawn was willing to put the entire thing behind them; all he heard was “little white dick”, “white boy”, and “crazy”. Who the hell did he think he was? Pete couldn’t comprehend that a black guy was pulling the strings so he blurted out, almost loud enough for others to hear, “You can have my wife, you can do anything you want to her, she’s yours, in exchange for your silence.”

There, that would solve everything. What black guy wouldn’t JUMP at the opportunity to fuck a hot white wife? Pete learned that it wasn’t the proverbial carrot he thought he was going to tempt Deshawn with when the young man wiped his mouth with his napkin, threw it on his remaining food in disgust and pushed his chair back. He walked away without saying a word.

For the next three months, they played the same game. Deshawn would ignore Pete and Pete would, in turn, obsessively try to figure out what motivated this strange person. He learned that Deshawn had been born in Trinidad and graduated with a 4.0 from community college because he couldn’t afford to finish his four-year studies in engineering. He belonged to something called The Ausar Auset Society but Pete didn’t have the intellect or patience to figure out what that was so he just wrote it off as some sort of Black cult. He overheard some of the temps talking about him and learned that he had broken up with his girlfriend a few months ago but still wasn’t dating. Nothing computed for Pete. How could this guy end up in the mailroom? From what he could tell, he was intelligent, articulate, and all the women thought he was good-looking, even the white women. If someone had told Pete that the reason Deshawn couldn’t find a better job was because he was competing against boys like his sons who cheated and lied their way through college and who had jobs lined up on graduation because of nepotism and racial preference, Pete would have SCREAMED from the highest mountaintop that was an outrageous and sinful lie to discredit the white man. Too bad it was true.

It was in his nature to be manipulative, so Pete decided he was going to get what he wanted and he was going to do whatever he had to do in order to make it happen. He’d been tortured for months, fantasizing about Deshawn fucking his wife. He called in sick one day at work and told his assistant that he needed several important documents on his desk delivered to his home. He specifically told her that Deshawn was to deliver the documents, no one else, by noon and not a minute later. He put a note on the front door that Deshawn was to come around back to the pool where he would be waiting for him.

Prompt, Deshawn arrived at 12:00 exactly and read the note. He walked around the side of the house towards the back, cautiously, expecting some sort of set up. Sure enough, Pete was in the back by the pool, naked, with his wife, and she was on a lounge chair with nothing on but a pair of high heels with her legs high in the air and her husband’s tongue in her pussy. She screamed a blood-curdling yell and tried to grab her cover-up but Pete forcefully pinned her legs back to her chest so she couldn’t move. She was visibly shaken and Deshawn froze, expecting the police to jump out any minute and arrest him for ****. He placed his bag on the ground and slowly opened the flap and extended the package to his employer. “Look, I don’t’ want any trouble, I’m just following your orders to bring these documents out to you and hand deliver them.” He placed the documents on the table and began to back away.

Pete smiled, “Here, don’t you want some of this hot pussy?” Tricia couldn’t believe her ears. Her husband was offering her up like a piece of meat without her consent or consideration.

Brazen and bold, Pete stroked his cock in front of Deshawn. “Come here, boy. You know you want this. You know you want some of this white pussy. I’m offering it to you. No strings. Do anything you want to it and I mean anything. Fuck her mouth, her pussy, fuck her asshole. Make her choke and gag on your big black cock till she pukes all over it and make her keep sucking you off. Fist her slack cunt, piss on her, hell, piss up her, make her lick your filthy bunghole. Do anything you want to her. Dude, I really want you to fill her up with your black sperm. Yeah, fill up her white cunt with your darkie baby juice and get her knocked up.” He really wanted to use the N word but he wanted to wait until Deshawn used it first to get the go ahead. He knew some Black guys were sensitive about that sort of thing and he didn’t want to get his head bashed in by jumping the gun.

Deshawn held back his disgust and spoke calmly. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you want me to do those things to your wife?”

Pete masturbated proudly as he just knew he was about to realize his dreams. Yeah, he was four or five guys shy of the gangbang he wanted to witness but this was as close as he’d ever gotten to his ultimate fantasy. “Man, come on, you know. Black guys are so hung and they—you know. God, why don’t you get it? Having a black guy fuck my wife is really nasty, thinking about her being bred black ‘n all.”

Pete had moved out of the way and Tricia was still laying there, holding her legs up by grasping the backs of her knees, her breathing calmed down now that she realized that Deshawn wasn’t a total stranger but someone her husband knew. Her pussy was swollen and throbbing and wet with desire. She wanted all the things her husband had described and she was ready for the action to begin, no introductions necessary.

“You sick, twisted fuck,” Deshawn replied. “First of all, I’m not some monkey stud to service your wife and second, impregnation is not a sexual fetish, it’s a right and a privilege you obviously don’t deserve.” For a brief second, the couple thought he was going to leave but he started to unbutton his shirt. Deshawn spelled out everything. “You want me to fuck your wife because I saw you masturbating in your office that day? Is that right?” Pete nodded profusely. “You’re telling me that if I fuck your wife, if I degrade her, that I don’t have to worry about you harassing me at work anymore, that we can put this behind us once and for all and go on with our lives.” He continued, “And, I’m to understand that you want me to do anything filthy and nasty I can think of to your wife with your permission.”

Peter could barely answer. He was crazed with lust. “Slap her, choke her, squeeze her tits until they are bruised, tie her up, anything man, do anything.” Tricia was fingering her pussy and moaning her non-verbal consent.

Deshawn pulled off his shirt and let it fall to the ground. He kept on his white wife-beater and it contrasted rather ironically yet dramatically against his bronze colored skin. He steadied himself on the chair as he pulled off his pants and left his boots in place. He pulled off his boxers and it was ronald’s turn to lick his lips in jealousy, envy, and lust.

Deshawn’s muscular thighs were a masterpiece in ebony sculpture. His arms, his chest, his shoulders were formed to perfection. With a six-pack of abs that would make any personal trainer proud, Pete couldn’t imagine a more perfect specimen to use his wife. It was the meat hanging between his legs’s that made Deshawn the ideal stud for Pete’s demented fantasy. At just over 8 inches, it was clearly double the length of his own tiny cock and the thickness didn’t have a scale to compare. It looked as thick as a can of beer and he wasn’t even hard. In fact, it looked like it weighed several pounds in and of itself and Tricia was fingering her pussy in anticipation.

“Here, get it wet.” Tricia moved to suck his dick but Deshawn stopped her. “No, not you-- him.” He pointed to Pete and without hesitation, Pete was on his knees, kneeling before the young man, worshipping his big, black cock, trying to get it hard with his mouth.

Tricia had never seen her husband suck a cock before and there was something very thrilling about seeing him fag out over a beautiful, black one. “Oh yeah, honey, get that big monster wet so he can slide it in my tight, white pussy. Is that what you want to see? You want to see him pounding his big hard black cock in my cunt, stretching it, ripping it open? Yeah, get it nice and wet so he can ram it in my sweet, white holes.”

Grabbing Pete’s head, Deshawn throat fucked him without care or concern for his breath or comfort. Thrusting his hips and shoving every single inch down his throat, it was Pete himself who was gagging and choking on that gorgeous prick, not his wife. He didn’t care. To Pete, it was worth it so he could see his wife being fucked like a $2.00 crack whore. He sucked that cock better than he’d ever sucked any other cock in his life. By the time Deshawn had pushed him away, his dick was fully erect, hard, throbbing, and dripping with spit. Grabbing a handful of bleached blonde hair, Deshawn roughly pulled Tricia to her knees in front of him and said, “Let’s see who’s better at sucking my dick. Come on bitch, get to work.”

Pete was better. He’d had more experience sucking a variety of cocks. He had better technique without a doubt. That only made Deshawn treat Tricia rougher, being unforgiving when she didn’t do it the way he wanted. He shoved his cock down her throat and she tried desperately to pull away, unable to breathe or move. She was gagging on the meat shoved in her throat and she her eyes were tearing. It was the stuff dreams are made of for Pete; his wife was being suffocated by a dick that was stretching her mouth to beyond capacity. He stroked his cock furiously with two fingers while his wife struggled to get her hand around the black cock that filled her slutty mouth. Her diamond wedding band shone in the sunshine and that image made Pete’s cock leak.

Pushing her away, Deshawn commanded her to get on the lounger again and spread her legs. Anxious to move things along, she said, “Oh yeah, eat my pussy you sexy stud.”

Deshawn laughed. “Are you fucking k**ding me?” Without any other explanation or commentary, he gripped the backs of her thighs tightly and rammed his dick in her pussy in one thrust, to the balls. Tricia screamed out in real pain. She’d never had a dick that big in her before, not even in college when she’d had a threesome with her roommate and some black guy from the football team.

“Easy stud,” she panted, half wanting him to take it easy on her and half enjoying the pain.

“Easy? What for? That’s what you want isn’t it? You think I’m some savage stud that can’t control my lust for you, right? You think I live to fuck white women, that I’m a barely literate thug who only gets hard for white trash suburban whores like you.” His comments stung Tricia but they turned her on at the same time. He was right so, yeah, she could go along with the game.

“Yeah, you big, black Mandingo, screw this white pussy good. Make it hurt. Show my husband how pathetic his little cock is. Make me never want his little thing again. Turn me into a slut for Black cock.”

“Do you even know what a Mandingo is you stupid cunt?” Deshawn pounded harder and deeper.

Tricia was confused. What the hell kind of question was that to be asking her. She decided to go along with the game anyway. “You are. You’re my black daddy Mandingo and I’m your filthy white slut.” Her response seemed to anger Deshawn and he became more brutal in his fucking. She tried to push him away but she wasn’t strong enough. She looked to her husband to see if he could control things a bit more but he was in a zone, fingering his asshole and stroking his tiny cock, insane with arousal. Things were just beginning to heat up in his mind, just the way he wanted. He wanted Deshawn to use his wife and it didn’t matter to him if she enjoyed it or not.

Deshawn grabbed a handful of Mrs. Morton’s hair again and flipped her over on her knees. She was grateful for the reprieve on her pussy and was expecting things to go a little more smoothly doggy style. Before she knew what was happening, she felt the sting of Deshawn’s hand on her pale, flat ass. “OWWWW,” she cried out, the heat and sting of the slap radiating through her body. Her body liked the rough treatment but her mind knew something was wrong. “What are you trying to do you black bastard, taking our your revenge for slavery on me? I didn’t own any slaves.”

That was the wrong thing to say. “I’m not exacting revenge for hundreds of years of slavery on you, you dumb bitch, I’m exacting revenge for being treated like an ignorant buck incapable of anything other than lusting for white women, weed, and cheap wine from a paper bag.” He grabbed her hair like the reins on a filly and pulled hard. He shoved his cock in her again, with more force, stabbing her womb with his weapon of flesh. Peterinched closer. He wanted a front row seat to the show, to smell the scent of their fucking, to taste their nasty mixture of juices. He knelt behind Deshawn and watched his muscular ass flex as he pumped his wife. The scent from his nuts was intoxicating and he marveled at the way Deshawn’s smooth brown skin shone in the sun, damp with perspiration.

Tricia was in the place between pain and pleasure. She had never been fucked so savagely before in her life and she was going to pay the price for it tomorrow, but today, it was heaven. She liked being treated so roughly, even if she didn’t understand all the things he was saying. It was all part of the game, race play had to involve . . . some stuff about race or it would defeat the purpose, right? That was part of the fantasy, the hot suburban wife getting nailed by the ghetto thug. It wasn’t hot unless they were playing up the differences, exploiting the stereotypes. About the only thing she could contribute to the fantasy was her constant chants of, “Fuck me with your big black cock. Fuck this white pussy. Pump your black seed in my fertile white cunt. Harder, harder, treat my like a filthy slut for black cock.”

Deshawn’s dialogue was a bit more explicit. “You fucking stupid white whore. You are too dumb to know that your man is sucking every dick he can get his hands on. The two of you think you are so superior, so much better than me, that fucking me is ‘slumming it.’ I’m better than you in every way you dirty slut. I’m going to use you, your pussy, your ass, and your dumb ass husband and you’ll regret the day you ever dreamt of having some Black buck fuck you to fulfill your ghetto fantasies.”

Those words registered with Pete as, “I love white pussy.” Wanting to rush things, Pete pleaded, “Fuck her in the ass. Shove your big black cock in her dirty asshole.” That was, after all, the nastiest form of sex. To have a Black man fucking his wife in the shitter was the ultimate degradation. He didn’t view Black men as men, or even human beings for that matter, so having his wife getting fucked in the ass by a black guy was symbolic of the most degrading thing she could endure.

Deshawn pulled out and Pete dove for his dick again, tasting the elixir that was made up of the juices of his wife and his subordinate. Tricia wanted to feel that hard cock in her ass as well. She’d moved beyond the pain and felt nothing but sublime pleasure, filth, and raunch at the hands of her black stud.

Deshawn backslapped Pete and sent him reeling backwards on the hard tile pavement. It wasn’t part of Pete’s fantasy but he could go along with it, again, because anything was worth seeing his wife being used like a piece of trash. He couldn’t touch his cock for fear it was going to explode. He was jealous of his wife, envious that she was going to have her anus stretched to beyond belief. He knew he could take Deshawn’s dick, having ridden many huge black dildos in his time, but he doubted Tricia had had anything bigger than his little cock in her ass.

Deshawn would have loved nothing more than to ram his dick balls deep in Tricia’s ass but he couldn’t. It just didn’t fit. He pushed and she cried out in pain. The more he pushed, the louder her cries became. She rubbed her clit furiously and shoved four fingers in her pussy, creating less room for Deshawn to work his dick in her asshole. “Here, get it wet again.” He grabbed Pete by the hair and pulled him on his dick again. Pete used his tongue like magic and took everything Deshawn had to give him and then some. He tasted the fresh ass juice from his wife’s rectum and savored the flavor. It tasted better than it had ever tasted before, mixed with the salty sweet precum of a gigantic black cock. He spit on his wife’s ass and pulled her cheeks open, encouraging Deshawn once again. “Fuck her dirty asshole. Ram your thick, huge Black cock in her white butt.”

Without mercy or consideration, Deshawn did just that. He shoved his cock in, pushed, shoved and rammed until every inch was embedded deep in Tricia’s ass. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he started fucking her, concentrating on making sure he drove every millimeter of his dick deep in her and withdrew it all the way to the head before he rammed it in deeper and harder than before. The only thing that made him stop was to take it all the way out so her husband could lick and suck his dick clean. He fucked her so hard he sort of felt sorry for her except she kept saying, “Oh god, please don’t stop, it feels so good.”

Deshawn fucked her asshole for twenty minutes straight. Her ass was red from being spanked and her hole gaped open like the Midtown Tunnel. It was so loose and sloppy, he could barely feel any friction. “You, shithead, get over here and take her place.” He pushed Tricia out of the way and motioned for Pete to assume the position. He scrambled to get on his knees without a second’s hesitation at his wife seeing him accept a black dick but Deshawn stopped him. “I want you to see my face.” Yeah, that would work for Pete, he could get off on that. He liked the idea of showing off his own little cock while he got a huge black one rammed in his manpussy. Mmmm, that thought was delicious. It was no longer about his wife, this was about the fulfillment of his sissy slut fantasies where he would become the whore for black cock, he would be degraded and used.

Deshawn placed his hand over Pete’s mouth. If he was going to cum, he couldn’t listen to that insane “big black buck” drivel. He felt no mercy for Mr. Morton so he fucked him like he was trying to kill him with his dick. His rage boiled up and he thrust deep and hard until he felt the first shot of cum go deep within his boss’s ass. He fell back, exhausted, and watched as Tricia dove for her husband’s dirty creampie without any instructions.

Both still aroused, the pair then collectively dove for Deshawn’s cock, cleaning his cock of their collective juices. Deshawn let them lick him from front to back before he aimed his soft cock in their faces and emptied his bladder. He dove in the pool and seemed to be cleaning himself of the stench and filth of the white couple. Dried and dressed, he left without so much as a goodbye.

Pete had never been more pleased with himself. He dove for Tricia’s pussy and asshole and ate her out for the rest of the evening, never putting on clothes, never more than a few minutes from trying to see if he could taste the evidence of her hot black fuck. The next day, he casually strolled into the office and saw a manila envelope on his desk. He opened it and found a DVD. His heart dropped. He opened it and placed the disc in his laptop. The camera had been hidden in the mailbag. He shut the laptop and called Lourdes on the intercom. “I want to see about getting a new intern. See if that guy from the mailroom might be interested.”