The Queen Anne Theater and the Wife Part II
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Size Queen Wife, Chapter 6: The Pleasure Chest free porn video
In the days that followed, Karen couldn’t shake the memory of the insanely erotic scene she had witnessed in the locker room among the naked football players. The volcanic image of Fletcher’s ejaculation, rope after rope of creamy white semen spewing from that enormous black cock, kept replaying in her mind’s eye like a nonstop sizzle reel.
And even during the rare occasions when she could blot it out, it was quickly replaced by that of the muscular black spa employee who had almost seduced her, or just by fantasies of one of Brandee’s smoking hot fuck buddies.
In short, she couldn’t stop thinking about black cock. Even while she slept, she dreamed about it, tossing and turning next to her clueless white husband. Her pussy was in a constant state of drooling desire. It got so bad that on some nights she had to creep from her marital bed and masturbate in the downstairs bathroom, out of earshot from the family, straddled over the toilet. As she had at the spa, she often achieved squirting orgasms during these secret diddling sessions.
But no matter how many times she masturbated, nothing could suppress the constant barrage of erotic fantasies, the endless, gut-wrenching horniness, or the gnawing feelings of frustration that came with it. It was like a hunger that fed on itself.
Finally she knew she had to take some kind of decisive action. She had to figure out a way to remain faithful to her husband yet still satisfy her relentless craving for hung black men.
So she did some research. And she formed a plan.
During workhours, on a lunchtime walk, far from the University campus, she stopped in a public park and sat on a bench. Looking around to make sure no one nearby knew her, she tied on a head scarf and slipped on sunglasses. Taking a deep breath, she stood and walked briskly toward a small shop whose sign read "The Pleasure Chest," one of those half-underground city places.
Inside, Karen was relieved that the décor matched what her internet research had led her to expect. Clean, carpeted and tastefully lit, but still unmistakably a sex shop. The few other customers inside were mostly women, some men. Nobody looked like a perv or a sleazebag.
Pretending to browse through a rack of lingerie, she scanned the shop for her true objective. There it was. Past the wall display of BDSM leather gear stood a clear glass counter whose interior was lined with realistic looking dildos.
Her courage wavered. Just order one online? No, she couldn't risk Craig opening the package first. This had to be done in person.
Summoning her courage, Dr. Karen Naylor sauntered over to the display case, trying to pretend it was a makeup counter at the local mall, ho hum, just a normal retail encounter. She immediately experienced a tiny spasm of lust at the up-close sight of at least a dozen enormous cocks lined up neatly in a row, flaunting their massive size and fierce beauty for her perusal. Here was a reverse harem of pricks, a dizzying buffet of top-shelf man-meat.
As she carefully inspected the dildos, amazed by their realism, it occurred to her that such lifelike designs—the veins, ridges, contours, even the tiny skin wrinkles—could only have been achieved by casting molds from actual human genitals. This realization sent a rush of fluid to her pussy.
First of all, the clear evidence that such gorgeous cocks actually existed in the real world, that men walking around in city today might actually be so unbelievably endowed, was intensely arousing just in and of itself. But then add to that the fact anyone off the street could purchase exact replicas of such awe-inspiring cocks, well that just magnified her lust even further. She felt dizzy. It was almost too good to be true.
Until the past few weeks, Karen had never fully appreciated the aesthetic beauty of the human penis. Since she was a young girl, she had always been attracted to good-looking males, those with square jaws, broad shoulders, narrow hips, well defined muscles, etc.—but their cocks had always been secondary, a less vital part of the equation (maybe because they were always hidden?).
But now that dynamic was reversing itself. Lately, Karen found herself drawn to a man’s cock first and foremost, with other attributes becoming secondary. Sure, many of the cocks she had seen recently were attached to extremely hot guys, but she was coming to realize that even if they had not been, she would have still lusted for them.
Was this a sign she was turning into a depraved slut?
Another observation: the racial disparity in the display case before her was unmistakable. Though all the dildos were flesh colored, only one was Caucasian. The rest were various skin tones of black or brown. Apparently for the sex-toy-buying consumer "big" went hand-in-hand with "black.” Maybe she and Brandee were not the only white women to share this kink…
Okay, time to choose. Not the white one, obviously, even though it was very long and thick, she thought, her gaze lingering on the prominent mushroom head…but, no, it must be black. For this to work, the parameters of the fantasy had to be observed.
She was also conflicted by the age-old girth vs. length question. Like most women she favored girth, seeking a cock would provide that “overfull” feeling. Yet she worried that too much thickness would stretch out her pussy so much that Craig’s much smaller dick would get lost in the widened gap. If he noticed, the looseness would be difficult to explain.
After much thought, she narrowed it down to two options: one about nine inches long, with a slight corkscrew curve along the shaft, which had a deep walnut hue. The head, however, was cinnamon red. It reminded her of E.J’s cock, the first well-endowed student-athlete Brandee had teased in the locker room.
The other was longer, maybe 10 inches, a litter girthier, in a uniform shade of dark umber.
Karen settled on the bigger one, promising herself she would start a daily regimen of kegel exercises to keep her pussy snug enough for her small dicked hubby.
Her voice cracking with anxiety, she asked the pink-haired, nose-pierced, twenty-something girl behind the counter to examine the large black dildo.
The cashier treated her with the same bored indifference she might receive at any other retail venue. Clearly Dr. Naylor was not the first randy suburban mom to shop there.
The fake cock was heavier than she expected. Flexible and spongy to the touch, it was so thick she almost couldn't wrap her fingers all the way around it, causing a shiver of anticipation in her loins. But also a feeling of nervousness. Would her pussy be able to handle such a monster?
As it was rung up, Karen expressed shock at the hundred-dollar-plus price tag.
The cashier explained: "You’re not just paying for the toy. It’s also the brand. See," she pointed to a photo on the packaging of a handsome black man with confident smirk on his face, "that's Mr. XL. He’s the model for that toy, and he's a porn star, so he gets a licensing fee."
She handed over the purchase in an anonymous black gift bag. "Thanks. Have a nice day."
Feeling dizzy, Karen reeled around and quickly left the sex shop, experiencing a sense of accomplishment. It had been less awkward than she feared.
Climbing the stairs to the sidewalk, her good mood vanished. For a panicked second she considered ducking back inside. But it was too late. She was busted.
*
“Oh my God, Karen. Is that you?” screeched a woman’s voice.
After the dimness of the sex shop, the sun momentarily blinded Karen, but she recognized the voice: none other than Paige McFarland, a neighbor from her suburban town.
As always, Paige was dressed in the height of stay-at-home-mom fashion: dark yoga pants, expensive fleece, designer sunglasses, auburn hair caught in a pony tail. Her face gleamed with malicious delight at catching an acquaintance emerging from an adult boutique mid-workday. Karen suddenly felt ridiculous in her “disguise” beige overcoat and headscarf—it only made the transgression more obvious. The enormous black penis in the unmarked bag seemed to grow heavier.
“Oh, hi, Paige,” she replied, more calmly than she felt. “What brings you into the city?”
“Picking up Ashley from choir practice. Aren’t you a long way from the campus…?” She glanced at the bag. The big black bag.
She lifted it. “Bachelorette party for my niece. Penis-shaped candles, a couple other things. She’s just turned 23. Too young for marriage, in my opinion. But what do I know, right? I’ve only been married for 13 years!” She laughed too loudly.
Paige was attractive, intelligent, charming, and had kept the same figure she had in high school—reason enough for Karen to hate her. But on top of that her husband made so much money at some finance job that Paige didn’t have to work. Karen loathed the smugness of stay-at-home moms.
She was glad to remember the rumors that both McFarlands had been unfaithful. Other rumors said they were swingers—no one was certain.
Paige made a dismissive gesture and touched Karen’s arm. “Please. Don’t even think you owe anyone an explanation. You are a woman with her own agency. We both are,” adding, with mock irony, “Don’t let the Patriarchy shame you into behaving any way that doesn’t express the true you.” She laughed too loudly.
“Oh, I totally agree,” Karen said. God, I hate you, she thought.
“Actually I think this is very brave of you. I’ve always wanted to go in but never had the guts. What’s it like?”
“Really clean. Nice. But it’s just a lot of goofy kid stuff.”
The two chatted about local issues for a while, then parted.
Hurrying back to campus, cold sweat under her arms sticking to her clothes, Karen cursed her rotten luck! Once Paige ran her mouth the whole damn world would know she had been buying sex toys. How long would it take to get back to Craig? Was there any chance Paige had believed that lame excuse?
As she rushed along, Karen didn’t notice she had reached the campus. Distracted, she bumped into a student, who turned out to be Fletcher Cox, the fabulously hung football player Brandee had jerked off in the training room.
“Whoa, Dean Naylor. Where you headed in a such a hurry?”
“Sorry Fletcher. I’m, uh, not feeling well. I think I’m taking the rest of the day off.”
The good looking young man glanced down at her breasts. During the training room episode, she had been so transfixed by his muscular body, oversize equipment and copious cum load that she hadn’t noticed his handsome face.
“The other players and me, we really enjoyed your visit the other day.”
Karen flushed with embarrassment yet couldn’t resist glancing down at the boy’s crotch, where a clearly outlined penis-shaped bulge snaked down the leg of his sweat pants. A sudden current of lust sparked between the middle-aged mom and college student. She knew for certain that he wanted to sleep with her. Yes, she could go back with him to his room right now and he would totally “fuck her brains out.” Women her age really could attract young studs just like him. For all her many faults, Brandee had at least revealed that undeniable truth.
She drew closer. Finding the young man’s masculine scent utterly enthralling, she made an insane choice. She kissed him. In broad daylight, in the middle of campus, a university dean made out with a student—their mouths and tongues briefly entwined with passion.
Even an experienced lothario like Fletcher’s was shocked by this move. “Day-um, girl,” was all he could mutter when the kiss broke.
Karen leaned in to his ear, gently dancing her fingertips along the length of his huge cock, an act concealed by her long overcoat. She whispered: “I enjoyed it too, Fletcher. You have no idea how much.”
Then she abruptly turned and walked away, leaving him standing there, dumfounded.
She didn’t look back, just kept walking directly toward the train station, the sluicing of her pussy juice lubricating each step, the sensuous feel of his thick lips still lingering on hers.
Karen felt absurdly buoyant and free. Had she really just done that? Was this what feminists meant when they talked about being “empowered?”
But on the train a sliver of anxiety returned. Had anyone seen? No, no one was around. And anyway, one little kiss wasn’t really cheating, was it? Screw Paige McFarland. Screw anyone who makes you feel guilty about anything!
When she arrived home, the kids were still in daycare and Craig was nowhere to be found. Not having enough freelance coding work to fill his days, he often took long, boozy lunches at the local pub. For once, Karen was not annoyed by this.
She threw off her coat and rushed to the bedroom with her new toy, unwrapping it and laying it on the bed. Against the innocent domestic backdrop, the flowered bed sheet, the framed family photos, it looked even bigger and more dangerous than at the store. She caressed it, marveling at the realism of its design, the veins, the crinkled skin around the ball sack, the bulbous shape of the mushroom head. This was the way cocks were supposed to look— the perfect color, size and shape, the platonic ideal to which all other cocks aspired.
Continuing to gaze at the object of her lust, Karen undressed down to her bra and panties. She hefted the mighty phallus and pointed it at her face, looking directly into the bulbous head, extended her tongue to lick it, then planted kisses around the head. She hunched her shoulders forward, pushing her tits together. Then she slapped the heavy cock against them several times, causing ripples in the milky white flesh.
“Oh, Fletcher I love your big black c-cock,” she said out loud, stumbling over the forbidden word. “Do you like my white tits?”
She ran her fist up and down the shaft, jacking it off. “May I suck it? May I? May I suck you off, please? Don’t make me beg.”
Karen engulfed it in her mouth, ignoring the unfamiliar rubber taste. After the dildo purchase and the public kiss, she was so turned on that it may as well have been a real flesh-and-blood cock. She tried to take as much as she could into her mouth, but only less than half would fit before she choked.
Still sucking, she threw herself on the bed and began frigging her pussy over her panties. Orally worshiping the magnificent dick caused her juices to flow, soaking the material.
“Oh Fletcher I love the way your precum tastes. I never let me husband’s cum near my mouth.” She didn’t know where this dirty talk was coming from, but it was exciting her as much as the massive toy itself. “Do you want to fuck me? Do you want to fuck my pussy? This, this, this—” she almost couldn’t say it, “married pussy?”
Karen ripped off her panties and tried to work the head into her sopping cunt. As wet as she was, it was still a challenge to insert the flaring head. When it finally entered, it did so quickly, with an almost audible plop. The sudden invasion caused a mini-orgasm, and she emitted a high pitched yelp.
Apart from childbirth, Karen’s vagina had never been so stretched. On the heels of the mini-climax, a dull pain emerged. She paused, worried she had bitten off more than she could chew.
But then she conjured a vision of Fletcher on top of her, mounting her, his sexy eyes drilling into hers, teasing her with his enormous manhood; and the pleasure began to conquer the pain. His mocha skin stretched tightly over those lean young muscles—so fresh, so forceful, seething with masculine power.
She surrendered herself to the young fantasy lover, giving him everything, her pussy, her mouth, her breasts, her body, her dignity, her marriage vows—and the surge of female lubrication unleashed by that surrender allowed another inch of penetration.
“Oh, Fletcher. Fuck me Fletcher. Make me yours. Make me your…slut.”
The massive black cock withdrew a little, causing a delicious scraping sensation against her clitoris, and further spreading the natural lube. Slowly the in-and-out pace increased until the pain began to fade.
All the sexual frustration of the past few weeks converged on the brute force invading her womanhood—the massage, the training room jerk off session, those hot pics on Brandee’s cell phone, even the bitchy thrill of confronting her husband about the disappointing size of his load. All that slow building tension formed a prelude to this inevitable moment, a sexual destiny she had been repressing for so long.
As the orgasm approached, she experienced a moment of vertigo, as if she were standing at the edge of an abyss and yet knew she had to jump. There was a fleeting moment of terror, as if the enormity of the sensations might be too much to endure.
And then the most explosive orgasm she had ever experienced blasted through her like a hurricane. She screamed so loud she worried the neighbors might call the police. So much fluid erupted from her vagina it soaked through the bedspread and the sheets and down into the mattress. She forgot who she was and where she was, as the whole universe constricted down into an all-consuming spasm of exquisite, almost intolerable, bodily release.
It seemed to go on for an hour, but it couldn’t have lasted more than two or three minutes, she realized, as consciousness returned, and she floated back down to earth. Her rational brain slowly reasserted itself, until through the hazy, post-orgasmic glow she started to perceive three profound and undeniable new truths:
One: She had just experienced her very first “vaginal” orgasm, and it really was everything it was cracked up to be.
Two: Her life would never be the same.
Three: Size. Really. Does. Matter.
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