Author's Note:
The first two chapters of this story were told from the husband's perspective. This third chapter will be told from the wife's. I realize some people may not be happy with this development, but I felt it was a necessary step. Readers have smeared Maddie in most of the comments left on the prior two chapters.. I believe that there are far too many men on Literotica who are threatened by the idea that a woman can and will take responsibility for her own pleasure . It takes two to tango, as the old saying goes, and Peter was the one who instigated this dance.
And now, on to part three of our tale.
A steaming-hot cup of strong black coffee rested in my hand as I watched my husband's sleeping form in his recliner. My body needed it, as I'd barely slept a wink all night. My eyes drifted to the table beside him. A half-empty bottle of scotch sat there. It told me that my husband had also struggled to sleep.
One thought had permeated my mind all night long:
I hurt the man I love.
I owed it to Peter to make it up to him. I hadn't done it intentionally. I'd been so nervous about approaching that handsome black man in front of a room of people that I'd become hyper-focused on my task, and Baptiste had been such a pleasant surprise that his magnetism and charisma had overwhelmed me. I'd at once felt hypnotized, falling under his spell in the blink of an eye.
Then, there was his cock. Oh my God, that cock. There'd been a moment when we'd stood at the bar when Baptiste had taken my hand and placed it on his inner thigh. The profound tubular swelling that I'd felt there had mystified me. I'd had big cocks before. The boy who'd started my obsession with black cock in high school had been immense, and Peter himself had the thickest cock I'd ever experienced. But what I'd felt running down Baptiste's inner thigh was ungodly. I'd instantly slipped into a big-black-cock-slut frame of mind. It was almost like a fugue state where my entire world had shrunken down to the burly piece of black man-flesh that had lain between Baptiste's thighs.
And so, I'd forgotten my husband altogether. Peter had ceased to exist the moment my hand had found that cock — a cock that he himself had brought into my life. How could I have forgotten the one man who'd made the entire night possible?
There'd been a moment when Baptiste had pressed me against that wall in our suite when I'd opened my eyes and focused on the far dark corner where I'd known my husband was sitting. The upper half of his body had been shrouded in darkness, but thankfully, there'd been ample light to see the sizeable erection tenting his trousers. That had been when, and why, I'd told myself the lie: that it would be okay to focus solely on my pleasure and think no more of my husband's happiness. I'd believed his erection was proof that he'd remained complicit in my desire.
Then the head of Baptiste's thick black abomination of a cock had parted my lips and stretched my opening until it had seemed it might split me in two. All thoughts or concerns about my husband had fled my mind as it had flooded with pure, unadulterated lust.
Standing here now, I feel ashamed that I hadn't given my husband another thought until he'd called my name during my first interlude with Baptiste. Up until that point, he'd ceased to exist in my mind. I'd been confused when he'd called a halt to things. After all, it was him who'd set the night up. I'd been discouraged by our search and had given up hope of ever finding a bull that did it for me on every level. Baptiste had seemed like he could be that bull, and my husband had stepped in to take him away from me.. Instead of trying to understand why, I'd made the biggest mistake of my adult life: I'd gotten mad.
I'd gotten mad.
I hadn't even thought twice about asking my husband to wait downstairs. It shames me now, but it's true. It wasn't until I'd heard the door to the room close behind him that what I'd done had hit me. I'd had a moment of panic and turned to go after the man I loved. But then Baptiste had grabbed me and pulled me into the shower, lifting me off the floor so that he could impale me on his magnificent cock. My concerns for Peter had lasted only until my greedy cunt had sunken down onto that majestic black rod. Then my marital problems had suddenly seemed like something that could wait an hour or two. Baptiste had given me three screaming climaxes in the shower before the water had become tepid. He'd then pumped a second load of his black seed in me, his sperm flooding against my cervix.
I'd sucked his cock back to life. Okay, factually speaking, I'd sucked the head of his cock. That was the only thing I could fit in my mouth. I'd nearly had to disarticulate my jaw to accomplish that much. Once he'd been hard, he'd flipped me over on my stomach and forcefully entered me from behind. His black anaconda had stretched me again as he'd roughly pulled my hair and spoken degrading things that had only heightened the experience. Baptiste had called me a black-cock-loving slut — a point I couldn't dispute. He'd told me that my white married cunt belonged to him, and my God, I'd wanted it to be true. Finally, he'd informed me that he planned to impregnate me with his child, and I'd come just from the mental image. I was on the pill, so I knew it wasn't an issue, but that thought had appealed to me on a primal level that I didn't understand, and still don't.
Once Baptiste had basted my uterus with another massive load of his cum, I'd decided not to put my problems off any longer. I'd had my fun, but it had been time to pay the piper. I'd known I'd hurt Peter, but I'd genuinely believed that I'd be able to smooth things over. He was such a sweet and caring man. After using the restroom to flush out as much of my black lover's seed as possible, I'd gotten dressed. Baptiste had offered to help me find my husband and help broker peace between us, but I'd correctly sensed that doing so would create more problems than it would rectify.
That Peter would be so angry and bitter had never entered my mind, and it should have. I had failed and disappointed him. He'd been nothing but giving, often setting his pleasure aside to see that I had mine. I'd taken advantage of that, and what's worse, I was still doing it. I very much wanted to Baptiste again on Friday night and experience what only he could offer me, but I knew I would have to cancel it if I couldn't get my husband on board. There was no way that I could do that again without Peter's full consent and cooperation.
I'd gotten up that morning and called a friend, telling her that Peter and I needed a little privacy for a meaningful discussion. I'd then helped the girls get dressed and quietly slip out the door to where my friend was waiting. The three of them had gone out for breakfast, with the plan of an early matinee to follow.
"Peter?" I said, my voice cracking as I struggled to get control of my emotions. I watched him slumber on, the thick stubble of his beard covering his square jaw, his rugged handsomeness making my heart ache. I'd hoped to coax him into our bed last night so that he could reclaim me. I'd even entertained the fantasy that he'd prove his love for me by going down on me the way he'd done after all our other encounters. But he'd been cold and uncaring. The sight of it had scared me. In all our years of marriage, my husband had never elicited such feelings inside me. We'd embarked on our new lifestyle as a united front, but because of my selfishness, that front had splintered.. It was up to me to rectify the situation. "Peter?" I repeated, this time a little louder.
I watched as my husband shifted. It was the first sign he'd returned to the conscious world. His eyes fluttered, but then they lay still again. I stepped closer, close enough to reach out and touch him. I wanted to go to him and sit in his lap, hold him, and kiss his sweet lips, but I knew I couldn't do that until he invited me back in. I didn't think he was likely to do that until I could get him to forgive me.
"Honey... Peter, wake up," I said, louder but no less sweetly.
Peter's eyes opened. His hands came up to cover his them, as if the sudden inflow of light was stabbing into his brain. I couldn't remember if the bottle of scotch had been full last night. If it had been, then it would be a small wonder if he wasn't feeling its aftereffects. Peter sat forward, allowing the chair to straighten up as he lowered the legs with a groan. The sight should have been amusing, but its humor eluded me. I had driven him into that sorry state. We both shared responsibility for what how Friday night had begun, but I knew I'd crossed a line.
"There's a cold bottle of water and a couple of Tylenol on the table next to you," I said gently. Peter opened his eyes again to locate the life-giving water and medication. He said nothing. He merely scooped up the pills and popped them into his mouth. He downed the whole bottle before he would even look at me.
