DISCLAIMER: This is a work of erotic fiction, the themes of which include interracial sex, cuckolding, and humiliation. If any of these themes are not to your taste, feel free to stop reading at this point.
Part 1 -- Karen Spreads
Karen felt the heat overwhelm her as she lay back on the bed. A round drop of sweat rolled down her upper lip. Her forehead glistened. A slight breeze from the window gave her a momentary sliver of cool. But she was wet all over, having rushed over in the heat of the morning through the park, straight from dropping off the kids. The sweat made her whole body feel slippery, afloat, unreal, in the folds under her arms and her breasts. Between her legs. Her cheeks were red, and there were little flushed patches all over her body, as though it had already happened.
She had been more than distracted, she had thought of nothing else since the phone call at the breakfast table, his name flashing up -- James -- and the whole space, a family morning scene, changing utterly in an instant. Her husband's glance, knowing, but powerless, meek. She had ducked into the garden to receive the curt summons, her first in over a week. It had felt like the longest week of her life, filled with longing, daydreams, questioning, speculation, panic, and desire. Then as she hung up, even her own children were almost invisible to her, they seemed nothing but a chore to be completed as soon as could be, terrible to think it but so true in that moment that she could not deny it to herself.
So she had hurried from the school, almost delirious with anticipation, the sunshine bringing a sweat that she barely noticed, and it was all that she could do to keep the semblance of composure and stop herself from running all the way to his flat. The greetings of other parents, neighbours on their way to work, were all ignored. Her mind was on one thing only, her throat dry with the thought of it, the rest of her body moist, not least her sex. Her knickers -- just plain white briefs, if only she had known -- were wet by the time she got to his block, flustered and hot. And now she lay on his bed, naked, shining, waiting. He liked to make her wait. In her wildest fantasies she had wanted some kind of greeting, but he had just thrown open the door, pointed, and said the fewest words possible to her:
"On the bed. Naked. Spread."
Then he went back to his phone call, strolling into the living room in his white vest and boxers, the white of the vest setting off his jet-black skin, his biceps accentuated as he held the phone to his ear, and not a bead of sweat on him. He had not met her eye. As she lay on his bed, breathless, her desire only grew by the second as she obeyed the last of his commands and spread her legs for him. She felt shivery in the heat as she lay ready for him in this most basic and animal of postures, the human equivalent of 'presenting'.
It excited her that he wanted her like this. She looked down at her body, thirty eight years old in a few months, a little fuller around the tummy after two births, a little longer in the breast, and it thrilled her that this body should be an object of desire for James - a black man, a man who was, in her eyes, little short of physical perfection. Oh, he didn't love her, or worship her as she worshipped him, she knew that well enough. But even to be used for his pleasure, just for a time, was a thrill enough for her. The seconds ticked by, and turned into minutes. And still Karen lay there with her legs spread, waiting for him.
She looked down at her cunt. It looked and felt beautiful to her now, no longer a thing to be hidden away, intellectualised out of existence, but the centre of her being. It was as if her whole life and soul radiated out from between her legs. It made her laugh to remember that she had once thought herself a feminist. No, she thought, this cunt is me, open, glistening, waiting to be penetrated and used for its Master's coarse pleasure. That was her reason for being, above all others. The little coiled hairs had grown back, and there was a trim bush that she hoped would not displease him.
It had been eleven days since she had last been here. As she waited, feverish, Karen wondered again who he had been with. She had tried to bat away feelings of jealousy. For one thing, she was a married woman herself. More importantly she knew that a man like James was too great a sexual force to ever restrict himself, he was a man who saw whatever he wanted as his right to take, and the world generally went along with that.
He had had many women, she knew that. He had different 'interests' that he liked to pursue, some of which he had told her about and some of which she had picked up in their five-month acquaintance. There were black women. He still had a taste for 'sisters', and she had even seen him once by chance in the street, with a proud, shapely young woman with extravagant golden braided hair, who had seemed to look down her nose at Karen as though she pegged her as a rival, despite the affectation of not knowing each other that Karen and James had performed. Then he liked what he called 'party girls'. When pressed, it seemed like this meant young white girls, often teenagers, that he picked up in clubs. But he never went back to them, he just used them once then threw them away -- his words. He also liked to try women of different races and nationalities, and he had boasted once that he had had Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Latino, French and any kind of women you cared to mention. But what made it so hard to hold off her jealousy was also, perversely, the thing that should have given her comfort. James's greatest interest, his passion, his 'hobby' as he had once called it, was fucking married white women.
So on the one hand, Karen knew that she fell into his favourite category of sexual adventure. On the other hand, she knew it was unusual for him to go that long -- eleven days -- without indulging in his passion. All of which led her to the suspicion that there was another little white wife on the scene, which choked her in a way that no number of party-girl or 'sister' rivals ever could. She resolved, somehow, to try to find out. But for now, she was glad to be back in his bed, waiting.
It must have been half an hour at least that she lay there. It felt longer. She gasped inwardly when he appeared in the doorway, a slight sneer breaking his lip. She was wide-eyed, gazing at him, and she stretched her legs a little wider, offering her cunt, showing him. He grinned and nodded slightly -- good girl, he seemed to be saying. She started to breathe heavily as he took his vest off in one movement, displaying that beautiful tall black torso from above her.
