I stood behind my husband for a few minutes, reading over his shoulder, before he realized I was there. It gave me enough time to scope out the ending of the Literotica story he was reading: a delightful ditty about a cuckolded husband who lights his own house on fire so he can burn his wife and her lovers to death.
"Burn the Bitch!" I shouted, not just because of the subject matter of the story, but because that seems to be the nickname for that sub-genre of erotic literature, also known as BTB for short.
(To be fair, "burn" isn't usually meant literally. I'd caught my husband the prior week reading one about a man who somehow contrived to have his skank whore wife eaten alive by his pet cats. And to be fairer still, sometimes the wife doesn't even die, but survives broke, homeless and alone, tortured by regret and by the knowledge that her jilted ex-husband has upgraded and re-married, and is living happily ever after.)
Mike, my husband, panicked briefly at being caught in the act. He slammed his laptop shut; his facial expression was a comic mix of embarrassment and indignation.
"These stories are good," he informed me. "I like reading them."
"If you're logging onto an erotic literature site," I replied, "why not at least read something erotic? Most of those revenge porn stories don't even have sex scenes in them, just evil skanks getting what they deserve at the hands of the wonderful men who once loved them."
"You don't know anything about this. People write these stories because wives cheat all the time and the courts reward their bullshit with alimony and half the assets."
I literally laughed at him.
"Men are more than half again as likely to cheat as women," I informed him. "The most commonly accepted numbers are that 20% of husbands cheat, compared to 13% of wives. And divorce laws and courts are designed to protect women, who put aside their careers to raise children, from being tossed out on the street with their kids when the husband decides to 'upgrade' to a younger, hotter woman. Your taxes would be a lot higher if the Government had to provide housing and food for all those homeless mothers and children. Or had to cart away all the dead bodies if you just let them starve."
"Most of the guys who write these stories, and read them, actually got screwed over by cheating wives and the crooked system," he asserted.
"The guys who write these stories have their MAGA hats on too tight," I countered. "It cuts off the blood flow to the penis, so that's why their wives cheat on them."
"Cut that shit. I voted for Trump and so did most of our friends."
"Yes, and thank you for not wearing the MAGA hat all the time. It seems to be only impairing your brain. Your dick still works. Intermittently, at least."
"Have fun at yoga," he concluded, gesturing at my sexy little athletic outfit. "At your advanced age, your stiff old hips need all the stretching they can get."
"At least I have something that gets stiff," I retorted.
He ignored my last comment, turned his back on me, and re-opened his laptop. He even angled it toward me a little, demonstrating that he could read his toxic revenge porn if he damn well wanted.
We weren't really angry. We had arguments like this on occasion, and as far as I could tell, he enjoyed them as much as I did. And they added some spice to an increasingly bland marriage.
///////
Ahhh....yoga! The second-best part of my life. I was going to class at least four days a week now, usually five. I had long since graduated to the most advanced classes at the two studios I frequented. One of them was talking to me about hiring on as a part-time instructor. At the ripe young age of 43, with both kids off in college, I was taking full advantage of my newly acquired freedom to sculpt my body into the healthiest, strongest, sexiest condition of my life.
Not that Hubby cared, or even noticed. Stiff old hips my ass.
It was an exhausting, hardcore session. Well, for the other students. I breezed through it, breaking a light sweat and feeling invigorated and radiant when it ended.
"My God, Courtney," gushed Meisha, the instructor, "you are such a beast!" She was a gorgeous mid-twenties Asian girl, with a perfect body that was liberally decorated with tattoos of dragons, birds and flowers. Meisha had made it clear, without saying it, that she wanted me as a lover. I was still thinking about it.
"Thanks, gorgeous," I replied. Our bodies came together in a brief but delightful embrace.
I stopped in the restroom on the way out, then eyed myself in the full-length mirror. Gazing back was a slender, long-limbed brunette who looked ten years younger than her real age. My boobs, still firm despite being a bit oversized (34D) for my thin frame, looked sensational when my nipples were this erect. Almond eyes and full lips showed off the Middle Eastern half of my genes. My olive skin had a tinge of post-exertion pink, and there was still a light sheen of perspiration.
I snapped a photo with my phone and sent it to my dear friend Marcus. Did I mention yoga is the second-best thing in my life? Marcus is currently holding steady at #1 (Hubby is at #14, right behind the new running shoes I just bought, but ahead of peach yogurt).
- Come over, Marcus texted, about 1.8 seconds later.
- And don't shower, he added a second later.
Marcus' condo was a 15-minute drive away, in a part of town where nobody would recognize me. As I strolled through the lobby of his building in my yoga shorts and sports bra, a foursome of middle-aged but fit men in tennis clothes eyeballed me like I was steak. I gave them a flirty smile, but they quickly looked away as Marcus approached me and gave me a massive hug.
Marcus stands about 6'3", with long, muscular legs, narrow hips, and absolutely momentous chest and shoulders. His entire body looks chiseled out of obsidian, especially his high cheekbones and hooded eyes. His warm smile revealed a set of brilliant white teeth.
As we walked toward the elevator, I felt the tennis quartet watching the skintight yoga shorts hug my bubble butt, before Marcus' huge hand entirely covered said butt.
///////
In the elevator, my giant ebony lover engulfed me with his big, powerful body and muscular arms. My breasts, especially my nipples, rejoiced at the feel of his muscles through his thin t-shirt. His hands were everywhere: my back, my waist, my thighs, my hips, my ass. His nose was everywhere as well. His "no shower" directive was driven by a lusty desire for my natural scent, which I suppose rose to the level of fetish.
In contrast, he smelled as fresh and clean as the morning dew. He was as obsessed with his own cleanliness as he was with my...dirtiness? Not that I minded; I got more man-stink than I needed from Hubby, who had a habit of coming home sweat-drenched from his evening workouts, but not showering until the next morning.
We stumbled out into the hallway as the elevator door opened, laughing and groping each other like college kids (Marcus is actually eleven years younger than me at 32). A pretty blonde coming out of her apartment gave us a mock glare.
"Settle down, kids," she grinned.
"Hi Elena," Marcus and I stereo'd. He fumbled for his key while I groped his granite-hard ass.
///////
Marcus had me on his couch and we were making out like crazy. He lifted my sports bra over my breasts, then all the way off. His lips, tongue and teeth were creating intense ecstasy for my nipples. Oh dear lord, I thought I was going to orgasm just from that. Then he mouthfucked me all the way down my chest and belly. I moaned in utter bliss. I'd already kicked off my workout shoes and ankle socks, so he had an easy time peeling off my yoga shorts and thong.
And then he really went wild on my drenched pussy. Marcus, for all his other wonderful attributes, is a world-class cunnilinguist. He spread my thighs, scooped his hands under my ass and lifted my vajayjay to his lips like a bowl of sex. He began by teasing me with little naughty thigh kisses and loving licks through my thick bush.
(I had grown the bush out at Marcus' request. My husband didn't even notice for awhile, then one day asked me why I didn't keep it shaved like "everyone else." I shut him up by asking him how many other vaginas he'd actually seen. "It might be a sample size issue," I said. "I think you should go look at some more pussies.")
Finally, Marcus' talented tongue teased and titillated, tracing my treasures. He went deep down into my gash for awhile, reaching my liquid center, then attacked my clit until I rewarded him with two gushing orgasms that he lapped up like a hungry kitten.
Then it was my turn to disrobe him (he liked going down on me while fully dressed, another odd but pleasant kink). He wore a clean, white tank top that I stripped away before kissing his midnight-black pectorals. He kicked off his own sandals, then I unbuckled his knee-length khaki shirts and pulled them down with his boxers. His enormous hardon sprang out.
Now, it is indeed enormous, but I'm not going to exaggerate the BBC mystique. Marcus claimed to have a "10- or 11-inch cock" when fully hard, but one night we measured it just for kicks, and it turned out to be a mere 9 and 3/4 inches (he still claims I caught him on a bad day). In terms of girth, he's not as thick as a coke can. More like a coke bottle (the thick end). And his balls aren't as big as apples. More like...small apples.
Anyway, his cock is the biggest I've ever experienced, and I'm a bit of a size queen.
We embraced, reveling in each other's nudity. His warm, muscular body felt heavenly. Looking into his bedroom mirror, I smiled at the beautiful contrast of our skin tones. His monster cock nestled against me, throbbing and rock solid and smearing my tummy with his precum.
He was ready for me.
Another of Marcus' kinks, one that I share fervently, is a desire for hard, rough sex. Lusty and violent, with hints of nonconsensual play. And Marcus, who'd been on a business trip and hadn't seen me in two weeks, was in a MOOD.
He shoved me hard onto the bed, then leaped on top of me, pinning me on my back. He was trying to get his cock lined up for a brutal entrance, but I teased him by wiggling my hips and squirming around, foiling his aim.
"Please, no," I moaned, "I'm a MARRIED WOMAN!" That did it; he roared like a lion, got my body locked down and under his control, my slender thighs spread wide, completely at his mercy. His cock's tip was at my entrance, and....
...OHHHHHHH...
He thrust powerfully into me, literally ripping through most of my resistance. I cried out in delicious pain, then he backed out and launched another missile strike. My pussy was so agonizingly tight, and his cock so huge and hard, it took four violent thrusts to get him all the way in. He took a moment to enjoy his early victory, then went to work.
He's so big and powerful and strong that I feel completely overwhelmed by him, and that's a feeling I've become addicted to. The intensity of the pleasure is beyond anything I've experienced. The brutal piston that is his cock will keep pounding me until he's done, and I have no say in the matter. And I fucking LOVE that!
I let him have me bare. That takes us to the highest possible level of ecstasy. It feels wild and primitive and natural, while at the same time being risky and daring and taboo. No, I'm not on the pill. I'm not likely to conceive at my age, but the possibility that I COULD just adds to the thrill of the illicit act.
His thunderous, bruising assault made me cum early and often. My body tingled, shivered, stiffened and climaxed with joyful bliss, and he just kept smashing me. I came again, then again, and I felt like I was near the limits of my endurance. He just kept going, bruising me in tender hidden parts of me that no one but him had reached before.
Finally, he was gasping for breath and growling, and his rhythm became choppier, and then he gave me his deepest, hardest thrust, held himself deep inside me, and erupted.
"Erupted" is the right word. His cum entered me hot as lava, so warm it almost felt scalding. It pulsed into me at high pressure, and it filled me so fast I almost felt like it was coming up through my throat. The sensation of his orgasms is so spectacular that he always pushes me to another climax, no matter how many I've already had, no matter how exhausted I may be. So I came with him, mixing my orgasmic fluids with his in a delicious mess deep inside me.
Like many black men, Marcus recovers quickly. After a brief rest, I sucked him to hardness again, then straddled him and mounted his gorgeous pole. I rode him hard and fantasized that I was punishing him for his earlier brutal conquest of my body. I enjoyed being on top, not because I needed to be in control, but so his big, strong hands could freely roam my body. He loved gripping my hips and waist, spanking me, and of course grabbing and squeezing my breasts. He always gave special attention to my nipples, and he was biting and pinching them painfully when I came for him again.
///////
