Dying For His Big Black Cock
I understood, of course, I did. I was just one of Marcus’s bitches. He owns so many other wives and a few are casual conquests too. That leaned a certain humility to proceedings. I had to beg for cock. Marcus has so much pussy on offer he can pick and choose. That affected how I then treated Paul, my husband. If I was getting enough of Marcus’s thick meat between my legs, then I was reasonably sweet with my husband. If I wasn’t getting it, well, then Paul suffered. My husband is stoical, long-suffering. I have been owned by Marcus for nearly two years. I’ve been at that place, consumed by envy because Marcus gave another married bitch a baby. It’s very hard being married to a woman crazed on black cock.

Trying to describe the dynamic is difficult. For Paul, forever and always it seemed to be a waiting game. From the start, he’d thought it kind of sexy that I took a lover. It was even raunchy that that was a big black guy. The way Marcus dominated me though, the way I thought, acted and dressed then, that was less welcome. Paul lost control and quickly after that dignity too. My craving for Marcus’s attention was so all-consuming that it shaped everything else. If Marcus was around then Paul was suddenly nothing, a nuisance, a toy sometimes. If Marcus wasn’t around then for a time Paul’s stature rose a little. He was sweet, tolerant, generous, broad-minded, he was ‘nice’. But living with a wife who was owned, who really spent much of the day wanting black cock, was humiliating. I would stare at handsome black guys when we were out. I would constantly check my phone for messages from Marcus. When they came, I would drop everything to be with him. When they didn’t arrive I was tetchy.

One of the things that changes in this dynamic is that you dress constantly as though you are needing a quick fuck. You dress available to the black man. It’s a necessity, in case your man calls and he wants you over there immediately. The need to have his cock inside you is relentless. I’m a businesswoman and in my thirties. I’m not a silly wench in her early twenties. I used to dress in business attire. Now, I dress in the tightest and shortest skirts, often with exposed zips for easy access. I look like an upmarket slut for that is what I have become. The need for Marcus’s cock is all-consuming. Dressing that provocatively has consequences, of course it does! There are other black guys, young bucks who come up to you in bars and other public places. They kiss you, feel you languidly, their fingers sliding up beneath your skirt to touch your cunt. Their big hands travel your breasts like casual tourists and they kiss you, open-mouthed like they have been in your bed dozens of times. Paul waits, humbly, at a distance, staying