New Story: Morgan the Organ

[Tilda Blixen]

[Note: this is a standalone story that I'm also releasing for free via ebook format is anyone is interested.]

Morgan the Organ
Chapter 1

This all started when we went to see the movie Boogie Nights in the late 1990s. There’s a scene at the end where the super-hung porn-star hero unzips in front of a mirror and hauls out his enormous cock for all to see.

For days afterward, my girlfriend Laura could not stop talking about that scene. She obsessed over it constantly, asking questions like: “Do you think it was real, or did they use a prosthetic?” “Are ones in real life that big?” “Did you ever know anyone with one that big?” On and on with queries and comments. For no reason, she’d compulsively shoehorn Dirk Diggler’s big cock into totally unrelated conversations.

I was shocked because Laura did not strike me as the type of woman to have such a keen interest in cock size. She dressed and acted conservatively. She was raised a strict Catholic and still went to church. She didn’t even swear. And our sex life to that point had been vanilla and unadventurous. Where were these obsessive questions coming from?

Dick size being a sensitive topic, and our relationship being new, at first I danced around the subject. But finally I just blurted out the obvious: “Of course penises can be that big. Haven’t you ever seen a porno movie?”

Surprisingly for a woman in her late 20s, she had not, which was rare even in the days before ubiquitous internet porn.

So I took a risk and rented a size-themed video (Chasing the Big Ones), unsure how she would react. Lucky for me, the movie gripped her attention like a magnet. The way her eyes widened and her gaze stayed glued to the screen, I could tell those mammoth cocks touched something deep within her psyche.

In those days, Laura’s look was girl-next-door: Blonde, blue-eyed, with alabaster white skin, she was tall, 5’10”, towering over me in heels. Her physique was model-like: a narrow torso and long limbs. But she wasn’t skinny. She was voluptuous, with lush flaring hips and a waspish waist. Large, hyper-sensitive nipples capped her medium-sized tits.

As we watched the video, I reached over and stroked her clit. It seemed ready to burst, like a tiny overfilled water balloon, more stiff and prominent than I’d ever felt it.

When I jiggled it just a little, she came instantly. The orgasm was so intense her pussy squirted. I could actually feel the labial flaps spread open beneath my fingers as her juices streamed onto the sheets. She’d never done that before.

That’s when I knew my girlfriend was a bone fide Size Queen.

Not that I minded. In fact, if anything, I welcomed it. I’d been starting to worry Laura was too sexually uptight for me. This kinky size fetish might liven things up, I thought.

And I wasn’t intimidated either, although only averagely hung myself (5.5 inches). Maybe this is an example of the delusional overconfidence of young men, but I felt I had other strengths: I could get rock hard anytime, anyplace, had boundless stamina, and could climax at will. Plus I could cum five or six times a day.

Around the same time, I noticed something else about Laura: her attraction to black guys.

When a handsome black actor or celebrity would appear on TV, she’d make approving comments. Or, watching a football game, she might remark on the tightness of a black player’s pants. Observations like that happened enough for me to notice.

Again, surprising in someone so prim and proper, but by no means a dealbreaker. I’m no racist and didn’t feel threatened by a girlfriend with interracial fantasies—a trait I knew many white women shared anyway.

Looking back, that’s where another man probably would’ve left well enough alone. And probably where I should’ve too. But I’m drawn to risk like a gnat to a porch light. So, on our second Valentine’s Day together, I gifted her a video staring the enormously hung African American porn actor Lexington Steele, along with a 10-inch black dildo.

At first, she laughed them off as joke gifts. When I pled sincerity, she flat-out refused even to consider taking such a huge cock in her vagina, afraid it would permanently damage her pussy’s tensile strength.

But after a fancy, champagne-soaked dinner relaxed her defenses, she agreed at least to watch the movie. In her bedroom, scenes of white women climaxing on Lexington’s monster cock further lowered her inhibitions. The physical signs were there: her eyes turned glassy, her pale skin flushed, and her nipples thickened and protruded like oversized pencil erasers.

I took one nipple between my thumb and forefinger and firmly squeezed.

“C’mon, baby, let’s try it. It’ll be it your Valentine’s present to me.”

She pursed her lips. “What if it’s painful?”

“Then we’ll stop.”

“Ugh. The things my perverted boyfriend talks me into. All right.”

I took a tube of Astroglide and applied a dollop to the onyx head of the dildo, then slathered its 10-inch length.

“Slowly now. Be gentle,” she said nervously, lying back, eyes shut.

Kneeling on the bed between her legs, I aimed the huge black shaft at her vulva. Pushing it forward, I met resistance.

I warned, “I’m gonna apply more pressure.”

With a bit more *******, the slick head strained against her opening, the shaft began to buckle, but then popped into her pussy quickly, followed by an inch or two of length.

“Ow, ow. Okay, okay, okay.” Her eyes squeezed shut, palms lifted in a “stop” motion.

“You all right?”

“No, wait. I think so. God that thing is huge. It feels like a soup can in there.”

We stayed still for a moment as she adapted to the wide girth.

“I’m gonna move it just a bit, okay?

“Okay, a little. Slowly.”

I carefully slid the dildo an inch back and forth.

“How does that feel?”

“Mm. Yes. Okay.”

After about a dozen one-inch strokes, I advanced to a two-inch, slightly faster. I could sense her nervousness fading, the vaginal passageway begin to welcome the massive black invader.

Then I progressed to a four-inch stroke. Her expression relaxed, her mouth opened slightly. Natural pussy juice appeared on the dark shaft and around the perimeter of her stretched pussy lips, frothing up white, a sign of her body’s receptivity.

“Oh, God. Is it all in there? I can’t look. I feel so full.”

“It’s only about half, hon. But you’re doing great. Does it feel good?”

“It, ah, kind of hurts a little…but it doesn’t feel bad.”

I continued the short thrusts, happy my experiment was working.

“I’ll go in about six or seven inches now. Ready?”

“Okay, let’s do it,” she breathlessly answered.

I slowly inserted the toy more than half way into her pussy. The pushback was intense. She felt stuffed to capacity.

“Aye, aye, aye, aye…ooh *******. That does feel good. The diameter is just…it’s stretching me. Ooh, fuck. Let’s keep going. Yes. Keep fucking me…”

Laura never swore, much less used the F-word, so I knew that big black cock was taking her somewhere new. I picked up a steady rhythm, loving the sight of her pink labia stretched tightly around the ebony pole. Then her pussy opened, somehow making room for the girthy toy. She was taking about seven inches per stroke, engulfing it like the porn actresses in the video we’d just watched.

Continuing to glide the dildo in and out, I got to my feet next to the bedside. “Please play with my nipples,” she rasped, her voice growing hoarse. With my free hand, I again caught one of her hard nipples between my thumb and forefinger, rolling and teasing it firmly, until the surrounding areola crinkled and hardened.

The nipple stimulation pushed her over the edge. Her voice became so guttural I could hardly recognize it: “Oh, yeah, keep fucking me with that thing.” She squeezed her eyes shut, lost in some private fantasy. “He’s a big fucker. He’s such a big fucker…he’s got a…big cock…big cock…big cock…” She kept repeating “big cock” like someone with Tourette’s syndrome…

By now I was fucking her with the full length of the dildo, plunging in and out at a furious pace, still teasing her nipple while simultaneously feeding her ravenous pussy’s size lust…Suddenly without warning she sat up, snapped open her eyes and wailed:

“TAKE IT OUT!!! TAKE IT OUT!!! TAKE IT OUT!!!”

Terrified I’d hurt her, I jerked the dildo out in one swift pull. Her hand flew to her clit and she started frigging herself like crazy—but only for fraction of a second before pulling her hand away…

Then something unbelievable happened. Her clit popped out to the size of a thumb, looking like a tiny erect penis. The two labial folds spread apart and protruded forward about two inches, hanging slackly distended, yawning wide like the mouth of some undersea creature. From inside this dark, stretched-out hole an uneven stream of clear pussy juice spouted, making a tiny arc, like a rivulet in a water fountain, while those meaty outer folds spasmodically quivered and shook. This continued until at least a pint of fluid had soaked the sheets.

The Lovecraftian sight of that slavering, gaping fuck-hole is forever seared in my memory. To this day I can’t decide whether it was incredibly hot or just plain terrifying. I guess it was both.

After the vaginal spasms abated, she collapsed back on the bed, totally spent. It took a few minutes to regain her composure. Finally, she sat up, hair sweaty and disheveled, and murmured, “Wow. That was different.” I could sense her gauging my reaction, worried her over-the-top response to the much larger cock would provoke my jealousy.

I smiled, accepting my size-craving girlfriend. “You were great,” I said. “It was fun for me too. I only have one question.”

“What?”

“Do you think you can fuck?”

“Um, I think so,” she replied, as if unsure anyone would want sloppy seconds after the pummeling her pussy just endured. “Let’s move to the dry side of the bed.”

I’ll never forget her words as I mounted her: “Get ready for a smooth ride.”

I aimed my cockhead at her pussy. The labia was still distended but had started to return to normal. I moved forward and my head disappeared into the hole.

But I felt nothing. Just air.

Okay. I thrust in deeper…still nothing.

Maybe I’m missing the target, I thought. So I realigned and pushed forward again.

Nothing.

Laura squirmed beneath me. “Is it in?” she asked, the question no man ever wants to hear.

Frustrated, I thrust forward, producing a watery sound, like a coin dropped into a well. There was a cool sensation on my dick, which I took to be the artificial lube.

“I think it’s in,” I said, but when I tied to fuck, my dick immediately flopped out.

“Here, let me try something,” she said. Reaching under her ass, she somehow used her fingers to pinch the bottom of her pussy lips together.

That finger trick tightened her pussy just enough for my dick to get some traction. But it was still pretty loose—I’d need a potent image to get me off.

So I conjured a vision of Laura, the churchgoing, reserved, wallflower type who secretly harbors a whorish lust for hung black men. The fantasy hinged on the contrast between her innocent public appearance and her taboo desire. Had she dressed and acted slutty, it wouldn’t work. An image of Laura fucking a muscular, hung black stud doggie-style while she blew me finally got me off, and I emptied my balls into the sloppy void of her sex.

After that night, interracial pornography and large black dildos became mainstays in our sex life. Even after marriage, three *******, and relocating to the suburbs, it remained our thing. Fortunately, we discovered that after every dildo session, in a day or two Laura’s vaginal elasticity would return to normal.

During fantasy talk, I would sometimes float the idea of threesomes with black men or even her being the center of a gang bang—and she would usually play along. But we both knew nothing so outlandish would ever really happen. We were far too vanilla and conventional to live out such dark desires. Right?

Chapter 2

One spring afternoon in 2014, I found Laura waiting for me on our front porch when I got home from work.

Unusual for a workday, she wore a pink hoodie and sweatpants. “You’re home early,” I said, kissing her. “Everything okay?”

“It’s all good. I took the afternoon off.”

“Cool. Where’re the *******?”

“Inside watching TV. I was waiting for you. Meet me upstairs. I’ve got a story.” Her eyes danced.

“Ooh. A sexy story?” I kissed her for real this time, with tongue, putting my hand on the small of her back. To my surprise, the skin was slick and slippery. “What the—?”

“Upstairs. Don’t be obvious.”

In the living room, I greeted our three grade-school-aged ******* while my mind raced. What did my little wifey have in store?

After a decent interval, I made my way to our bedroom. She was waiting for me on the bed wearing nothing but bra and panties. “Lock the door,” she said.

I locked it. “What’s going on?”

“Take off your clothes and lie down next to me.”

As I undressed, she said: “You’re going to want to do it after you hear this, but we can’t because the ******* will hear. But I will give you a hand job.”

I laid down beside her. “Okay,” I said. “Fair enough.”

“So, I left work early to get a massage at the new spa in town. I get there, and the masseuse is a young black guy.”

“No way.” My dick sprang to life.

“This kid could’ve stepped out of one of your stories. Handsome, built and like 6’3”.

“You said young?”

“Twenty-six. I asked.”

“Holy *******. So 18 years younger than you.”

“Yup. Does that turn you on?” She wrapped her hand around my cock. “Mm. Feels like it does.”

“A massage. That’s why your skin is oily.”

“Mm-hm. Right when he gets started, the lady who runs the place says she’s leaving, and he should lock up when he’s done. So now we’re in there all by ourselves…”

I was astonished. It was both horrifying and insanely arousing all at once. My dick strained against her soft hand as it moved up and down.

“I was under one of those sheets, totally naked, alone in this tiny room in the back of a spa with this incredibly good-looking man. It was totally inappropriate, but I could feel myself getting really turned on.”

“Did he notice?”

“He must have. My nipples were poking right through the sheet. When he asked if it was too cold, that’s when I knew.”

“Oh, God, wait, slow down or I’m going to cum.”

She released my cock and it bobbed up and down, spitting droplets of pre-cum.

“So then he oiled me up. Can you feel?” she placed my hand on the slick skin of her tummy. “And then he massaged my legs and feet. You know how I love my feet rubbed. And his hands—oh my, his hands—they were so large and strong. It was all soooo sensual.”

“I can’t believe this. What was going through your head?”

“I was just…” She looked away. “I thought about all the pillow talk we’d done over the years, all the stories about wives going with ‘endowed’ men or whatever. I know we never considered doing it in real life, but it seemed like something you might want me to explore. So I just went with it.” She looked back at me. “Are you mad?”

“Do I look mad?” I gestured at my steel-hard dick, but honestly, in that moment, I wasn’t sure what I was feeling outside that one, single minded organ.

“Good. I mean, I was thinking about you the whole time. I knew it would make a good story, if nothing else.”

“You’re right about that. You can use your hand on me again.”

“Hmm. I haven’t felt you this hard in a in a while.” She bit her bottom lip coquettishly. “I’m glad you’re taking this so well. I hoped you would, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Ah, fuck. Ah, yes. I’m loving it. You’re such a naughty wife.”

“Good. Because what I have to tell you next gets a little bit, more, uh, risqué…”

It’s one thing to fantasize about something. It’s quite another to face the reality. Laura’s story was worlds beyond playing with a sex toy. This was a living, breathing, third-party male looming at the edge of my marriage. It created a turmoil of conflicting emotions. For starters, gut-wrenching lust slammed directly into an equally strong wall of shame. What kind of loser gets turned on by his wife’s lust for another man? Fight-or-flight adrenaline surged through my veins. I looked at my cock in disbelief. It was bigger and firmer than I’d ever seen it.

She could tell, too. “Oh, my. Will you look at this!”

“Please,” I croaked, “tell me the rest.”

“Okay, so like I said there was a lot of, um, sexual tension in the room. I mean he definitely knew how excited I was. But he was very nonchalant about it. And I realized, you know, he’s probably used to female clients acting like this, going all ga-ga for this hot black stud who’s touching them all over…and that fact kind of turned me on even more…So then he, then he,” she stammered. I could tell this confession was starting to arouse her as well. “He was working on my upper body and he rubbed his, he rubbed his…”

The skin on her neck and chest flushed pink as she tried to get the words out.

“Go ahead, baby. You can tell me.” But I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear.

“He rubbed his c-cock on my arm, and I could feel it that it was, it was—”

She grabbed my wrist and pulled it to her crotch. I rubbed her clit over her panties. She seized my arm tightly and clamped her legs shut. Her body started bucking.

“Oh fuuuuuck, I’m cumming, I’m cumming. Oh *******. Yesssss. Unnnnnnnhhhh,” she rasped. Then she finished the thought driving the orgasm. “Ooooooh God, his cock was soooo fuuucking huuuuuge!”

“Goddamn, baby!”

After finishing cumming and catching her breath, she was silent for a moment. “Whew! I needed that.” She seemed more relaxed now. The orgasm had eased some of the sexual tension.

I, on the other hand, still trembling on the brink of cumming, asked, “So then what happened? Did he take it out?”

“No,” she replied breezily. “But he asked me if I wanted a ‘zone therapy’ session in a more private setting, which I took to mean, well, you know…”

“So…nothing else happened?”

“I told him I was on my period. That old excuse.” She raised herself on her elbow. “I wanted to discuss it with you first. He said we could meet at his house for our next ‘session,’ or at a hotel. My choice.”

“Jesus, Laura. This is all so much. I can’t even...”

“I know. How do you think I feel? This just happened, like, an hour ago. Maybe we should just leave it be.”

I thought for a moment. “No. Let’s do it. You should make an appointment.”

“Okay. But I need to hear you say it.” She started stroking my cock again.

“Say what?”

“You know,” she said, teasing the shaft up and down.

“Ahh. What? No, I don’t know.”

“You…have…to…say…” she purred drawing out the words, “that I have your permission to fuck him.”

Her blunt phrasing hit my psyche like a sledgehammer. “Oh, God, Laura.”

“C’mon. I need to hear it,” she teased.

“Arrrahhh. You have my permission to, to…” I literally could not get the words out of my mouth.

“C’mon, hubby. Use your words,” she said in patronizing voice.

I clenched my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut. “To, to, to…to f-f-f-fuck him. You have my permission to fuck him. Arrraggggh!”

The emotional cocktail of lust, fear, guilt, jealousy and angst converged in my balls and blasted out through my cock shaft, sending gobs of jizz raining down on my chest and stomach. Again, the copious cumload rated as one of my all-time best.

“Oh, baby what a good one. So much volume. I’m impressed!” She took a tissue from the nightstand and mopped up the cooling sperm.

“So then its settled,” she said matter-of-factly, tossing tissue toward the wastebasket. “I’m seeing him again on Saturday,”

“What? You already have an appointment?”

“Yeah.” She smiled sheepishly. “I kinda knew what your answer would be.”

 

[Tilda Blixen]

Chapter 3

In the 15 years between Laura’s first big dildo experience and her erotic massage confession, we’d undergone some fundamental changes, as people do. That time span really saw Laura come into her own, both physically and mentally. She’s that type of woman who doesn’t peak until middle-age (sort of like Jennifer Aniston). She looks better, dresses sharper, and carries herself with more confidence and poise than when we first met.

I, on the other hand, had not aged as well. I’d gained weight, lost some hair, and suffered a couple of career setbacks that drained my self-confidence. My sexual powers had also waned. No longer could I cum several times a day, or on command. My erections are not as firm or long lasting. Sometimes I cum too quickly, other times I can’t cum at all.

And yet, heedless to the risks, on the night of the confession, a giddy sense of joy flowed through me as we went about feeding and putting the ******* to bed.

With the little ones safely asleep, we had incredible sex, recapturing levels of passion we hadn’t known since our dating days.

The next morning I was still walking on air. Don’t get me wrong, I was nervous, but they were the nerves of someone on the verge of a great adventure. I mean, how exciting are the lives of average middle-class couples? Sex-wise, we’d both had the same partners for over 17 years. Career-wise, I’m an engineer specializing in computer network configuration and Laura is claims adjustor for an insurance company—not traditionally excitement-packed jobs. Now suddenly our humdrum lives pulsed with energy and danger.

All day at work I kept texting her little love notes, questions, and suggestions. I was particularly preoccupied with what she’d wear. Proud that my wife and mom of three could arouse the lust of a good-looking young stud, I wanted her looking her best. I suggested she wear her white capri pants and a blue, strappy detail top that showed lots of cleavage. I also offered to make appointments to get her hair done and mani-pedis, but she said she’d handle that herself.

Again, on Thursday night we had incredible sex. Again, my dick performed like one 20 years younger. The impending massage acted as a natural male-enhancement *******, supercharging my libido.

All through the Friday the flirtatious, torturous texting continued. I couldn’t believe the big event was only a day away. The strain got so bad that after one text that included a pic of her modeling a pair of sexy high-heeled sandals, I sunk to the previously unthinkable low of jacking off in the men’s room at my office.

We had planned to abstain from sex on Friday night, so she could be “fresh” for her “date.” But as I was kneeling down in front of her pussy, trimming her bush with an electric razor, we got so horny we gave in and fucked like crazy.

Basking in the afterglow, her head resting on my shoulder, I said, “These past couple of days have been beyond belief. I didn’t think it was possible for people our age to have sex like this.”

“I know,” she said. “Thank you, Morgan.”

“Indeed. The man’s an inspiration.”

“It’s just a shame.”

“What’s that?”

“A shame,” she said, playing with my chest hair, “that it’s not real.”

I grabbed her hand. “What’s not real?”

“Gotcha.” She smiled.

“You’re joking.”

“Did you really think I was that much of a slut? Bad husband!”

“So you’re telling me there’s no Morgan?”

“Oh, there’s a Morgan all right. And he really did rub his big dick on my arm. I just never made the appointment.”

“Laura, you bitch!”

“You’re one to talk, you perv, pushing your wife to screw another man!”

I was legit disappointed. “And I thought this was going to be our big adventure.”

“Now don’t sulk. After all, it was a big adventure.” she grabbed my chin and turned my face to meet hers. “You said it yourself. We had incredible sex.”

“Yeah. Based on an incredible lie.”

So Saturday arrived, and it was just a normal Saturday. *******. Farmer’s market. Chores around the house. Socializing with the boring townsfolk. Blah.

Around four, I slipped away and walked to our town’s main street, where the spa was located. There’s a brew pub directly across the street. I sat alone at one of its sidewalk tables and ordered a pilsner. I kept my eye on the place, hoping to catch a sign of Morgan. But no. Just women coming and going.

I should’ve known Laura would never have gone through with something like that. I had let my dick do the thinking. Never a good idea. Damn. I just sure did miss those diamond-hard erections. I ordered another beer.

After a while, I paid the bill, got up and crossed the street.

Inside, the spa was tastefully decorated, as those places tend to be. So this is where it happened, I thought.

The only person there was a stout blonde woman behind the counter who appeared to be in her mid-to-late fifties—probably the woman who’d left them alone.

I asked some questions, pretending to be interested in a gift card for the wife. When I mentioned Morgan’s name, she paused, and her face broke into a knowing smile.

“Ah yes, Morgan. Well he’s not technically a full-time staffer, but he does work here occasionally, on a sort of, well a freelance basis. Tell me, has your wife ever had an ‘session’ with Morgan before? Hm?” Her manner was insinuating.

“No,” I quickly lied. My cheeks burned. My prick surged toward the bottom hem of my shorts. What was she implying? “Err, that is, I don’t think so.”

She lowered her voice, leaning forward. “Well I can assure you Morgan comes highly recommended. But he does tend to keep a hectic schedule.” She wrote on the back of a business card. “Why don’t I give you his email…and you can contact him directly. That’s how a lot of his clients stay in touch.” She handed me the card. Next to morgantheorgan@gmail.com she had written her name, “Darla,” with a little heart underneath it.

As I left, she purred, “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.” And then she winked at me.

Outside, feeling dizzy, I crossed the street. To calm my nerves, I chugged another beer at the brew pub. At home I grabbed another cold one from the fridge. Before the liquid courage could fade, I sat on the couch with my laptop and opened my email.

Chapter 4

Later that summer, to give us a break, Laura’s parents agreed to visit and babysit while we got a hotel room in the city for some “couples’ time,” aka, a two-day sex romp.

Late Friday afternoon, after kissing the children goodbye and waving to Laura’s parents, we set out on the short walk to the train station. With a few minutes to spare before our train, we stopped at the brew pub for happy hour.

We had barely sipped our craft beers when in walked Darla followed by a tall, good-looking black guy I immediately pegged as Morgan. If I’d had any doubts, Laura’s audible gasp at the sight of him dispelled them.

Darla recognized us and came over to say hello. I shook hands with Morgan. He was strikingly handsome but different than I expected. There was something Asiatic about his eyes and high-cheekbones, kind of like the porn star Isiah Maxwell.

They joined us for a *******, their manner lowkey and unassuming. Morgan didn’t flirt with Laura, and Darla wasn’t insinuating like she was with me that day at the spa. They were just two service employees weary after a long day.

It was only Laura who gave away the underlying sexual tension. Her eyes went glassy, and her cheeks turned rosy. I could swear even her lips seemed to swell with lust. She laughed too loud at things that weren’t funny, rambled nervously for long stretches, then lapsed into catatonic silences while gazing at Morgan like a lovestruck teenybopper. To be honest, it was kind of embarrassing.

But neither of them seemed to pay any mind to Laura’s flustered behavior. I guess both were used to women drooling over Morgan in public.

After a while, Darla finished her ******* and left, wishing us all a good weekend.

Noticing our bags, Morgan asked, “Where ya’ll heading?”

“A little getaway to the city,” I said. “For the weekend.”

“Some alone time. I heard that,” he said, sipping his IPA. “That’s how a marriage stays strong.” He smiled at me. A shudder ran through my body. It was happening.

“You’re a city guy,” my voice said, quaveringly, my mouth going dry. “Where’s a good place to hang out, near the St. Regis?”

Laura kicked me under the table.

“Saint Regis, huh?” He rubbed is chin. “Well, I might say…” He named a trendy bar.

“Cool, uh, well, we might, possibly be there around eight, if you’re…”

“Yeah, yeah, maybe I’ll see you there.” He finished his beer. “But if not, you too have fun now.” He stood, flashed us a handsome leer, and left. Had anyone known us in the bar, they wouldn’t have understood what just occurred.

When he was gone, Laura hissed, “What was that? We never discussed this.”

“Let’s discuss it now. If it’s a no, all we have to do is not show up.”

As we checked into our room, changed for dinner, and were seated at one of the city’s best French restaurants, Laura’s reluctance to meet Morgan continued to harden.

“What about disease?” she snapped. “Have you thought about that?”

I sipped red wine. “There’s a CVS across the street. I’ll buy extra-large condoms after dinner.”

But it wasn’t STDs that worried her, not really. It was the fear of flouting society’s cherished norms, something she’d spent a lifetime dreading. By dessert she was practically in tears.

“Please don’t ask me to do this,” she implored. “I just can’t. It’s too much. On so many levels. It’s just too much.”

I reached across the table and clasped her hand. “Laura, I’ve known you for 17 years. I can say for certain that a part of you really wants this. And I know that terrifies you. But for once in your life do something for yourself, without caring what the world thinks. Don’t you deserve it? Haven’t you been the good Catholic, the good wife, the good mom, the good everything?”

Her expression told me I’d hit a nerve.

“I accept that you can lust for other people. You think I don’t lust for other women sometimes? But lust isn’t the same as love. And you must believe me when I say I’ll never stop loving you no matter what happens tonight.”

“And you’re not embarrassed? For wanting this?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’d want the whole world to know. But embarrassed? No. More like excited. It’s an adventure.”

She shook her head and looked away. “We might be opening a Pandora’s box here.”

I squeezed her hand. “There’s risk in every aspect of life. I’ll be there. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Now and forever.”

“I’m not promising anything,” Laura warned. “Just one *******.”

“That’s all I ask,” I assured her.

Morgan had not steered us wrong. His recommended meeting spot was upscale, tastefully lit and crowed with mostly 30- and 40-somethings. We took seats at the bar.

When he made his entrance, he’d transformed from the weary spa employee of a few hours before. Every female head in the place turned to check him out. Sporting a form-fitting white, short-sleeved, band-collared dress shirt, tight charcoal slacks, tan dress shoes and a wide gold belt that drew attention to his bulging crotch, he looked exactly like what he was: a hot young guy on the prowl for pussy.

He greeted us like old friends, kissing and hugging Laura, complimenting her one-piece, blue and white stripped dress.

I could see my wife again reacting not only the attractive face and magnificent body but now also to the ego-flattering fact that, of all the many beautiful women in the bar, he was there to meet her—and they knew it.

We spent the next hour getting to know him as a human being, rather than a sex object, which, let’s face it, until that point was pretty much all he was to us. He turned out to be intelligent, funny and well spoken, despite not having a college degree. He knew a lot of New Age-y stuff about yoga, diet and mediation, subjects Laura follows. Although he focused mostly on her and touched her leg a couple of times to make points, his manner remained respectful, not flirtatious or vulgar.

Finally, I broke the ice by saying Laura had been nervous about meeting him tonight. This got him talking about his multiple experiences with other white couples, who were also nervous at first. He understood the dynamic of wanting to explore an interracial threesome in a safe, judgment-free zone. “In the end, none of the couples I’ve been with have regretted it,” he said. “But there’s no pressure. This is just a meet and greet. We can take things at your own pace.”

Later, when he left to use the men’s room, we looked at each other.

“This is crazy,” she said, nervously laughing.

“Bonkers,” I agreed.

“I just wasn’t expecting him to be so nice.”

“I know, right? He’s, like, cool to hang out with. You’d think he’d be arrogant, because…”

“I guess that’s why he’s so successful at…with…”

“Yeah.”

Hand trembling, she gulped her *******. “Are we really doing this?” she said.

“God help us, I think we are.” My mouth was dry again, my wish about to come true. Was I ready? Did it matter? Sexual destiny was at hand.

Back from the men’s room, Morgan announced, “Well, shall we take this party to the next level?”

I heard myself say, “Yes, let’s go back to our room for a *******.” Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Laura was silent as we all glided out to the street.

On the way to the hotel, my wife and Morgan held hands. It happened naturally, like a couple on a first date, which in some insanely bizarre way, they were. I avoided eye contact with the hotel staff as we traversed the lobby…

In the elevator, Morgan took both her hands and stared deep into her eyes. Then he kissed her gently on the lips. She responded, placing her arms around his shoulders, and before long they were passionately making out. This somehow caught me by surprise. We’d fantasied about every conceivable sex act with Morgan—but never kissing. Maybe because of its innocent, romantic connotations. Which of course made it all the more erotic to watch.

Suddenly I remembered something I had wanted to say earlier. “Ah, Morgan.” I tapped him on the shoulder. “If I could just quickly interject. Please be gentle with her. We’ve never done anything like, and I just want everything to go smoothly.”

Briefly breaking the kiss, he said, “No worries, boss,” and gave me a wink. Then he grabbed Laura’s plump ass with both hands and their tongues intertwined again.

Once in the room, they continued kissing, and Laura immediately started rubbing the growing bulge in his pants. She moaned in lust at first contact with the cock she had spent so many weeks dreaming about.

He placed both hands on her shoulders. Needing no other persuasion, she sank to her knees and fumbled with his belt buckle and zipper. He watched indulgently as she lowered his slacks, and, fingers trembling, grasped the waistband of his briefs. In one over-eager motion, she stripped the underwear down, and his giant cock sprang forth, bumping her chin. Her hand encircled the base and lifted it skyward.

“Oh my God,” she marveled, finding her voice for the first time since leaving the bar. “Will you look at this thing. It’s even more gorgeous than I imagined!” She craned her neck to inspect it from different angles, spellbound by its grandeur.

She was right to be. To see it in person was nothing short of awe-inspiring. The giant prick became the main focus of the room. It was at least 10 inches long and very wide, with an even wider, prominent head. The shaft had a slight leftward curve.

Laura clumsily attempted to suck the colossal slab of man-meat before her. Although she’d practiced many times on our toys, she’d never blown one from a kneeling position. Plus none of our dildos were as wide as Morgan’s girthy shaft. So she spent a lot of time awkwardly kissing along the sides and licking underneath the head.

Despite her inexperience, she was clearly in cock-worship heaven. Her eyes were closed much of the time, and her frequent moans of delight filled the air. She rubbed the heavy dick flesh all over her face, chin, lips and forehead, indulging in its tactile realness. Every so often, she inhaled deeply, savoring his young masculine pheromones.

She may have been enjoying it even more than he was. Eventually he reached down, gently grasped her wrists and pulled her to her feet. Then he took the bottom hem of her dress and lifted it over her head, revealing her white bra and panties. Juices from her excited pussy had caused a large wet spot at her crotch.

“Little help, hubby?” Morgan said, meaning the bra.

Snapping out of my voyeuristic trance, I came behind Laura and unclasped her bra, which fell to the floor. I then helped her step out of the sodden panties, both of us quaking with nerves. During this, Morgan shed his remaining clothes, exposing a gym-toned trapezoidal build.

The room had a small living area and a bedroom in the back, connected by a short hallway with a bathroom. Morgan led my wife to the couch and they sat down.

“Why don’t you have a seat there,” he said to me, gesturing to the chair opposite the couch. “That’ll give you a good view.”

Morgan leaned back, giving Laura access to this granite-hard cock, aimed directly at the ceiling. In addition to its size, the rigidity of that flesh tower made me green with envy, the kind of steely hardness Viagra can approximate but only young men can truly achieve.

Laura, whose eyes had never left his cock during the undressing and moving to the couch, advanced on her phallic fixation with the hungry look of a predator stalking its prey. Kneeling beside him she encircled the shaft with both hands and jacked it up and down, biting her bottom lip.

“Open your mouth as wide as you can and relax your throat muscles,” Morgan coached.

Seemingly more confident from this angle, her mouth descended and my wife somehow managed to engulf the whole head and much of the shaft into her oral cavity.

“There you go, that’s how it’s done,” he hissed, getting into it. “Now take it a little further.”

“Mmmmffff,” she vocalized affirmatively, getting another inch down. After a few tense seconds, she jerked her head back up, releasing the dick, strands of saliva trailing. “I did it! Did I do good?” she exclaimed with baby-like glee.

“You’re doing great, baby. Go head, keep on it.”

She greedily stuffed the giant cock back in her orifice, eyes shut in rapture, this time double-fisting the shaft with more vigor, causing his heavy balls to flop and up and down on the couch material and her tits to jiggle sexily. This mental snapshot is one of my all-time most erotic memories. It holds a hallowed place in my “spank bank,” and to this day I often conjure the scene while masturbating.

His pleasure building, Morgan whispered encouraging words like “That’s it, suck that big black cock,” and “Show that dick love,” as sloppy-wet slurping noises filled the room.

After a while, he seized a handful of her blonde hair, pulling her mouth off his cock. He looked over at me and caught my eye.

“Watch this,” he said.

Then he started slapping my wife’s face with his cock. Not in a playful way, but in a rough, domineering fashion, all while keeping a vice grip on her hair. The meaty slapping sound of his black cudgel against her cheek assaulted my ears.

“You like that cock, huh? Tell hubby how much you like my big cock.”

Her voice was so hoarse with lust I could barely recognize it: “Oh, Gawd, yes, I love it! I love your big black cock. I’ve been dreaming of a cock like this my whole frickin’ life!”

He gripped her hair tighter and demanded, “Call me sir, slut!” giving her face another hard slap. This turned her on so intensely I actually saw a shutter run through her pale body. “Yes, sir. I love your cock, sir,” she submissively mewled. Then he gave her plump ass a powerful, open-handed slap—so hard it must have hurt—but all she did was moan docilly.

This was clearly his response to my asking he be “gentle” with her. He was showing he could do the exact opposite, treat her like a cheap whore, bend her to his will, and still she would worship him. After knowing her only hours, he could predict my wife’s sexual responses better than her husband of 14 years.

What could I say? Clearly she was loving it. I could do nothing but look on, caught between dread and lust, as this young man leveraged my sweet Laura’s size obsession to control her. She continued passionately blowing him. Her eyes watered and periodically she gagged.

Finally, after what seemed like hour but might’ve only been five minutes, he announced. “You ready to have a real dick inside you, slut?”

For the first time since the bar, Laura looked directly at me. Her lips were swollen and her eye makeup was running, an oddly blank look on her face. Was she asking permission?

Then it hit me. Condoms!

I rummaged my pockets and handed her the Magnum packets I’d bought at the drugstore.

When he saw them, Morgan scoffed, “Nah, boss. Those things can’t capacitate Morgan’s organ.”

Laura tore open a packet and struggled vainly to roll it onto the massive girth. After several seconds, she finally got it on, only for it almost instantly to break. She looked up at me with apologetic, lustful eyes: “He’s right. They’re useless.”

“Told y’all,” he said. “But don’t worry Laura. I’m gonna cum on that pretty face anyway.” My wife’s guttural groan in response told me lack of contraceptives would not stop this fuck from happening.

Getting to her feet, she straddled his hips and slowly lowered her curvaceous ass down toward that fencepost-like appendage, pausing when the tip touched her folds. forsing the flaring, extra-large head inside her would be a challenge. She rubbed it back and forth along her labia, wetting it with juices. Bending at the knees, she tried to impale herself but there was too much resistance. It was just too big. They struggled for several minutes, working as a team, trying to get it in, until Laura started to lose patience.

“I need it in me,” she growled in frustration. “I want it in me now. C’mon, get…it…in…THERE!”

One thing about Laura: when she wants something, she gets it, no matter what the cost. With characteristic grim determination, she finally just let all her weight fall downward on the giant monster between her legs.

Her first reaction was an ascending wail of pain. Then her haunches dropped and I watched in amazement as at least six inches of cock length burst through the stretched-out ring of her pussy hole.

“Owwwww, oh, God in heaven, it hurts. It hurts so damn much,” she whimpered. “Morgan your big dick is splitting me in two.”

This stage was difficult to watch, similar to the feelings I had seeing her suffer through childbirth…Fortunately the pain didn’t last. On the third or fourth trip up and down the half-length implanted in her loins, a thin sheen of white foam appeared on the black cock flesh, and her groans of pain became moans of pleasure. Again, Morgan was quietly supportive, muttering under his breath, “There you go, girl. Get that dick. You can do it,” as his hips began moving up and down, slowly matching her rhythm.

“Damn, Morgan, I can’t believe I’m taking it. It’s so big. I can’t believe I can get it all in.”

“You like it? Feel good?”

“Ooh, I do,” she gasped, still moving. “You’re making a new woman out of me.”

“Yeah, baby. I’m gonna fuck your married pussy so good!” the young stud vowed.

“Oh, God, Morgan, I…I,” she trailed off, losing the power of speech as she sat all the way down, impaling herself on the huge cock to the hilt, his bloated balls mashing up against her pink asshole.

Now his aggressiveness returned. He drove his cock in and out of her with increasing ******* and length of stroke. They braced themselves by joining hands, palm to palm, fingers entwined, and then he really started to pummel her.

With machine-like speed and power, he hammered his cock into her womanhood, his torso becoming a blur. Every time their bodies collided, ripples ran through Laura’s ass and hip flesh, and those big balls walloped against her anal cavity, making a hollow cupping sound. This merciless onslaught went on for at least a minute, maybe longer, until the foam on his cock thickened into a white froth that became so copious excess gobs of it were thrown from the action, landing on his balls, thighs and the carpet.

Suddenly, Laura stood, releasing the dick. She let out a sound like someone had punched her in the stomach, and her pussy erupted in a shower of clear liquid that cascaded in all directions like water from a fire-sprinkler. It soaked down into the couch and carpet fabric and droplets of it glistened on his black skin.

Temporarily spent, she collapsed forward onto his broad chest.

“Whew!” she cried with a nervous laugh. “I knew I’d cum, but I didn’t think it’d happen so fast.” This was the first time Laura I’d ever seen Laura ever orgasm without direct clitoral stimulation.

His large hand encircled her throat, and he pulled her back down on his cock. He said, “You ain’t seen nothing yet, slut,” With that, he palmed both her ass cheeks and lifted her clean off the couch, standing up while carrying her, his cock still sunk in her pussy—an astonishing feat of strength, given Laura is not a small woman.

Cock buried in her snatch, he walked her down the hallway, her pale arms and legs clinging to him as she squealed with laughter, finally laying her down on one of the double beds in the bedroom. My mind in a state of disbelief, I followed.

At the bedside, I watched as he seized both her slim ankles, pinned her legs back and resumed plundering my wife’s willing pussy. Unlike my vantage point on the couch, here I had a clear, up-close view of the juncture of their connected genitals.

It was devastating. To see the tortured labial lips tightly stretched over his massive girth, another man’s cock occupying the canal that bore my children, wreaked utter havoc on my mind and soul. It was only then that I understood the extent to which I was well and truly cuckolded.

On some primal level, I think Laura sensed it too, because she said something that put me in my place.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” she snapped. “We’re putting on a show for you and we want to know it’s appreciated. Jerk that little dick, white boy.”

I was at a loss. During their encounter, my cock had been semi-hard off and on, but I’d been more concerned with Laura’s safety and enjoyment than pleasuring myself. Now, at the thought of exposure, my dick shriveled. Completely dwarfed by Morgan’s Goliath member, my little guy was shamed into impotence.

Morgan’s deep voice came to my rescue. He said, “Go ahead, boss. No reason you shouldn’t enjoy yourself.” His tone was gruff yet understanding, offsetting Laura’s humiliating words.

Again, he’d read the room and struck the perfect note, showing a mastery of the cuckold dynamic. Permission granted, suddenly I wasn’t reluctant to remove my pants and jerk my hard dick, which I did, with pleasure.

Meanwhile, Laura and Morgan resumed fucking. Morgan put my wife’s throat in a chokehold again and kept up the relentless pounding. She looked up at him, a mixture of surprise and awe in her eyes. It seemed the experience was surpassing even her wildest dreams. A sheen of sweat covered his body, which moved as gracefully as a professional athlete’s. I think Laura’s got as much pleasure from the visuals of the gorgeous stud fucking her as from the massive cock stretching her pussy.

Jerking my modest cock, I suddenly embraced my role in this drama, one I now could see repeating itself endlessly down human history: the alpha male’s claiming of the beta male’s life-mate. My hardon and Laura’s cries of bliss gave approval to nature’s immutable laws…the strong dominate the weak…the young overtake the old…everyone finding their proper place in the sexual hierarchy…

Another orgasm was boiling in Laura’s loins. Her breaths were getting short and choppy. Morgan’s strokes got shorter too. Weight on top of her now, his cock buried almost to the hilt, he was probing unexplored depths of her inner womb. I saw her legs spasmodically jerking. Her fingers clawed at his back.

“Oh, God, keeping doing that, right there. So deep, so deep, so deep…” she chanted, as her pleasure mounted.

“That’s it, slut, cum on my cock. Let it go now.”

Her eyes rolled back in her head and her body convulsed, pushed over the edge by the deeply submerged monster cock, which she later confessed had penetrated some never-before accessed chamber inside her, possibly the uterus itself.

“OH JESUS CHRIST, MORGAN, I’M CUMMING AGAIN!!! I’M CUMMING ON YOUR HUGE COCK!!! FUCK, MORGAN, KEEP FUCKING ME, KEEP FUCKING ME FOREVER!!!”

Again, her pussy gushed, squirting around the perimeter of his cock, soaking the bedspread.

After her spasms had subsided, Morgan paused, catching his breath and letting them both recover. Then he slowly dismounted, pulling his length from my wife’s stretched-out pussy, which now obscenely gaped at me, as it had that first night with the dildo. Clumps of white froth clung to both their privates.

Needing a break, Morgan laid back on the pillows. “Say, boss, think you could get me some water?” he asked.

Prick still stiff, I scurried to the bathroom to fetch a *******. It occurred to me that, as the host, I should’ve ordered room service refreshments beforehand. In the coming years, I’d learn to anticipate such details.

When I returned, another mind-bending sight greeted me. My wife, who in 14 years of marriage refused to so much as touch my dick if it had a drop of her pussy juice on it, had her head buried in Morgan’s crotch, using her mouth to clean up the froth from his black cock, submissively lapping it up like the sweetest ambrosia.

After Laura had cleared the sperm, sweat and pussy juice from his cock and balls to his satisfaction, and Morgan drank some water, he ordered her to get on all fours, saying, “Let me see that big booty.”

On his knees behind her, he slapped his heavy cock against her ass, causing ripples in the pale flesh. Then he slapped it on her pussy from the underside, gaging its wetness. Moving his hips forward, the massive cock once again invaded my wife’s abused vaginal tube.

She closed her eyes and lowered her face into the mattress, gripping the bedspread, as he fucked her. “Oh, Morgan, your cock is so big. It fills me up. You fucking fuck me so good, but it hurts!”

“I know, Laura. But you’ll get used to it. All my wives do, once their pussies get re-sized.”

“So this is, uh, not a one-time thing?” she asked, as he continued pounding her.

“No way, Laura. You’re one hot lady. You could definitely be one of my regulars.”

“I’d like that, Morgan,” she gushed. “I’d like that so very much.”

“One condition, though.”

“What? Uh, anything.”

“I get to share this sweet pussy with my friends.”

“Ooh, Morgan,” she mewled. “I love it when you say nasty things like that. It’s so hot!”

“Hubby be okay with that?” He spoke as if I wasn’t there.

“He’d better be,” she said with an evil laugh. “He doesn’t have a choice!”

“Good girl.” He then fucked her to yet another orgasm. After which, he said, “Now come around here. Lemme cum on that pretty face.”

With obedient haste, Laura got on her back and scooted underneath Morgan’s raging hardon.

Morgan jerked his cock, aiming at her face.

“God, I love fucking married women!” he bellowed, and erupted ribbon after ribbon of thick white jizz, landing in strips, mostly across her cheeks, lips, nose, forehead and eyes, but some getting in her hair and on her neck.

Covered in a gooey mess, she smiled brightly and then broke into a joyous laugher, as if the facial was a reward she had worked hard for and was happy to receive.

“Woo-wee, that was good,” Morgan sighed, falling back on the bed, his softening cock slapping his thigh. He wiped sweat from his brow.

“Oh my God, Morgan.” Laura exclaimed, still laughing. “Oh. My. God. That felt like a huge load.” She looked at me. “Is it a huge one, hon?”

“It’s not small,” I replied. “Go look in the bathroom mirror.”

Shakily, she got to her feet and entered the bathroom.

“Ahh, look at that,” we heard her cry. “Ha! I love it. What a great finish.”

Morgan looked at me and whispered, “Told you it’d be fun.”

Of course, our meeting him at the brew pub had been no coincidence. Via email, we’d been planning the chance meeting for weeks.

“Beyond fun,” I said. “I couldn’t be happier.”

He finished his water. “Check on your wife,” he said. “Make sure she’s cool.”

In the bathroom, Laura was at the sink, washing cum and smeared makeup from her face. She smiled at me in the mirror.

“Well, you finally got your wish. You’re officially a cuckold. How’s it feel?”

“I’m still processing it,” I replied. “But he seems on board.” I gestured to my hard dick.

“Hm. I guess that’s a good start.” She turned to face me. “By the way, I’m sorry about some of the things I said back there. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was just—”

“I know. You were in the moment. Actually, to be honest, it was kinda hot.”

“Really? Hm. Interesting.” She looked down. “Your little solider is ready to shoot?”

“God yes.”

She grabbed my cock from underneath, moving her hand back and forth, looking at it with mild disinterest.

“C’mon, cum for wifey. Your naughty wife wants to see hubby’s cum.”

That was all it took. I shot my wad all over the toilet seat.

 

[Tilda Blixen]

Chapter 5

Things progressed pretty quickly after that. Laura began meeting Morgan two or three times a month, always in hotel rooms (which we paid for); sometimes with me present, sometimes not. At first it was great, with all parties benefiting from the arrangement. Over time, though, Laura developed feelings for him. Leveraging this, he manipulated her into some borderline behavior. For example, one drunken night he took her anal virginity. Admittedly, in the moment, she loved it, but afterwards (she couldn’t sit for a week) she felt a line had been crossed.

Shortly thereafter, Morgan’s interest cooled. He eventually passed her off to a friend, one of several with whom he’d already shared her (she’d been the center of two or three small all-black gangbangs by that point).

That set the pattern for our involvement in “the lifestyle,” as it’s called: Laura will fixate on a “boyfriend”—always young, black, clean-cut, and sexually dominant—for about six months to a year or so. He’ll push her to some new extreme (anal sex, double penetration, cum swallowing, nipple piercing, ass eating, forbidding her to have sex with me, etc.). Then he’ll slowly lose interest. At which point, she’ll find a new stud, and the cycle repeats. I spend a lot of time facilitating this process by screening adult-friend finder websites for potential playmates.

We’re in our early 50s now, so I’m not sure how much longer we can keep it up. But, honestly, we have no regrets. My only complaint—and it’s a minor one—is how Laura has changed physically. To stay attractive on the hyper-competitive sexual market, she lost about 40 pounds, and with it went those voluptuous curves. By conventional standards, she’s hotter than when I met her (think present-day Nicole Kidman). But I miss the girl-next-door look of yesteryear.

People always ask: what do I get out of it? Well, certainly not traditional sex. Laura and I almost never have vaginal intercourse anymore. My sexual release mostly involves “supervised masturbation,” that is, me jacking off while Laura describes her latest exploits. But even this may be curtailed based on her current lover’s whims.

No, my gratification comes from jealousy, which I experience daily, as intensely as when Laura first made her massage confession. People think jealousy is negative, but they’re wrong. It’s life-affirming. Jealousy always lusts for what it cannot have. Jealousy is the unquenchable thirst that gives life to all erotic longing. Because I’ll never have the cock Laura so badly craves, my desire for her will never be satisfied—it’s literally everlasting. And, for me, that’s as good a description as any for the conflicted, irrational set of emotions we call love.