"I think I know what it is," he replied.
Karen was stunned silent.
Craig entered the walk-in closet and emerged carrying something.
"Does it have something to do with this?" he spat angrily, shaking the enormous black dildo in her face.
She thought: Oh, if only that were the whole story. "Craig, please calm down. Let me talk."
"I'm tired of being calm, Karen!" For some absurd reason, despite his anger, he had a raging hardon.
"News is probably all over town by now! It's the big joke at every dinner party. Ha, ha, Craig Naylor can't satisfy his wife!"
She was confused. "Why would anyone know? You think I want people knowing about this?"
Craig almost spoke but stopped.
Karen sensed he was hiding something. "Craig, what are you not telling me?"
"Craig!" she snapped. It was an order.
"Alex may have seen it."
"Alex? Alex Kinkler? What on earth was the babysitter doing in our bedroom?"
He stammered and turned red-faced. "She, she was, we, paperwork—don't change the subject!"
Craig never could lie. Karen immediately discerned the truth.
"No, Craig! Not with that child! We know her parents, for God's sake!"
Her head spun. She almost passed out. Here she was turning down multiple opportunities to sleep with hot young guys, all while her husband had been shagging the babysitter!
The rage, the guilt, the hangover, the pills, the booze, all coalesced into a white-hot need to hurt this man in front of her.
"In Vegas," she hissed, "I sucked a male stripper's dick. It was three times the size of yours. His cock did more for me in my mouth than yours ever did anywhere else in me."
Now Craig was speechless.
He looked at the rubber sex toy in his hand. "Was the...was he black?"
Their youngest daughter, roused by the yelling, cried from down the hall.
Eyes downcast, Craig tossed the dildo on the bed and went to sooth the child.
Karen slammed the door behind him and locked it; then sat on the bed and cried furious tears.
Eventually, with help from another Xanax Brandee had given her for the trip home, she calmed down. She had to work in the morning and needed to shower and get to bed. She'd be damned if she'd let her career go down the tubes along with her marriage.
When she took off her suit jacket, the noticed the cum stains on her blouse and prayed no one had noticed them during the flight.
Emptying business cards from her suit-jacket pockets, she found another reminder of her wild night. It was Silva Bullet's elongated silver-lamé jock strap, which he had given her as a memento, she now recalled.
Holding the long sliver cock sheath in her hand, the look and feel—the tangible physical reality—of that awesome phallus came rushing back to her. This thing really had occurred. It wasn't a dream. What had happened in Vegas had not, in fact, stayed in Vegas...
In spite of everything, a gut-churning spasm of lust rolled through her body. Exhausted as she was from her trip and the marital quarrel, she nevertheless promised herself a masturbation session after showering.
But then when she undressed completely and saw her naked body in the mirror, she knew couldn't wait even that long.
Someone had inked words on her alabaster tits with a black Sharpie pen. Across one smallish boob was written: "Property of Silva Bullet." Across the other: "Married White Bitch," with a spade symbol next to it. She had no memory of how the writing got there.
Viewing the markings hit her libido like a sledgehammer. Her right hand flew to her clit, frigging furiously. The white mom almost came right there. But she delayed it, knowing how to intensify the moment.
She hopped on the bed with the dildo and the jock strap. Holding the pheromone-soaked material up to her face, she inhaled deeply, savoring the ruttish scent. Then she worked the huge cock into her sopping wet cunt.
"Oh, God, yes, give it to me you fucking stud, give me that big black cock." she hissed. "Fuck me good. Make me your married white bitch!"
The phrase married white bitch reverberated in her mind, inflaming her passion, while the primordial scent of African man meat saturated her olfactory senses.
This potent combination, plus the tranquilizers' muscle relaxing effects, caused her pussy to open wider and surrender fresh territory to the invading dildo. Extreme horniness allowed for deeper penetration than ever before.
Teeth clenched, neck muscles straining, she packed in another inch. Filled to the brim, her hungry pussy somehow still she craved more length. Finally, with a sharp twinge of pain, the flared mushroom head bumped into her cervix.
Exhaling suddenly, she withdrew a few inches and caught her breath. Lust-crazed though she was, she worried she couldn't go on.
But then she pictured the hurt-little-boy look on Craig's face when she told him about blowing the stripper's superior cock. The image was so erotic it inspired her to throw back her head, open her mouth in a silent scream, and plunge in the phallus up to the balls.
That's when some internal mechanism activated, a process she'd never experienced. She could feel her cervix retract, creating an expanded space inside the womb, which the final inches of the giant black intruder quickly occupied.
She held the fake cock there motionless, precariously poised between ecstasy and fear. Trembling, looking down at her midriff, she guessed the head must be lodged all the way up behind her navel. But she felt no pain; only an overfilled satisfaction, a primitive itch she never knew existed being scratched at last.
After a tense few moments, she dared to move the shaft ever so slightly, just shimmying it a tiny fraction back and forth.
That was all it took. Her eyes rolled back in her head and every muscle convulsed as in a grand mal epileptic seizure. An electric current of bliss scorched through every synapse in her central nervous system. This was a full-body orgasm with no point of origin or terminus, hitting everywhere at once with equal force—her limbs, her skin, her brain. Even her bones seemed somehow to vibrate with it.
As the rapturous spasms subsided and the muscle quivering slowed, the exhausted wife lost all power of movement. All she could do was lie there immobile, pinned like a butterfly by the giant brown lance, inwardly gawking in astonishment at having discovered yet another level of carnal satisfaction. It appeared the cervix expansion caused by the extra-long cock had sparked a delicious new category of vaginal orgasm.
Was there no limit to the delights in the palatial mansion of human sexuality? She seemed to keep finding secret doors and stairwells, ascending from one spectacular room to the next.
And why did the phrase married white bitch trigger her so? Such degrading words would have offended her a few months ago. Now they just sounded like a playful pet name. She even took warped pride in having earned the moniker.
But the phrase also had another ego-stroking meaning for Karen: that wives held an advantage over women like Brandee. Many black men preferred married, straight-edged, soccer-mom types to slutty single women. To conquer and degrade an upper-class married woman was to strike a sexualized blow against the patriarchal white male, hitting him where it hurts. This psycho-social erotic drama made for incredibly hot sex not only for black men but white women too. It brought together strangers from two totally different cultures. It transcended the limits of physical beauty, as in the case of Dr. Dave's loyalty to Val.
She carefully withdrew the dildo, leaving her empty pussy hole feeling as roomy as the Lincoln Tunnel.
For the first time since her interracial obsession began, she suffered no post-orgasm guilt. If there was a silver lining to the cloud of Craig's adultery, that was it: She no longer had to be as ashamed of her own extramarital passion.
She brought the chocolate dildo to eye level. "I missed you so much while I was gone, Mr. XL. Let's never be apart again."
Then she snuggled up with the cock between her graffiti-marred tits, turned on her side, and fell into a deep drugged sleep.