Unleashed Desires

My name is Chris, and my wife is Michele. We're both twenty-six and have been married for four years. It was one of those sweltering, humid Southern summer nights, the air thick with heat and unspoken desires. Through the viewfinder of my video camera, Michele looked hotter than the night itself--her legs flailing in the air as my former Marine buddy, Ron C. Gardner, nicknamed Bull, drove his massive cock into her with relentless force. His thrusts were like a jackhammer, pounding her slick, eager pussy without mercy. Michele didn't beg for any; her moans begged for more.

But I'm jumping ahead. Let me take you back to where it all began--nearly a week earlier.

The Reunion

Bull and I enlisted in the Marines together, hailing from the same small town but strangers until that first day. Bull, a towering black man, had earned his nickname not just from his football days but from the monstrous endowment swinging between his legs. We bonded during basic training, but after that, the Corps split us up--different schools, different stations. I last saw him four years ago in Brisbane, Australia, where we tore through gin mills and whorehouses during a wild liberty stint. There, I glimpsed the beast he unleashed on a willing girl, her cries of pleasure echoing as his thick, brown shaft worked her over. After that, Bull couldn't pay for a fuck Down Under--word spread too fast.

I got out, came home, married Michele--my high school sweetheart--and started a video business. Weddings, reunions, commercials--whatever paid the bills. It was lean at first, but Michele and I scraped by. She didn't want kids, and neither did I. Our sex life was decent, though I sensed she craved something more, something she wouldn't name.

Last week, I was tinkering in my shop's back room when the front door chimed. Out front stood Bull, grinning wide, a little bulkier, his head shaved smooth. "Son of a bitch," I laughed. "Should've locked the door--look what walked in!" We hugged, and I asked, "Where'd you blow in from?"

"Visiting my folks," he said. "Saw your ad in the paper, figured it might be you. Drove over in my new Lincoln Town Car."

"Put that Marine training to use," I said. "You still in?"

"Nah, got out two years back. Disagreement with the brass. You holding up?"

"Doing alright now. What about you?"

"This and that," he said evasively. "Ran a stable in Florida 'til some john roughed up one of my girls. Too much heat, so I bolted."

"Horses?" I asked, confused.

He chuckled. "No, dumbass--whores. Still slow as ever, Chrisy-boy. Married? Kids?"

"Married, no kids. Come back, I'll wrap up, and we'll grab a beer."

"Or two," he added, laughing.

An hour later, we were at Murphy's Bar, three beers deep, catching up. I called Michele at work, telling her I was bringing an old buddy home for dinner. She grumbled, but when she met Bull, his charm flipped her mood like a switch.

"Damn, girl," Bull said as she walked in, "you're a sight. How'd Chrisy-boy snag a babe like you?"

Michele blushed, her eyes dancing, and excused herself to change. "Man," Bull whispered, "no way a little white guy like you satisfies that."

"Down, boy," I teased. "Private property."

"Sure," he said, sipping his beer. "If you need help tending the grounds, holler."

Michele returned in tight short shorts and a pink halter top, her braless 38D breasts swaying freely. Bull's gaze devoured her. We ordered pizza, cracked open a case of beer, and Bull spun tales--some true, some bullshit.

"Chris never told me about those Australian whorehouses," Michele teased.

"Not much to tell," I said. "Just watched Bull's back."

"Yeah, right," she snorted. "Stayed true to me, huh?"

"Of course," I deadpanned, drunk but serious. "Knew you were true to me too." Her smile faltered. I'd stumbled into murky waters--rumors of her infidelity while I was away had reached me years ago. Bull smirked, sensing the tension.

"Why do they call you Bull?" Michele asked, steering us clear.

"All the men in my family are big," he said. "Started in high school."

"Mean?"

"Nope. Cock like a Brahma bull." His tone was flat, factual.

Michele's face flamed red. "Oh," she managed, then laughed. "That explains it."

We polished off the beer, and Bull left around eleven. I was half-asleep when Michele pounced, naked and ravenous. "I need my man," she purred, straddling me. As I thrust into her wet heat, images flickered--her with Scott Dexter, Lenoard Rhodes, then Bull. She rode me hard, insatiable, climaxing twice before I collapsed, wondering how much truth lay in those old rumors.

Confessions Ignite

Next day, Bull swung by as I locked up shop. We hit Murphy's again, and I called Michele to join us. She agreed fast, saying she'd change first. Bull and I got a head start on the beers.

"Those whorehouse stories get you in trouble?" he asked.

"Nope," I said. "We fucked like rabbits. She wore me out."

"Probably picturing my black bull dick," he grinned.

"Did you know Lenoard Rhodes?" I asked, sidestepping.

"Yeah, played for your shitty team. Works for Marcus Williams now. Why?"

"Name came up once."

Michele arrived in a slinky black dress, neckline plunging, thighs teasing the hem. She looked edible. Ordering a margarita, she caught up quick--three drinks in, we were buzzing. Bull regaled us with pimp tales.

"You were a pimp?" Michele's eyes widened.

"Client services manager," he said with mock dignity.

"Meaning?"

"Pimp," he laughed. "Funny you mentioned Lenoard, Chris. Saw him recently."

Michele stiffened, staring at me--shock? Fear? "Works for Marcus Williams," Bull went on. "Runs girls, loans, dope. Lenoard's his muscle."

"Why'd you bring up Lenoard?" she asked, voice small.

"You know Ted, right?" I said. "Scott Dexter's pal. You knew Scott too."

Bull's next story saved her from replying. Later, drunk and fumbling with my pants, she cornered me. "Why Lenoard Rhodes?"

"His name popped up," I slurred. "Still see him? Scott?"

"No, not since you came home," she said, pale in her teddy. "How'd you know?"

"Dexter bragged. Punched him out. Wondered what was true."

"I don't know what he said," she began, sitting up. "I was nineteen, lonely. You were gone, I was lost." She paused. "Scott asked me out forever; I finally said yes. Dated a year. No sex at first, then we did it at his place. I wasn't a virgin--you took that before you left. I needed sex, and he gave it."

"Lenoard?"

"We're clearing the air, right?" she whispered. "One night at Scott's, Lenoard was there. We drank, smoked dope, and Scott started groping me. I hinted Lenoard should go, but Scott laughed. Soon, I was naked, Scott inside me. I didn't care who watched. He came fast, then held my legs for Lenoard. I might've protested, but Lenoard's size, his passion--I came so much. They swapped all night."

"Not the last time?"

"No," she murmured, stroking my hardening cock. "Almost nightly. Sometimes one, usually both. Scott got me into anal. Didn't love it, but when they doubled me, I did. I'd ride Lenoard, Scott in my ass--intense orgasms."

She climbed atop me, and we fucked fiercely, her screams echoing as she came. After, she continued, "Lenoard brought Marcus Williams once. He stripped me, squeezed my breasts hard, kissed me while Lenoard fingered me. Marcus's cock--nine and a half inches, thick as a can--overwhelmed me. He fucked me thirty minutes, calling me slut, whore. I came endlessly. They took turns for hours. Scott came home, pissed, but Marcus didn't care. Told me to grab my shit and go with him. I did--became his bitch."

"How'd you like it?" My cock swelled again.

"Like I wasn't me," she said, sucking me briefly. "Lost in black cock. Family didn't know. Marcus fucked me or his girls; if not, I was loaned out. Once, naked for days, fucked nonstop. Lost my job, flunked school."

"How long?"

"Two years. Your letter about coming home woke me up. I quit, moved back, rebuilt."

"Marcus?"

"Mad, but he had others. Hassled me, then stopped." Tears fell. "I've dreaded you finding out."

"Dexter told me early on. Thought it was just casual."

"What sparked this now?"

"You with Bull--alive, sexual."

"Something woke in me near him. I've been faithful since you returned. Will this change us?"

"Maybe," I said. "I'm not mad you fucked around. I'm mad I didn't see it, join in. I want to."

"You want me with other men? Black men?"

"Yes," I said instantly. We talked hours, fucked again, and slept, thankful for Saturday.

The Escalation

Bull called mid-morning, inviting us to Smithville. After a scenic drive and lunch, we waited while he handled business in a dingy building. Two men emerged with him--one massive. They shook hands, and Bull drove us to Smith Lake.

Michele's red bikini--strings and scraps--turned heads. She and Bull splashed, his hands grazing her breasts, her top slipping once to flash a nipple. I watched from the shore, sipping beer.

On the way back, we hit a lingerie shop. Bull offered to buy anything if she'd model it. I agreed, and $300 later, we headed home. I set up the camera for her show, music pulsing a primal beat.

Michele strutted in a blue gown, shedding it to reveal a teddy. Next, a red negligee, then a black teddy, her breasts bouncing. A gauzy white drape teased her nudity beneath. Finally, just bikini bottoms, she posed before Bull, hands on hips. "See anything you like?"

He fingered her pussy, pulling her onto his lap. They kissed, his hands mauling her breasts. Gasping, she dragged him to the bedroom, yelling, "Bring the camera!"

She tore off his clothes, kneeling to worship his ten-inch cock. "Gorgeous," she breathed, sucking expertly. Bull grinned. "How do you want it?"

"On my back," she said, spreading wide. He teased her slit, then plunged in, her scream piercing as he stretched her. He pounded, her body flushing, orgasms crashing over her. After fifteen minutes, he came, cum leaking as he flipped her for doggy style. She barked like a bitch in heat.

I joined, feeding her my cock. She sucked hungrily, and I came fast. We broke at midnight, watched the tape--her vocal lust reigniting us. Naked between us, she gripped our cocks. "Biggest I've had," she told Bull. "Deeper than Marcus."

"Want bigger?" he asked.

"Bigger?" we echoed.

"Smokey Joe. Inch longer, way thicker. Loves white girls--few take him."

The Climax

Next day, Michele slept off her exhaustion. Bull pitched a job: editing porn for Smokey Joe. "Five hundred per tape, fifty an hour, max seven-fifty," I negotiated. We met Joe at my shop--a seven-foot, four-hundred-pound giant with a soft voice.

"Nice setup," he said. "Bull says you can edit?"

"If the footage isn't trash," I replied. "No kids, or it's back unedited."

"No sick shit," he assured. "Threesomes, gangbangs, one chick with an eel--that's the weirdest."

"Deal. Start now?"

"Got fifty tapes. More later."

At Murphy's, Michele asked, "An eel?"

"Thrashing gets her off," Joe said. Bull bragged about our video, and Joe wanted to see it. Michele agreed.

Home, I played it. She entered in the blue gown, sitting between them. As her on-screen self sucked Bull, Joe groaned. Bull unsnapped her gown, both men suckling her nipples. She whimpered, "Take me to bed."

Joe stripped, revealing a cock thicker than Bull's, tapered but massive. "Oh God, Chris," Michele gasped. "Can I take it?"

"You will," I said, fucking her first for lube. Bull followed, stretching her wide. Then Joe lay back, and Bull lowered her onto his monster. She sobbed, inching down, Bull massaging her clit. Halfway, she rode slowly, then screeched as Bull pushed her fully down. Pain morphed to pleasure, and she fucked Joe hard, climaxing relentlessly until she fainted.

Reviving, she took Bull, then Joe again, staying conscious. They each fucked her four times, I joined once--her pussy hot, loose, divine. She took Bull anally but declined Joe's girth there. At midnight, she kissed them goodbye, exhausted but sated.

Our marriage transformed--no regrets, just raw, open desire, sparked by Bull's return.