Another Roll of the Dice

Her husband had told her not to come. "If you go where you don't belong," he had lectured her, "sooner or later you'll get put in your place."

It wasn't like her not to listen to her husband. She was old school. Or maybe she was just old. She felt it sometimes, that's for sure. Their daughter was all grown up and married off. They were empty nesters now.

Maybe that's why she felt compelled to visit the stately manor into which Roger Knightly moved his new bride after the wedding. At the moment, Vanessa's house was as empty as her own. The newlyweds were honeymooning in the Seychelles. Photographs of smooth, wind-polished granite rising dramatically out of turquoise waters were already scrolling across the digital picture frame in their bedroom. Not that she was snooping around. She was there to decorate and liven up the place -- so the newlyweds wouldn't return to a cold, sterile house. Or at least that's what she told herself.

In truth, the house was already decorated with impeccable good taste. The elegant interior was in no way enhanced by her chintzy decorations. Their "great room" earned its name, with windows on two sides that were more like walls of glass and a dramatically vaulted ceiling. The cheap vinyl "Just Married" banner that she thumbtacked to the wall wasn't exactly necessary to warm up the room. The unbroken views of the treeline took care of that.

But once the banner was up, and Mrs. Leblanc was finished hanging the garish plastic trinkets, cheap wedding bunting and gaudy gewgaws she found in the bargain bin at Party City, she took a few moments to admire her handiwork and take a look around the house.

If she was a tad bit curious about her daughter's new jet set lifestyle, who could blame her? She didn't come from money. Neither did her husband, an ordinary working stiff. She hadn't married a "scion." The New York Times hadn't reported on her wedding. The reception was in a VFW hall.

Part of her still couldn't believe their rebellious daughter had managed to marry so far above her station. Vanessa was always a beautiful girl, but growing up, she didn't always seem destined for greatness. In her teenage years, she was a terror. Mrs. Leblanc has a few gray hairs that tell the story of what she went through trying to raise a pubescent hellion with the body of a woman and the impulse control of a child.

Vanessa had a checkered dating history. She was always popular with the boys -- decidedly less so with the girls. She developed early, so while those scrawny bitches were still playing with their Bratz dolls, she was becoming one, bopping around with a big set of tits that drew all the more attention for the immodest strain they put on her tight baby tees and princessy camisoles. The boys definitely took an interest, making the girls predictably jealous. A few of her cattier classmates dubbed her Vanessa "LeBank" because she accepts deposits from anyone.

The situation reached its nadir when Vanessa started going out with that... black boy, Dyson Jenkins. Thinking about him was enough to make the prim older woman shudder.

In the entire time that pants-sagging, sheisty-wearing hoodlum had "dated" her daughter -- a charitable way of putting it -- Mrs. Leblanc hardly understood a single word he had spoken. For one thing, the boy couldn't enunciate to save his life. His words stuck together in a thick syrupy drawl. For another, he didn't speak anything Mrs. Leblanc recognized as proper English; every slurred sentence came wrapped in the impenetrable vernacular of the streets. He didn't drive a car; he rolled in a "hoopty."He wasn't ready for action; he was "on go." She didn't know what "Diceman" did for a living -- sorry, she didn't know his "grind" -- but it sounded like young man worked at a quarry or something because he always said he was "slangin' dat rock." And he had a million ways of referring to Vanessa, but to her mother's ears, at least, none of them sounded respectful; she was his "ho," his "boo," his "ting," his "snowbunny," his "dime piece" or his "bitch."

Worst of all, the more he called her those distasteful names, the more she had played the part. Vanessa is a beautiful woman, graceful of movement and gorgeous in the face, with a tiny waist, a firm bust and a slender physique. She was raised to present herself with ladylike modesty, but under Diceman's influence, she had been dressing like a streetwalker in slatternly rags.

Mrs. Leblanc had agonized over her wayward daughter. It was painful, watching her waste her youth on someone whose highest ambition in life is rolling dice while smoking cigarettes and swigging malt liquor by the forty ounce. Pining away for a thick-lipped degenerate who would disappear for days with no explanation other than that he "needed to keep da block hot."

If possible, it might have been even more painful for Mr. Leblanc, who was appalled by the idea of a black boy miscegenating with his willowy, lily-white daughter. He hated everything about their relationship. He hated seeing that animal's paw on Vanessa's ass; hated hearing the jungle sounds that blasted from his hoopty; and, above all, hated knowing that respectable society smiled in his daughter's face while calling her a "mud shark" behind her back.

But just when it seemed that Vanessa had fallen hopelessly in love, she shocked her parents. She broke up with Dyson. Even more shockingly, she raised her standards and her own self-esteem and ended up dating someone so fabulously rich and handsome that "America's Most Eligible Bachelor" is practically his official title.

Or was -- they're married now. And with all the congratulatory signs she had arranged throughout the house, they won't forget it. What a lovely pair they made, the mother of the bride thought, beaming proudly as she watched more honeymoon photos crawl across the digital picture frame. Mr. and Mrs. Roger Knightly!

It was a miracle that the wedding went off without a hitch, considering what went down in the bridal dressing room just minutes before the ceremony. Vanessa may have been a bit bow-legged -- there was nothing her mother could do about that -- but otherwise Mrs. Leblanc had deftly undone her daughter's ruination: fixing her runny make up and reassembling her hair, making the bride beautiful again for her walk down the aisle.

Thinking back on that day, Mrs. Leblanc edited out the unpleasant parts and chose to focus on the positive. Roger hadn't seen any incriminating evidence. By the time her son-in-law saw Vanessa, her dress was sorted out, the cum had been blotted up from her soiled pussy and she looked every inch the radiant, innocent bride.

The highlight of the evening was when her dashing son-in-law asked her for a dance. Mrs. Leblanc remembered it well. It was like a thrill ride, finding herself in those virile young arms as Roger whirled her around the dance floor. She closed her eyes and slowly started to sway, hearing the music in her mind as she daydreamed about that dance.

Her gauzy reverie was interrupted by a dissonant buzzing, soft at first, distant, but growing louder, like an approaching swarm of bees, until the gentle waltz to which they had danced was drowned by the weapons-grade beat of "Close Your Eyes (And Count to Fuck)," pumping out of the speakers of a dark sedan in the driveway.

Mrs. Leblanc was aghast as the drums and bass rattled the windows and the foul lyrics invaded her delicate ears.

"I know the neighbors can't help but listen in

A dirty boy who come down on the side of dissonance

I can't even relax without sirens off in the distances

Not shittin' you, little buddy, this fuckin' island's a prison

The only solace I have is the act of conjugal visiting"

She felt her temperature spike as the door swung open and out popped Dyson Jenkins, the top of his jeans tight around his thighs as he loped up to the front door. She resolved to give him a piece of her mind.

"Go home!" she swung the door open and screamed. "Leave my daughter alone! She's married and she wants you out of her life!"

"I ain't here fo' shawty," the tall, muscular young man said.

Mrs. Leblanc glared.

"I'm here fo' you, Mrs. Leblack!"

The older woman's face turned red. "It's LeBLANC," she said, emphasizing the second syllable. "And you can just turn around and leave, mister! This is Roger Knightly's private residence and you are NOT welcome!"

"Bitch I don't give a fuck 'bout no Roger Littledick!"

"You can leave and take that vulgar mouth with you!"

Diceman grinned, his platinum grillz gleaming against his dark skin. "Aight, Mrs. LeBLANC. I'm Audi 5 thou. But first lemme just show ya a weddin' photo that ya ain't seen yet."

He held up his smartphone, turning it towards the flummoxed mother.

All the pigment drained from Ms. Leblanc's face. She looked positively ill. Even her lips turned a ghostly pallid white and hung open like she was stuck in mid-thought. When she finally managed to speak, her brain still hadn't thawed out.

"Where did you get that?" she demanded to know.

"I took it myself you stupid bitch," Diceman snapped back. "Whose big nigga dick you think she suckin'?"

Mrs. Leblanc gasped, summoning a burst of angry Karen energy. "You will delete that immediately!"

Diceman just laughed as he stuffed the phone back in his jeans pocket, which was hanging down near his knee. "I don't delete. I repeat," he said, spinning on his heel to leave. "I'm a see ya soon -- and yo' dawta."

Mrs. Leblanc watched in horror as the cocky miscreant climbed into his car and started it up. The rap music resumed blaring. He was about to throw it into reverse when he heard a timid knock on his tinted window.

It was the sound of surrender.

He rolled down the window, giving her a stone-faced stare.

"I need you to delete that photo," she said, her voice starting to quaver.

She didn't say "please," but that imperious tone was notably absent.

"I know what you need, bitch," he replied, clamping a hand on his crotch.

Mrs. Leblanc gulped down her dread as she stared at the growing lump in his lap.

"If I..., will you...?" she asked, her speech halting as she tried hard to suppress a sob.

"If you let a nigga hit, will I delete da photo?"

Her eyes were on the cobblestone driveway as she nodded her assent.

"In dat case, you best be invitin' me in da house," Diceman drawled, finishing with a crooked hint of that metal smile.

Mrs. Leblanc sighed as the sobs in her throat continued straining for release. "Will you please come inside?" she asked before immediately regretting her choice of words.

"I believe I will," Dyson answered merrily.

He made a point of lagging behind Mrs. Leblanc as they entered, tilting his head to get a better look at the way that big white ass moved when the bitch walked. "Goddamn!" he exclaimed.

When they got inside, and she closed the door behind them, a wave of fear crashed down her spine. What was she thinking, letting this hood rat into her son-in-law's luxury manse? From the moment he stepped into the foyer, Diceman's covetous eyes scanned the entire contents of the house, including her, like it was all his for the taking. What had she done?

"All right, I let you in," she said, desperately trying to keep control of the situation. "Now you need to delete that photo, young man."

"Bitch, is you trippin'? If y'all want da quid, y'all best be makin' with the pro quo, know what I'm sayin'?"

Mrs. Leblanc certainly did not know what he was saying and her skin crawled with anxiety under his wanton gaze. It took all her strength not to run away as he circled her like a shark, openly ogling her matronly figure.

But she was doing this for her daughter. If Roger ever saw that photo, he wouldn't hesitate to kick his new bride to the curb. Five minutes later, he would be "America's Most Eligible Bachelor" again and she would be back to hoeing for her black boyfriend. Instead of wintering at a chalet in Gstaad with her dreamy millionaire husband, she could be home alone, crying because her ghetto quarryman boyfriend is with his side piece for the night. Mrs. Leblanc couldn't let her son-in-law discover the truth: that before Vanessa vowed to love him "til deah do us part," her lips were saying, "I do" to black cock. If she had to do the same in order to save her daughter's dignity, she was prepared to accept her fate.

But she wasn't prepared to be turned on by the prospect.

That photo had done something to her. She had never seen a cock anywhere near that size in her life. She never even imagined one could grow to such staggering proportions. The sight of her daughter succumbing to it jolted her with primal sexual energy. Now that drooling monster was all she could think about. Her breathing came in rapid, shallow gasps. Her heart pounded. Saliva moistened her mouth, while images of big black cock consumed her every thought.

As Diceman prowled around like he was casing the place, Mrs. Leblanc followed him from room to room like a puppy. She tried to convince herself that she was just making sure he didn't steal anything, but the only thing she was watching was his bulge. She wasn't thinking about what his tatted hands might pilfer; she was thinking about pulling down his zipper with her teeth.

When they reached the master bedroom, the air crackled with tension as the oddly mispaired couple sized each other up.

Mrs. Leblanc was surprisingly well preserved for a woman in her mid-fifties. Her impressive bust stood out proudly under that Talbots cardigan and Diceman already knew she had the cake to fill out those high-waisted chinos.

Whereas her outfit was cute and coordinated, his was a chaotic jumble of brand logos and labels, with the letters "LV" all over his shirt and belt.

As she studied Dyson's ghetto couture from under those side-swept bangs, her eyes kept drifting down between his legs. When he caught her looking, she looked away immediately, but knowing he knew what she wanted only added to her arousal. Tremblingly, she reached out to cup it through his pants, but he slapped her hand down.

"Bitch, is you crazy?" he sneered. "I'm a grown-ass man. I don't want no handie. Da fuck you think dis is?"

Mrs. Leblanc was startled, and she felt a flash of indignation, but she reminded herself that this hung thug held her daughter's fate in his hands. She had to please him, she told herself, pretending it had nothing to do with her own feminine urge to serve that magnificent onyx-colored cock. If she couldn't use her hands, she thought, then she would have to use her mouth.

"What on earth am I doing?" the respectable middle-aged mother thought to herself as she sank to her knees, resting that big swaying ass on her slip-on Skechers with the orthopedic soles as she settled down in front of her daughter's scowling ex.

"Aw hells nah," he drawled. The slightest tug would have brought his jeans to his ankles, but he made a point of keeping that Louis belt wrapped tight around his knees. She wasn't getting the D that easily.

"I can't interest you in a blowie?" she asked, incredulous that he turned her down.

"Nah, you some fine shyt, but white bitches can't suck a dick fo' nan."

She didn't know what any of that meant, but the gooey sensation between her legs told her where this was headed.

"Take off dem draws," Diceman demanded, fluffing his cock to hardness through his jeans. "Lemme see dat dusty old kitty."

Mrs. Leblanc rose back to her feet, shame on her face as she smoothed her pants, fighting the urge to pull them down. She was startled by the warmth she felt burning beneath the pleated fabric. Her body temperature was rising fast. She clutched the front of those sensible trousers with two hands, about to unbutton them, but she hesitated, knowing there was no going back. She was a proper married woman. She had never cheated on her husband before. And certainly she had never sullied herself with a black man before. A turn of her wrists would mean a twist of fate.

"I get it," Diceman said, reaching for his phone. "You need to see dat photo again."

When the image was presented to her a second time, the effect was even more profound. Seeing her daughter's beautiful face like that -- eyes glazed, mascara streaking, cheeks flushed, lipstick smeared whorishly, posing next to the black cock that did all that to her -- made her queasy and wet all at once.

She stared, wild-eyed like a cornered animal, until what she saw on the screen was no longer her daughter's defilement but something she had been unable to face until now. A forbidden truth. Vanessa had no regrets. She wanted to be a slut for big black cock. On her daughter's face was a look of contentment. She risked it all on her wedding day because it was fucking worth it -- the chance to worship that magnificent dark manhood was enough to throw her entire life to the wind.

Mrs. Leblanc felt a throbbing need deep inside, aching to be filled. When Diceman lowered the phone, he didn't need to say anything. He just watched, stone faced, while Mrs. Leblanc unfastened the button, stripping off her chinos and the high-waisted full-coverage panties she bought at Kohl's. While she was down there, she removed her socks and sneakers, standing barefoot on the bedroom rug.

"Show me dat bush, bitch," Diceman demanded, spitting his words with metal-mouthed menace.

Mrs. Leblanc spun toward him wearing nothing but earrings, a striped top and that classy wool cardigan, naked from the waist down.

"Goddamn, bitch, you don't trim that muthafucka?"

She felt her face heat up with that casual cruelty. She was a lady of a certain age, a proper lady, so no she did not shave down there. How positively vulgar! But she didn't say that. She was too afraid he wouldn't make love to her, unaware that he had no intention of doing so.

"Bend dat dimply ass ova, ho," he hollered. "I'm finna knock da cobwebs out dat old-ass pussy."

His course language didn't surprise her, but the way it plucked her nerve endings did. Her husband was a perfect gentleman who spoke of sex in the detached vernacular of a doctor. He would never call her derrière a "dimply ass" or crassly refer to the vulva as a "pussy." But hearing Diceman's degrading talk made her tingle all over, especially in that unshaven spot her husband would call the mons Venus.

But her husband wasn't here, only her daughter's savage ex, diamonds sparkling in his ears as he stood there glowering, one hand down the front of his pants, torsioning his cock into fighting shape.

"Bitch I said bend ova!" he snarled.

Mrs. Leblanc didn't hesitate but a fraction of a second, yet it was long enough for her to feel the weight of her decision pressing down on those sweater-draped shoulders. It made her knees buckle. She had never been unfaithful to her husband. She had never been with a black man. She had never even dreamed of giving herself to one of Vanessa's boyfriends. And she had never been wetter.

Just seeing that thick, daughter-destroying hog knob on the screen was enough to send jolts of sexual energy crackling down her spine. Knowing she was about to see it -- and feel it -- in the flesh was flooding her inner thighs with slick secretions. She thrust out her ass fetchingly, giving him a glistening show of her furred cunt.

"Grab dem cankles, bitch."

A dry wave of heat hit her in the face.

How dare he? Ever since her doctor put her on a low sodium diet, her ankles had looked perfectly normal -- contoured even. But the older mom did as she was told and grabbed them anyway, her hands sliding down shaking legs while she looked back, staring him in the eyes as she assumed the position.

Gripping her cankles, that big ass whiter than a line of cocaine, Mrs. Leblanc served Diceman with the most stunningly indecent display of wet MILF pussy he had ever witnessed.

His cock was concrete as he cupped her soused sex in his hand, making her whimper as he wiggled a finger along the clit. He manipulated her slowly, like he had all the time in the world, stroking his meat through his jeans while he masterfully worked her up into even higher states of arousal.

When he pulled his hand away, she whimpered even louder. "Put it in," she said, her voice husky.

Diceman took a step back and unfastened his belt, letting his jeans drop the short distance to his Gucci flip flops.

Moving with ease even with his drawers at his bony ankles, he lined himself up behind Mrs. Leblanc, nestled the smooth helmet of his cock into her soaked bush, adjusting his stance to get the best angle for penetration, and began to push.

Mrs. Leblanc couldn't see the shit-eating grin on his face; she could only feel the pressure from the big bell-shaped tip of his cock probing the entrance to that snug married pussy.

"Bitch you tighter 'n a muthafucka," he said, gritting his teeth and applying more pressure.

Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he strained. As wet as she was, he should have no trouble sliding in, but her pussy cinched up tight, denying him entry. He smacked her ass, as much out of frustration as lust, leaving a sangria purple blotch on her pale skin.

"When was da last time yo husband hit?" he muttered. "Feels like it's been a damn decade."

"More," the respectable wife groaned.

All the bitches said that, but the way Mrs. Leblanc said it was different. Suddenly, it was if she herself was different.

Now when he looked down at her half-naked body, folded like a flour tortilla, he didn't see just some old piece of snow bunny cooze.

She wasn't just down to fuck.

The bitch was DOWN down.

Loyal.

Sure, she was wearing a wedding ring while bent over and begging for BBC, but this bitch was a ride-or-die. Even when her husband neglected her needs for more than ten years, she never switched up. Probably cooked the man dinner every night. And when her daughter needed protection, she didn't hesitate to put it all on the line. She would do whatever it takes -- even him.

Diceman had never experienced that kind àof devotion -- certainly not from Vanessa, who left him for that microdicked trust fund baby. Not even from his own mama. When we he saw Mrs. Leblanc that way -- loyal to the soil -- he wanted to do more than just turn the bitch out doggystyle. He wanted to make love to her after all.

With his Derek Rose underwear still around his feet, Diceman took his ex-girlfriend's mother in his broad black hands, straightening her up and shuffling her over to the sprawling king size bed that her daughter and son-in-law share.

"Alexa," she boomed, laying on her back and pushing herself to the top of the bed. "Play 'Between the Sheets.'"

"Goddamn girl!" Diceman exclaimed before Alexa talked over him.

"Playing 'Between the Sheets' by the Isley Brothers," she intoned.

When that funky electric piano fill dropped, he smiled a mile wide, then brought his lips to hers in a sensuous embrace. He kissed her softly, one hand lightly playing with her hair, confident but gentle as his tongue slowly explored her mouth. They repositioned themselves on the bed, their naked legs intertwined and rubbing against each other as they continued making out, Diceman's hands drifting down to her chest. As their kiss lingered, his tongue dancing with hers while his hands found her hard nipples poking through the cardigan, Mrs. Leblanc began to emit high-pitched girlish squeals. He kept kissing her, more deliberate than before, but still slowly, savoring her lips and the sweet sound of her lusty trills.

Diceman rolled on top of her, his kiss pinning his ex's mother to the pillow. He propped himself above her, holding his weight on his elbows and moving his hands from her tits up to her face, his palms molded tenderly to her cheeks.

She wrapped her hands in his tight braids, pulling him deeper into their kiss.

They stayed like that for a long time, kissing languidly, until at last Diceman pulled back, leaving the older woman panting for more as he burrowed into her neck, bussing his way into the tender nook behind her ear, even nibbling on her earlobe. Mrs. Leblanc was at the young man's mercy as he slathered her neck with wet kisses, making her chuff and moan from the feathery touch of his soft lips.

When he repositioned himself again, it was to sit up and strip off that gaudy designer shirt, exposing a defined, muscular chest and ripped abs. Mrs. Leblanc had only ever been intimate with Mr. Leblanc, all those years ago, and his body, then as now, was doughy and pallid. Nothing like this ebony god. When Diceman lowered his hulking body on top of her again, she felt butterflies in her stomach even before he kissed her there.

He pushed her striped shirt up, exposing her midriff, and planted tender, caring kisses all around her belly button before mischievously flicking his tongue inside, eliciting another squeal. She fidgeted with his braids as he bobbed around her stomach, touching his lips to every inch of it. Like most women of a certain age, Mrs. Leblanc had a tummy, and she always dressed to conceal it, but any misgivings she had about her body just melted away as her young lover affirmed her beauty with every affectionate kiss.

Then he descended further, leaving a wet trail down her abdomen, each kiss just a little lower than the last, leaving no doubt that he was headed to that secret garden that her husband hadn't tended in years.

When he got there, he was greeted by the pungent aroma of her arousal. She could see his nostrils flare, savoring her scent before he buried his tongue in her pussy, swirling it all around her tender pink insides before teasing his way up until he stopped just short of her clitoris, lapping all around it while studiously avoiding her aching unhooded bud. That was for dessert.

Mrs. Leblanc squirmed on the bed, spreading her legs as wide as possible to meet the demands of Diceman's hunger. The chance to eat fine white pussy was too good to pass up and he took his time, licking her unhurriedly, like he could do it for hours.

He might have tarried for twenty minutes in her muff before he finally came up for air. By then, Mrs. Leblanc was quivering like a bowl of jello, her head thrashing on the pillow, begging with all her body for his tongue to take mercy on her torturously ignored clit.

"Damn, girl, you taste like some honey nut Cheerios," he said. smacking his lips before taking another mouthful.

As Diceman gave milfy Mrs. Leblanc a masterclass in slow, lazy cunnilingus, she cried out with short, gasping sobs, moaning for relief. His patience was maddening. Every errant stroke of his tongue drove her neglected clit to feverish new depths of desperation, her moans of pleasure morphing into piteous mewling.

When he finally took the throbbing nub in his mouth, swishing it around, a pent up wail escaped her lips, echoing across the cavernous bedroom. Mrs. Leblanc kept a white-knuckled grip on his braids as Diceman began lashing her clit with his tongue, sending a rush of heat up her neck, reddening her face.

Diceman intensified his efforts, using the tip of his tongue to drive her over the edge. The relentless pleasure had Mrs. Leblanc so overwhelmed, you would think a man never make her cum before. The demure matron was gone and in her place a feral bitch gasped frantically, taking air in great gulps as Diceman lapped at her puffy, dripping pussy.

When she came, it was with a gutteral scream bursting from her parted lips. "DYSONNNNNNN!" She held nothing back, groaning his name while he continued licking her through an agonizing orgasm.

Her chest was still heaving when Diceman dove back in, this time with wild abandon. He alternated between a soft-tongued lapping and a stiff-tongued flicking, flooding her system with pleasure until she felt her heart beginnig to race again.

"No, no," she protested, her voice low and sultry. "I already came once. It's your turn."

Just as he had thought: Mrs. Leblanc was a rider. His own little "Jenny from LeBlock."

"Y'all can't have no odd number of orgasms," he said. "It's bad luck." And with that, Diceman returned to eating out a woman who was old enough to be his own mother -- if she wasn't whiter than a bar of Ivory soap. He slurped her cunt greedily, getting his chin and cheeks all wet as he did it.

This time, there was no teasing. He smothered her clit with his fat tongue, making her arch her back, launching her hips off the bed, but Diceman stayed locked between her legs, devouring his wriggling feast.

When was done stoking her fire, he buried his tongue in her pussy, sending Mrs. Leblanc into shock. Her leg muscles spasmed as she kicked and howled, a second massive orgasm rattling through her like a train.

When he finally stopped lapping her juices, Diceman sat her up. She was much older than he, but he treated her so gently it was like she was a child. "Reach for the ceiling," he said softly, easing her arms out of the cardigan and setting it aside, then doing the same for her shirt and the custom bra she wears to keep those big tits comfortable.

When Diceman had Vanessa's proud mother fully naked on the bed, he slowly climbed on top of her, keeping unbroken eye contact as he lowered himself between her welcoming legs.

Even as he tapped the bulging tip of that incredible cock against her tender clit, he never looked anywhere but her eyes. He looked deep into them, letting her feel seen as a woman -- chosen -- while he made another attempt to breach her tight entrance.

This time, he managed to jab the head of his cock inside, watching her eyes open wide as he pushed another inch into her burning hot body. Untouched by her husband's little winky for all these many years, her impassable pussy walls gradually yielded, gripping tight to his girth as the enormous cock delved deeper toward her womb. Getting the last inch to fit still required a hard push, making her hips creak in protest. When he buried the entire throbbing member inside her, he could hear a tiny gasp of air die in her throat.

The mature mother's mind churned with forbidden thoughts. She was cheating on her husband with a much younger man. A black man. Her daughter's ex-boyfriend. A low-life thug... with an endowment that was currently splitting her in half.

She could feel a fire burning in her stretched pussy as he shifted his weight from side to side, making sure his cock was wedged as far up as it could possibly go. But it wasn't all those broken taboos that made it feel so good to have Diceman's big dick inside her. It wasn't the sight of his shiny black skin against her white patrician exterior. It was the way he made love, his body and hers speaking a private language all their own, communicating in ways that words could never. It was like he could read her mind, like they were sharing a dream, falling deeper into each other, their bodies liquifying together. He knew what she wanted without being told. As he began rocking back and forth, dragging his long thick penis in and out of her sticky silken depths, she locked her legs and arms tightly around his back, holding him close.

Mrs. Leblanc trembled with ecstasy as Diceman patiently drove his mammoth cock deep, close to her cervix, the soothing rhythm of his thrusts lulling her into a slow-building climax that riffled through her spine, sparking her nerve endings like strikes of summer lightning. "Oh my God! Dysoooooooooooon!" she cried out, unclasping her arms from his back and grabbing fistfuls of the sheets as she thrashed beneath him.

"Yeah, baby, cum for me," he encouraged, hilting that big dick while she screamed.

A tear streamed down her face, cooling her hot cheek as wave upon wave of pleasure buffeted her body. Diceman kissed it off her face as he held her there in his muscular arms. Then he scooped her up and rolled over onto his back, his hard cock still ensconced in her tight sheath.

"Ooooh!" Mrs, Leblanc squealed, surprised by the sudden burst of athleticism. "I guess you want me to ride it?" she asked, a sly smile on her Estée Lauder-painted lips.

Diceman smiled back, showing off those platinum grills and stretching out his arms, getting comfortable. "Do whatever feels good, baby," he said in that rich baritone.

She was on top of him, her big teardrop-shaped breasts jiggling as she adjusted herself on his pelvis and began to bounce up and down. Diceman relaxed and enjoyed the view, admiring her middle-aged body as she rode his cock. She was still fit and shapely, with a lovely pair of tits begging to be touched, but the slight paunch and the occasional imperfection only made her more beautiful in his eyes. Mrs. Leblanc was so dowdy, so prim, and yet here she was, stripped naked and sitting on his dick. She didn't have the body of a porn star or even that of a young woman. But she had dignity, a proud matriarchal bearing that, in Diceman's eyes, made her beautiful beyond compare. And now that beautiful woman, the same one who had demeaned him at her daughter's wedding, was throwing her own wedding vows to the wind as she moaned her lover's name and bucked hard on that that big dick.

"I'm finna bust dis nut, baby!" he said, straining to hold back his surging orgasm. "Where you want it?"

A moment later, he was furiously spurting cum in her mouth as she greedily devoured his dick, moaning lustily around the thick spasming shaft. She gulped it down without spilling a drop, then lovingly suckled his spent cock until it softened in her mouth. When she finally finished nursing the crown, she moved down to his bloated ballsack, coated in her cream and sitting fat between his legs like a bullfrog in a swamp. Beginning with a few tentative swipes of her tongue, she cleaned their combined juices off his sticky nuts. Diceman watched in amazement as Mrs. Leblanc's face disappeared behind his scrotum, dipping down to lap at the bottom.

"Daaaamn, baby," he sighed, spreading his legs as she began mumbling into his man bag, letting her lips graze along its wrinkly surface.

When his balls were licked clean, she kissed them a few times, then climbed up next to him on the bed, curling up in the crook of his arm, exhausted.

There on the bed that Vanessa shares with her new husband, Diceman held her mother, cradling her like a baby, the two of them basking in their post-coital glow.

Then Diceman got up and walked over to his jeans, finding them puddled on the floor. Mrs. Leblanc couldn't resist staring at the young man's physique as he rummaged through the pocket and pulled out a preroll and a lighter, then returned to snuggling her in bed. When he had the cherry burning bright, he took one more draw, held it, and then exhaled the smoke through his nose before offering her a toke. She didn't even have to touch it; she stayed tucked under his arm while he held the joint to her lips.

"It's Black Matter," he said. "Rip dat."

The strain name meant nothing to Mrs. Leblanc, who had never smoked marijuana, but she took a hit and immediately coughed. "Goodness gracious!" she sputtered, still hacking.

"Yeah," Diceman purred. "It's good though ain't it?"

Mrs. Leblanc's only answer was to take another draw. This time, she kept it down without coughing.

"It's good," she croaked, her lungs expanding and a feeling of calm euphoric bliss settling in her chest.

Diceman took two more tugs from the spliff, then pinched it between his fingers to put it out, leaving the burnt roach on Roger's nightstand. "Let's get some music up in this bitch," he suggested, hopping back out of bed, his big dick swinging as he paced the room. "Ayo Alexa," he hollered, "play dat new Benny the Butcher joint."

As soon as the beat dropped, Mrs. Leblanc put up a fuss. "What is this unholy racket?" she asked. "Can't we play something respectable? How about Drake?"

Diceman stared at her with blooshot eyes, then the two of them began cracking up laughing. "Get da fuck outta here," he said as they giggled hysterically. "You crazy Mrs. L."

"Now that we have... copulated," she said archly while her eyes flirted, "I think we're on a first name basis. Call me Linda."

"Linda," Dyson echoed. "Linda Leblanc."

"That's me," she said with a smile, wrapping herself in a blanket before getting out of bed and padding around the room after hiim.

Diceman was snooping. He made no pretense about it. He opened dresser drawers; he rummaged in closets; he even flipped open Vanessa's jewelry box, although he didn't take anything. Linda was watching.

But when he ducked back into Roger's closet, he came out holding a black leather whip in one hand and what appeared to be an eight inch dildo.

"Look what I found," he said, holding up two trophies.

Mrs. Leblanc's red eyes shot wide open in shock. "Oh my heavens!" she exclaimed. "That thing is almost as big as yours!"

Diceman gave her a smirk.

"Well," Mrs. Leblanc began, not entirely sure what to say. The marijuana had her in a blissed-out haze. "Good for Vanessa. It looks like she's having her fun, too."

"Who says they're for her?" Diceman shot back sarcastically.

Mrs. Leblanc couldn't contain her laughter. Neither could Diceman. The two of them howled. "You think my son-in-law is a... poof?"

They both cracked up as Diceman waved the whip and dildo around like a prop comic while initiating Mrs. Leblanc's emotionally constipated manner of speaking. "You think my son-in-law, my dear beloved Roger, is a... a... a... POOOOF?" he expertly mimicked her.

Mrs. Leblanc pretended to scowl disapprovingly but she cracked a smile and soon she was belly laughing again. When he was done with the sex toys, Diceman tossed them on a large, plush chair that, curiously, was arranged close to the bed, facing it. Mrs. Leblanc cocked an eyebrow.

"Don't you have something to delete?"

Diceman nodded. He thought she had forgotten, but he dutifully pulled out his phone and showed her that he permanently deleted the photo of Vanessa. What's the harm? he thought to himself. He still had dozens more from when he was smashing the little ho. Movies, too.

"Now come along, young man," Mrs. Leblanc said, stretching out her hand to him. "Take me back to bed."

"Didn't get enough, huh?"

"I only came three times," she replied, saucily dropping her towel. "My boyfriend says that's bad luck."

Behind the mirror above the bed, a 4K ultra-HD security camera captured everything in fine detail. Right that very minute, Roger Knightly was lounging in the sun next to Vanessa, eating breadfruit and watching a very interesting video feed on his mobile phone.