2 comments/ 13495 views/ 0 favorites The Sexual Adventures of Maxwell Ch. 01 By: tgjenni Chapter 1: In Which Our Hero Returns Home From an Indiscretion to Face His Wife It was after 4 am when Maxwell Atkins pulled into the driveway in front of his house. All the lights were off and everything was quiet, but Max was not fooled. He was in trouble and he knew it. He turned off the ignition and sat in the car for a moment, then pulled out his cigarettes and fished one from the pack. He lit it and sat, quietly smoking, thinking over the day. It had begun like most Tuesdays in his life: he kissed his wife goodbye at 6 in the morning, drove to work, and spent the day fixing people's IT problems. It hadn't been a difficult day, just the normal, run-of-the-mill issues. And at 5, he left, fully intending to head for home. But it hadn't worked out that way. As he left the building, he ran into Steve and decided to head over to a local bar for a drink. A drink. Just a drink with a guy he'd gone to college with and hadn't seen in a few years. That was all. He had called Emily and she understood. So they went for that drink. After some mundane conversation on various topics you always discuss with someone you hadn't seen for a while, Steve dropped the bomb. "Well, Max, there's something I haven't really told you. I did some soul-searching in college, explored my boundaries a bit. I hope you understand that I just want you to know this: I'm gay." Max nodded, then frowned. "What about Julie?" he asked. Julie had been Steve's long-term girl friend. Everyone had thought they would get married after college. "Well, I knew a little back then, but I hadn't really faced it." "When did you first..." Max trailed off. "Date a guy? It was a while, but I knew long before that. While I was with Julie, I met this guy and we messed around some, but it was really after Julie." Max nodded again and looked down at his beer. "I think I need a drink," he said. Steve smiled hesitantly and said, "Hey, this round's on me. It's the least I can do." "Sure," Max said. "I'm gonna run to the can." When he got back, there were two new cold beers on the table. Max sat and drank deeply, then looked at Steve. "Look, man, this is weird for me, but I'm not gonna freak out on you or anything. I'm not gay, but I'm not an asshole either, you know?" Steve nodded. "Yeah." "So what's Julie up to? Do you know?" Steve shook his head. "We sorta lost touch after I told her. She didn't take it well. You know that whole 'get married and have kids'...well, that was her dream and she always figured I was the guy. But I wasn't." Max laughed. "Yeah, I guess not." After that, the conversation got a lot easier, looser. But after the third beer, Steve said he had to go home. They exchanged information and then Max sat back down. He could have gone home; he probably should have gone home. But he didn't. Instead, he ordered another beer and sat, smoking a cigarette and watching a couple play pool. The girl had long black hair and kept sweeping it over her shoulder. She was wearing a jean mini-skirt and a green halter top with a red bra underneath. She was hot. Max thought she kept looking over at him, but he wasn't sure. The guy she was with was nothing special and never seemed to get any closer than a foot from her. And, as far as Max could tell, he was more interested in the pool game than the girl. Just as he was thinking of leaving, the girl walked over and bummed a cigarette. Max knocked two out of the pack, passed one to her, then lit them both. "Thanks," she said. "No problem," he said. She stood there for a moment, seemingly with no intent to return to the game. "So, what's going on with you, tonight?" she asked. Max shrugged. "Not too much. Just what you see." "I'm Danielle," she said. "Max," Max said. "Mind if I join you?" she asked. "No, not at all," Max said. "But won't your boyfriend be pissed?" Danielle gave him a puzzled look. "Boyfriend? Oh, you mean, Richard? Naw. He's not my boyfriend." She sat and looked at him. They talked. Another beer arrived and then Richard wandered over. Turned out he was Danielle's roommate's boyfriend, but the roommate was out of town, so he and Danielle had come out to shoot a game or two of pool. After a while, Max realized it was getting late and he'd have some explaining to do to Emily. He sent her a quick text to let her know he was on the way home, then started to get up to leave. He swayed a bit and Danielle reached out to steady him. "Whoa, Max. How much did you have to drink?" she asked. "I don't know. A few beers. Five, I think. But I'm fine. I gotta go home. My wife's gonna be upset." "Yeah, I bet. But she'll be more upset if you get your ass put in jail. Look, Richard quit drinking a few hours ago and he only had one beer anyway. Why don't you let him drive you home?" "Yeah, sure, but I live out in the burbs," Max said. Danielle thought for a moment. "Okay, look, why don't we drive over to my apartment and I'll make you some coffee. We can chill out and listen to some music, get some dinner, and then you can head home..." "But my wife..." Max began. "Oh, fuck your wife! You're already in the doghouse with her. Come on and live a little! You can make it up to her later." It had taken a little more persuading, but not much and before he knew it, Max was at home with Danielle. Richard, who had driven them there, had somehow disappeared, and they were alone. And it hadn't really taken much from there for things to really heat up. Max remembered looking down and seeing Danielle's head at his crotch, his cock in her mouth. It felt so good! Emily was a good lover, but there was something about a new lover...it had been too long... And then he and Danielle were in bed. She was naked and he had his face buried in her pussy. She was shaved and so wet. She was writhing all over the bed, moaning and screaming, clutching his head between her legs, grinding her pussy into his mouth. "Oh, yes. Fuck, yes! Eat my pussy. Oh yes," she screamed. Max's cock was jerking and leaking precum everywhere. Emily didn't like to make a lot of noise when they had sex, and Max hadn't really thought much about dirty talk until now. He loved it, he realized. Fucking Danielle was ecstasy. As his cock sunk into her, she moaned and thrust upward at him. He buried his cock in her pussy and began to pound, aggressively, as she gripped his ass and pulled him into her. She reached around and put her finger against his asshole, and slowly slipped it in. He moaned and came quicker than he thought he was going to, Danielle's finger fucking his ass. No one had ever done that to him before and if anyone had asked he'd have said he didn't like it, but he did. He filled Danielle's pussy with cum and lay down on top of her, her legs wrapped around his back. He felt her milking his cock with her pussy muscles, her finger still in his ass. He kissed her and listened to her sighing and moaning. It was a bad time to think about Emily, but he did. And even in the haze of just having fucked this hot young college student, Max felt the guilt creeping in. He rolled off Danielle and lay next to her. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he said. She looked over at him, then reached over to touch his chest, but he pushed her hand away. "Don't" was all he said. He lay like that for a long time. For a while, he knew she was watching him, but when he looked over at her, she was asleep. He must have drifted off himself, then. When he awoke it was 3 and he knew he was in deep shit. And now he was sitting here, an hour later, in front of his house and he knew he'd have to go in and say something to Emily. Fuck! He didn't know what to say. He didn't even know why what had happened had happened. But, well, fuck it. Max got out of the car and headed toward his front door. The Sexual Adventures of Maxwell Ch. 02 Chapter 2: In Which Our Hero Must Face the Consequences of his Actions The house was quiet and dark when he entered. As he suspected, Emily had gone to bed. When he saw her in their bed, curled up and small, he felt like shit. He hadn't really much considered the consequences of his actions until now, but now, in the early morning darkness of his bedroom, his drunken tryst with Danielle paled in comparison to what his marriage with Emily meant. And he had damaged that, for what? For what amounted to a meaningless night of bad drunken sex? Max shook his head in disbelief at his own behavior, wandering how he was going to explain this to Emily. What could he possibly say to her? He sighed and went to take a shower. As he stood there, letting the hot water run on his body, he heard the shower door open and Emily slipped in with him. "Hey stranger," she said. She ran her hands over his body, down his chest, down his stomach to his cock. Despite himself, he felt a stirring. Danielle might be a few years younger, but Emily was hot. 34D, flat stomach, 36 inch hips; she was a firm, athletic, 28 year old brunette with hazel eyes and a heart-shaped face. They kissed and he reached down to grip her firm round ass, pulling her body against his. They stood like that, in the water for a moment, then she pulled away. "Where have you been?" she asked. Max looked into her eyes, full of concern, hurt, and disbelief already. And hope, that he knew he would have to dash. He shook his head and shrugged meaninglessly. "Can we talk about it tonight?" he asked. Emily smiled uncertainly. "Sure, Max," she said. They didn't say much more that morning and Max spent the day at work, worried and tired, unable to concentrate. And that night, they talked. Max didn't remember exactly what he said, but he told her the truth, about Steve, about Danielle. Everything. He knew what he had done, what sort of betrayal it had been and he didn't want to lie. Whatever the consequences, he felt he owed it to this woman to tell her the truth. Emily was hurt. She cried. She yelled a little. She was inconsolable, but she didn't ask him to leave, though he did offer. Max slept on the couch that night, though. And the next. They barely talked and every time he saw her, Emily's eyes were red and puffy. Max couldn't eat or sleep either. He was worried that his marriage was over; he felt he deserved for his marriage to be over. When he got home Friday, he expected more of the same, but Emily surprised him. When he got home, she was waiting in the living room, sitting on the couch. She asked him to sit and with some trepidation, he complied. This was it, he figured. Divorce. But he was wrong. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't satisfied?" Emily asked. Max shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know that I even really knew, actually. Until it sort of happened. Tuesday night...I didn't plan it. I didn't plan any of it." "I know, Max, but you hurt me. A lot. You betrayed me and our relationship and for a while, I didn't know what to do about that, but I've been thinking a lot. About what I want. And I decided. Here," she handed him a print out. It was from a dating site and showed the profile of Anthony Rogers, a black body builder. "What this?" Max asked. Emily shrugged. "You had your night. I want mine. Tonight. At 8:30, Anthony will arrive to take me on a date." "Okay..." Max frowned. "It's not up to you. If you want this marriage to work," she said. And so it was that Max watched his wife drive away with Anthony. At first, he was distraught. But as the night wore on, his thoughts began to change, until by 1:00 and he was sure what Emily and Anthony were doing, he felt himself getting excited. And that was how Max happened to be lying naked on his bed, jerking his cock, thinking of Anthony fucking his wife. In his imagination, they entered a bedroom, Anthony's bedroom, hand in hand, Emily leading. She was wearing a little black strapless dress and red thong panties. Anthony was dressed in gabardine slacks and a sports coat over a fashionable shirt. They were kissing, Emily pulling him down on top of her by his tie. And then, they were undressing each other, his hands slipping under her dress into her panties; she was gasping, arching her back, rubbing her body against him as he slipped a finger into her pussy. Emily was biting her lip, suppressing a moan of pure pleasure as Anthony worked his finger in and out. She put her arms around his back and pulled him closer, lifting herself from the bed, so for a second she was pinioned on his finger, then he laid her down and stepped back, leading her hand to the bulge in his pants. She massaged his cock, feeling the length and breadth of it, so much larger than Max's 6 inches, her eyes widening as she imagined this cock inside her, of what it would be like to be fucked by Anthony. She undressed him then. Playfully, unbuttoning his shirt with her teeth, smiling, filled with lust. Anthony looked down at her, running his hands through her hair. And then she was spreading her white hands over the large and chiseled expanse of his chest, running her fingers through his chest hair, kissing and nibbling his nipples, smelling his skin. Then she unzipped his pants and with a mischievous grin, slipped her hand inside. She grabbed Anthony's cock, stroking it through his boxers, then slipped into his underwear and felt his cock in the flesh. She groaned and began pulling at his belt with her teeth, trying to unbuckle his pants. Laughing lightly, Anthony reached down and helped her out and then his pants were down at his ankles. Emily knelt, then, between his legs and pulling his cock free of his boxers, stroked its full length for a moment. Anthony was only half-hard and already his cock was 7 inches long and more than a handful for Emily. She smiled up at him as she stuck her tongue out and teased the slit, then swirled her tongue around the head. Then she opened her mouth and slipped the head in, kissing it deeply, sucking it in. And she opened her mouth wider, his cock slipping in further and further. And then she was sucking his cock, her hands gripping his buttocks as he began to thrust into her mouth. Max groaned, his cock harder than ever as he writhed on his bed imagining this huge black cock in his wife's mouth. His sex life had been so boring and now Emily was about to be boned by this cock, this huge cock. He looked down at his little cock, leaking pre-cum everywhere and groaned again. And in his mind, Emily was sucking Anthony's huge cock. Max could see, clearly, the large, hairy veined flesh, the color of chocolate, pushing into her mouth, her red slutty lipstick smeared, her jaw open wide. She gripped Anthony's balls, feeling them clenching as she sucked him. And then his cock popped out, covered in her spit, a line of spittle extending out of her mouth to the tip. Anthony undressed her now, unzipping her dress and slipping it down her body. Emily covered her breasts with her arm, blushing coyly, unconvincingly. He stood naked and admired her body, his cock fully erect in front of him, then she slid a hand down to her panties and slipped them down until they fell at her feet and she stepped out of them, her hand over her pussy. Then Anthony stepped forward, his cock pushing into her belly, as he kissed her, folding her into his arms. He kissed down her body, uncovering her breasts and covering them with his mouth, cupping them in his hands, massaging her hardened nipples. She was moaning and sighing in ecstasy, so that by the time his hand reached her pussy, she was wet and ready. He fingered her, but she grabbed his head and pushed him down. "Eat my cunt, baby," she moaned. And he did. He laid her back on her back on the bed and kissed her pussy, slipping his tongue into her. She wrapped her legs around his head and forced his face deeper. And he went in, dove into her pussy, grinding in. She was shrieking now, suffocating him as he ate her pussy. He reached up and grabbed her breasts, his face buried in her. Max was groaning. He came then, large gobs of cum shooting over his chest, hitting him in the face. One hit his lip and instinctively, he licked it as his body jerked and spasmed. He'd never tasted his cum before, but the salty taste wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be. Emily complained about sucking his cock—he couldn't remember the last time she had. He lay back, breathing hard, his cock wilting and finished his fantasy as Anthony slipped his cock into Emily's pussy. He wasn't gentle, but slammed the full 9 inches to the balls immediately. Emily gasped and kept yelling "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God" again and again as he slammed his full length into her. They fucked for a while, Max knew. He couldn't imagine Anthony but as an incredible lover, pounding his wife's pussy deeper, harder, better than he could. Then spouts of cum shooting over her face, lacing her face with sticky goo. He felt ashamed, lying there with cum drying on his belly, about how inadequate he was. His wife was off getting the fuck of her life. Max lay on his side and curled into a ball in self-disgust. He fell asleep that way. He didn't hear his wife's car drive up, or the door slam as she closed it. Or her keys in the lock of the front door. Emily set her purse down on the end table, sat and removed her heels, then picked them up and walked barefoot into the bedroom. She looked at her husband for a moment, naked there in the center of the bed, then turned and walked to the bathroom, flicked the light on and closed the door. The Sexual Adventures of Maxwell Ch. 03 Chapter 3: In which our hero learns that everything is not as it seems In the bathroom, Emily went about her usual evening ritual and to the casual eye, everything was normal, but inwardly it wasn't. Inside her, things were far from normal, but if she compared her mental state now to what it had been earlier that evening when she had left, she knew she was much better. She had left the house with the full intention of having a wonderful night of sex with Anthony, but she had made the mistake of going out to dinner first. The reason that was a mistake is that it gave her time to think and him time to talk and he literally talked himself out of sex. Or talked her out of it. He was as hot in person as his profile online had made him out to be. And she had felt herself getting excited just thinking about him, about sex with him. But he kept talking and she had time to think about what she was doing. It wasn't that she wasn't mad at Max—she was. Her husband had screwed up and she wasn't, honestly, the forgiving type. At least not easy, cheap forgiveness. He'd have to pay. But not like this, she realized. Not because it was too much or because it was immoral, but because it was the wrong punishment for what he had done. He had gone home with some college-age twit and screwed her and he deserved to suffer, but really it didn't matter if she had sex with Anthony or not, not as punishment of Max, anyway. And as Anthony continued to talk—he was charming—she realized she didn't really want this, which is what really mattered. This would just be a revenge fuck, not sex she really wanted. And that wasn't what she was after. So, as soon as she was sure, she left. She didn't bother to tell Anthony anything—he was bright enough to get the message. She excused herself and simply left the restaurant. But she didn't go home. She went to plan. And when she had her revenge all planned correctly, she came home. Seeing Max, naked, curled on the bed, she knew she'd been right. He hadn't been as hurt by the idea of her with Anthony as he had been turned on by it. But his time would come. She stood naked before the bathroom mirror and examined her body. She took care of herself, working out, eating healthily. She even kept to a fairly regular schedule, waking within 30 minutes every morning. Her breasts were still perky, her tummy still flat. No cellulose lumps on her ass or thighs. Her body was curvy, supple, and well-toned. She wasn't a knock-out beauty—Emily prided herself on her honesty, but she was cute. And could be sexy when the mood hit her. But her life was boring and she knew it, but she also knew it didn't have to be boring. And would no longer be. She pulled on a sheer nightgown and left the bathroom. Max was still lying in a fetal position in the center of the bed. Emily sat down next to him and pushed against him. "Wake up," she said. Max woke and turned over. His stomach was covered with dried cum, his shriveled cock was slimy and sticky looking, his pubic hair matted. He stank of sex. "Beautiful," Emily said. "looks like you sure had a fine night." Max didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say, but he felt a stirring in the base of his cock. He reached out to Emily and tried to stroke her arm, but she pulled back. "I didn't do it, didn't go through with it," she said. "What?" he asked. "I didn't do it, I didn't fuck Anthony." Max frowned, his brow furrowed. "Really?" Emily shrugged. "Really. I couldn't do it." Max was silent for a beat, then he said, "Okay. I'm glad, I guess..." "But this doesn't get you off the hook, you know." She glared at him. "I'm still mad at you. I can hardly believe you fucked that girl. What the hell? Do you even believe in this marriage?" "Yes, of course I do," Max said. Emily was quiet. She sat on the bed and tears started to trickle down her cheeks. "Look, Em, I messed up. I know I messed up. You're the best thing that ever happened to me and I almost messed that up..." "So you jerked off to me fucking some other guy? And you're getting hard now." Max looked down at his cock. It was sticking out, at half-mast, beginning to come alive. He nodded sheepishly. "Did you fantasize about me and Anthony? About his thick black cock entering my little white pussy and me screaming as he slammed into me again and again?" Max's cock continued stiffening and Emily reached down between them and squeezed it, jerking him. Max put his hand over her hand and tried to pry it off his cock. "No. Don't," he said. She stopped moving her hand, but kept her grip on his cock. "Does it excite you to think I was with another guy? I bet it disappoints you to learn that I didn't do it, doesn't it?" Max didn't say anything. "And you think jerking off while I'm fucking some other guy is the best way to help our marriage from where it is right now?" Max shook his head. "No, of course I don't." Then, quietly, "But...it was hot." "Describe it to me." "What?" "Tell me what you fantasized, what you thought I was doing." "Fucking. I thought you were fucking." "That's it?" "No, but you don't really want me to give you a blow by blow, do you?" She shrugged. "Sure, why not? I'm curious to see how well you know me and what turns me on." She leaned back, releasing his cock, then sat down on the bed. Maxwell was looking at her strangely. "What have you got in mind?" Emily was quiet for a moment, then she said, "Oh, we shall see. Here's the deal. You hurt me. You hurt our marriage. And I know I could have gone and fucked Anthony, but that wouldn't change the fact that you betrayed my trust. I could take Anthony on as a lover and keep fucking him. I could even bring him here and humiliate you by having you watch or even help fluff him or lick his cum out of my pussy. I know I could do that and you wouldn't leave me. You're a spineless piece of crap for a man and you would crawl and grovel...I mean, seriously, look at you. You lay here naked and jerked off thinking about me fucking Anthony tonight. And now, your cock is rock hard." "Ok, so that's all true. I admit it." "So how do we fix things then?" She paused and smiled at him mischievously. "That was what I went and asked myself. And I think I know, but," and she held up a hand, "I'm not going to tell you because that would spoil the surprise. See, you're going to have trust me. That's the only way we can rebuild our trust. Understand?" Maxwell nodded. "Yeah, I think so." "Good. So, tell me, what should I have done with Anthony tonight?" "Seriously?" "Yes," Emily said. "I'm serious." She scooted back on the bed, spread her legs and lifted the nightgown. She ran her fingers through her pubic hair. "Impress me," she said. Maxwell sputtered and hemmed and hawed, but Emily stopped him by glaring at him. "No, mister. None of that. Get to it." So, Maxwell began. Haltingly and somewhat disjointed, but he wove a story, not the one he jerked off to, but something more...it began in the restaurant... "You walked in and saw Anthony there, at the table waiting for you. He was hot, a tall, strong, built black man and you got excited that this evening would end with his cock buried in your pussy. And you walked up feeling a tingling down there, wanting to forget about dinner and go straight to the sex. He was facing away from you, so you walked up behind him and slipped your hands down his shoulders and chest to his stomach, as you leaned over him, saying a breathy hello as your hand snaked down to just dance, to flirt, with his cock. He stiffened, then relaxed, laughing, saying hello. And you took your seat across from him and looked into his eyes. "You were wearing your little black strapless dress, the one that shows off your cleavage and you knew you looked hot, so you leaned over often, drinking wine and laughing at his jokes, feeding him dessert from your fork, watching his eyes looking down at your chest, between your breasts. You knew what he wanted and turned the conversation to flirting, to sex, to barely concealed verbal lusting, thrusting, and pounding in words, envisioning your bodies entwined and how your back would arch and your thighs would tremble as you rode him, impaled on his massive cock, trembling...and ever so sneakily, your hand wandered between your legs and pressed against the warmth, the wetness through your panties, until you could take no more... "And so, as you're leaving the restaurant, you excuse yourself to the ladies room and slip off those panties and ball them up, sniffing their aroma: an intoxicating blend of perfume and pussy, the essence of desire. And you come out and as you leave the restaurant and walk to his car he leans you back on some random car and kisses you deeply, running his hand down your back, to your ass, to your bare thigh below the edge of your dress, his tongue invading your mouth, tasting your groans and moans, his body—the whole length of his body—pushed against you, a supple and hard physical presence of lust, his hands with full license wandering up and down, in, out, until you gently with infinite regret push him away and look at him and press your panties into his hand. "From there to dancing, two bodies, sweating, working against each other, an agony of delay and slow promise, rubbing, touching, exploring, until you are exploding, a prelude to what is to come. A taste of honey, sweet on your tongue, his body a marvel of controlled aggression and power, feeling it writhe with you in a rage for release, an inexhaustible machine of rippling muscle. Wild abandon, your name is woman, smelling of sex, drinking deep of the draught of suspended beautiful fulfillment as your cunt calls forth in subtle elemental form for his cock, to enter and portend and distend and ream... "So to his house, and already in driving you pull his hand between your legs and pleasure yourself with his fingers, plunging him in deeply, fucking yourself greedily, grinding as he willingly surrenders his hand to your ministrations, trying to focus enough on driving to just get home, to his bedroom, where he can rip off your clothes and taste your beautiful body, and so arrived there, hardly able to make it in, the clothes' removal a whirlwind where who knows or cares who removes what or where it goes, so that arrived not just in this space, his house, his bedroom, his bed, but in his arms, these black as coal arms, strong and surprisingly gentle, as he bends over you and putting his hands on your knees, gives just a hint of pressure that opens your legs and you lay there, your cunt open and exposed and oh how his fingers tremble, these strong and terrible fingers, how those muscles strain and how his body sweats as he bends between, his breathe on your thigh, and gently parts your labia, his head lowering, his tongue flickering and a sudden intense ice pick of pleasure ricochets through you, like Kundali energy released, spasming up your spine in liquid ecstasy. "There is no need to 'prepare you,' for you are wet and open and willing, your senses heightened and dulled, and yet he worships there, praying with his tongue, again. So you pull him up and whisper, 'Fuck me. I want your cock in me.' And he pulls you and you slide under him on your back, so that he is kneeling over you, his body a covering, and you reach down between you and find his cock, gripping it, a giant dark thing in your tiny white hands, the head pink and dripping and you angle it down, toward the ache to be filled, to be fucked, angle it so that it rubs your body and you feel it twitch like a living animal, warm and hard, alive, until you position it, the head pushing into your pussy, parting you, delving into you and he pushes then in as you release him and touch his thighs, eagerly willing him in further and you feel the mighty black shaft of this cock sucked in and you sigh and you sigh as it travels in, journeying forever forward toward your soul. "And then he is simply fucking you. Gentle and soft, hard and furious, sinking deeply as you cry out in pain or pleasure—your sense reeling so that the two are one or perhaps it is something else, something more elemental, more primal you feel, something preverbal; needing no words, his body is talking in thrusts and groans, in sideways motions and angling of hips, in fingers gripping asses or pushing against stomachs, in a cock engulfed, buried and lost churning into a cunt...and he fucks you or rather, you both fuck each other, for as much as he may be aggressively piling into you, your body is hungrily opening and calling his cock into herself, and then as you're fucking and screaming and writhing, for just a moment, a fraction of a second you dissociate from yourself and see as if from above on a bed a young white woman carelessly tossed, her hair strewn about, clearly in the throes of ecstasy, her legs wide open and between them a man black as jet, muscular back and buttocks, straining and clenching as he thrusts his hips forward and she thrusts up to accept him, to encourage him, to plunge his cock, invisible between them, deeper into her and then the vision is gone and you're fucking. "And along comes a shudder, a shaking of pleasure and you ride it, surfing the wave until it falls over you and orgasm comes in the big O's bursting, blurring reality and you are bouncing on him, somehow on top, riding him, then again he is over you, maybe behind you, his cock out and rubbing against your labia. Exhaustion. You lay with him, stroking his belly, touching his cock, leaning over, you lick his cock, you'd never tasted a black man before and you find that he tastes good and you suck his cock in, tasting yourself on him, gagging yourself, willing yourself to take it all or at least as much as you can, and then he is fucking you again and you are overcome with pleasure as he drills in and with a shudder it comes. He cums. In you, shooting hot liquid, then pulling out as you shudder at his sudden absence and his cum hits your chest, lays a sticky trail over your belly and then he re-enters you and slowly, all a-tremble, rocks in and out, until, he too, exhausted, slips down next to you and still joined with you, pants and kisses your neck, shoulders, ears. You feel his ticklish whiskers, his rough and ragged voice, praising your body, your cunt..." Emily was laying back, her legs spread, fingering her clit. Max's fantasy was interesting to her, poetic and erotic, but...and she smiled secretly to herself as you looked over at Max. He was sitting directly in front of her pussy, watching her touch herself. He had no idea what was in store for him. For them. No idea at all...