The first time it happened Dianne blamed the alcohol. Mostly. She and her husband had fantasized about it for years. Then, there they were, out of town, chatting with a nice looking black guy in wine bar near their hotel. One thing led to another, as they say, and she finally broke down and did it. And liked it. Alot.
It wasn’t her last time. Not by a long shot. And with each new episode less alcohol was necessary, and less discretion about the guy. Or guys. That’s how she wound up in an apartment in a part of her town that she didn’t even know existed until an hour ago, on piece of furniture being held together with tape, while three strangers used every one of her holes.
Three, black, hung, strangers.