White Neighbor's Thirst for Black Gardener's Cock

I never thought I'd become this woman—the kind who stares out her kitchen window, heart pounding, thighs clenching at the sight of a man who's not her husband. But here I am, Karen, 35 years old, trapped in a sexless marriage to a man who hasn't touched me properly in years. My husband, Mark, is always at the office, climbing some corporate ladder that leaves me alone in our sprawling suburban home. Our sex life? It's a joke. Quick, missionary pumps under the covers, lights off, him grunting and rolling over to snore. I fake my orgasms just to end it faster. God, I'm so frustrated, my pussy aches constantly, dripping at the slightest provocation. And lately, that provocation has a name: Jamal.

Jamal's my gardener, 28 years old, a towering Black Adonis with skin like polished ebony, muscles rippling under the sun as he works in my backyard. I hired him six months ago because our lawn was a disaster, but really, it's his body that's kept him coming back. Today, like most days, he's shirtless, sweat glistening on his broad shoulders, chiseled abs flexing as he bends to prune the roses. His biceps bulge with every clip of the shears, veins popping along his forearms. But it's that bulge in his jeans that haunts me. Even from here, through the glass, I can see it—massive, thick, straining against the denim like it's got a mind of its own. I imagine it, throbbing, veined, so much bigger than Mark's pathetic five inches. My hand slips under my skirt without thinking, fingers circling my swollen clit as I watch him. "Fuck," I whisper to myself, biting my lip. "I need that Black cock. I need Jamal to stretch me out, ruin me for white boys forever."

It's not just fantasy anymore. Every time he mows the lawn or trims the hedges, I feel it building—this unbearable sexual tension. Mark's neglect has turned me into a horny slut, masturbating twice a day to thoughts of Jamal pinning me down, his dark hands on my pale skin. Last week, I came so hard picturing him fucking me raw that I squirted all over my sheets. I can't take it. I need the real thing.

I decide to escalate things today. Mark's gone until late, the house is empty, and Jamal's out there, oblivious to the wildfire he's igniting in me. I slip into my tiniest bikini—the one I bought for a vacation we never took. It's white, barely containing my D-cup tits, the fabric so thin my hard nipples poke through. The bottoms ride high on my hips, showing off my toned ass from all those yoga classes. No cover-up. I grab two iced teas and head out, my heart racing.

"Hey, Jamal," I call, my voice breathy. He's on his knees weeding, looking up with those deep brown eyes, a smile breaking across his full lips. Sweat drips down his chest, pooling in the valleys of his abs. God, he's perfect.

"Mrs. Karen," he says, standing up slowly, towering over me at 6'4". His voice is deep, smooth like velvet. "What's up? Thirsty?"

You have no idea, I think, handing him the glass, our fingers brushing. Electricity shoots straight to my core. "Call me Karen. And yeah, it's hot out here. You must be dying in those jeans."

He chuckles, sipping the tea, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm used to it. Keeps everything... contained."

My eyes drop to his crotch. That bulge twitches. I lick my lips. "Does it? Looks uncomfortable." I step closer, pretending to adjust a flower pot, my arm "accidentally" grazing his thigh. He doesn't pull away.

Over the next hour, I linger, chatting about the garden while wearing next to nothing. I bend over to pull a weed, giving him a full view of my ass cheeks spilling out. When I straighten, my tits bounce, nipples diamond-hard. "Oops," I say, laughing, brushing against his arm. His breath hitches. I can smell him—musky sweat, earth, pure man. My pussy's soaked, juices trickling down my thigh.

Then, the hose. He's rinsing dirt off his hands, water spraying. I "trip" into the stream, gasping as it soaks my bikini. The white fabric turns sheer, clinging to every curve, my pink nipples and shaved slit visible. "Jamal! Help!"

He drops the hose, grabs my waist to steady me. His hands are huge, rough from work, sending shivers through me. We're inches apart, water cascading over us. I look up, eyes locked on his. "I'm so wet," I murmur, not caring how it sounds.

"Karen..." His voice is husky, eyes dark with hunger. I don't wait. My hand darts to his crotch, grabbing that massive bulge through his wet jeans. Holy fuck—it's enormous, thick as my wrist, at least 10 inches, pulsing under my palm.

He groans, hips bucking. "Shit, Karen, what are you—"

"I want it," I confess, squeezing, feeling it harden impossibly more. "I've been obsessed with your huge Black cock for months. Mark can't fuck me like you could. Please, Jamal. I need you to fuck me. Right now. Say yes."