Vulvette

She heard the stairs before she heard him—not the polite creak of James or the quick trot of David, but a deep, structural groan, the sound of old wood being asked a serious question and answering with everything it had. Each step landed heavy. Deliberate. A man who did not have to hurry because the house itself announced him.

Arianna stayed exactly where she was: face down, ass up, knees sunk in the wrecked sheets, Jason's warmth still draining down her thighs. And she did something foolish. Something wonderful.

She closed her eyes.

Just for fun. Just to make it worse. Because if she couldn't see him, she could feel him—every second of him arriving—and the not-knowing was a drug she hadn't known she was addicted to. See if her cheating little vulva would be pleasantly surprised or not. The French called it vulvette. A lovely word for a tight but loose woman's pussy. Vulvette. An easy pussy welcoming cock after cock.

She pressed her cheek into the pillow and smiled into the cotton and listened.

The door didn't knock. It just opened. And the floorboards by the bed complained under a weight that had no business being in a suburban bedroom.

Then the belt.

A heavy buckle—steel, thick, the kind that belonged on a man who wore it to hold up jeans over a real body—clattered onto the hardwood and spun once and settled. She heard denim dragged down and stepped out of. She heard him breathe. Slow. Even. Unbothered. Like a man who had already decided how this was going to go and was simply taking his time getting there.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, please be big, she thought, and the thought itself made her wet all over again, a fresh slickness sliding down the inside of her thigh and ing the mess already there.

She arched her back. She couldn't help it. She reached back with both hands and grabbed her own cheeks and pulled them apart and lifted her cunt up off the sheets as high as her knees would allow—soppy, ruined, dripping, gaping a little, still slick with three, four? Men, she lost count already—presenting it up into the empty air like an offering on a plate, waiting for whoever was behind her to find it.

The mattress dipped. Deeply. The whole bed shifted and creaked, and Arianna felt the entire frame tilt toward the footboard under his weight, and she had one heartbeat to think he's massive before something touched her.

Not a cock. Not yet.

A mushroom.

The broad, blunt, velvety head of him pressed flat against her labia and rested there, hot and heavy, and then it began to push—slowly, so slowly—and her outer lips spread around it and let it in, and it kept spreading her, and spreading her, and it just kept going, and she hadn't even been penetrated yet; it was only the head, only the head, and it was already the widest thing that had ever touched her.

"Oh my god," she shuddered, out loud, into the pillow. "Oh—oh my god—oh god—"

He pushed.

And he did not stop pushing.

Her breath tore out of her in a long-broken sound as that fat crown drove into her, and the stretch was enormous—a burning, full tightness that started at her opening and raced all the way up her spine—and before he was even halfway in, before he had even begun, Arianna came.

Just from the entry. Just from the size. A hard, sudden, clenching orgasm that seized her whole body and squeezed down on that thick invading head, and she heard him make a low approving sound behind her, a rumble more than a word, because he felt it—he felt her cunt strangle his cockhead on the way in—and he liked it.

"Ahh—ahh—ohhh god, it's so big," she moaned, high and thin, her voice already cracking. "It's—ohhh—it's too big, it's too big—"

What the FUCK is this monster, she thought wildly, eyes still squeezed shut, fingernails clawing the sheets. What is this? What is this?

Then his hands landed on her.

Big. Calloused. Roughened from work, she couldn't see, thick-fingered and sure, and they closed around her slender waist and held—spanning her, owning her—and with that grip he pulled her back onto himself and drove deeper.

Deeper than the head. Deeper than halfway. Into territory that had been lonely all night.

"OH—ohhh—ohhhh fuck—" The sound came out of her in pieces, half lust and half something that was almost a whimper, because it hurt—a good hurt, a deep spreading burning hurt, the hurt of being opened past what a body thinks it can open—and he knew it hurt, and he did not care, because he knew she could take him.

Her birth canal stretched beyond belief, past anything David or James or Jason had made her feel, past stretching and into reshaping, and Arianna couldn't stop the groans now—low and continuous and shameless, one rolling into the next—because he wasn't just filling her; he was rearranging her. He knew exactly what he was doing to her cheating white cunt. He had to know. He was reading it in the way she shivered and twitched and dripped, and he did not slow down for her, because he was sure—absolutely sure—that she could take him.

"Slow—go slow—ohhh—slow—" she begged, and he ignored her completely and pushed, and the pain and the pleasure braided together into one single wire running up her spine, and she sobbed into the pillow and loved it.

He impaled her another inch, and the fat, brutal head of him found the spongy resistance of her cervix—*knock, knock*—and demonstrated, once, with a soft, deliberate nudge, exactly how much power he was carrying around in his jeans. Then he pulled back a fraction and slid in again. Slow. Deep. Even.

He started fucking her.

And the sensation was unbelievable.

Every stroke dragged that impossible girth along every wall of her, a friction so total that it felt less like being fucked and more like being worn—like her body had just become the sheath this cock was made for. His hips met her cheeks with a soft, heavy slap, unhurried, and every time he bottomed out, that fat head butted her womb like it was checking whether the door was unlocked. Arianna's whole lower half was one long ache of pleasure, and she came again—again, the second time in two minutes—a rolling, rippling, deep-throated orgasm that started where she was pressed and spread out through her belly and her thighs and curled her toes off the bed.

"Ohhh—ohhhh god—ahh—AHH—" she cried, the sound breaking apart in her throat, and she sobbed his name into the pillow without knowing his name. "Oh—fuck—ohh, ohh, ohh—"

He felt it. Of course he felt it. Her sleeve clamped down around his shaft like a fist in a wet glove, rippling in tight waves up and down his length, milking, welcoming, and greedy. And he didn't slow. He kept fucking her, straight through the aftershocks, right on into the oversensitive part where every stroke sent sparks up behind her eyes and the pleasure tipped over into a bright throbbing edge of pain.

"Ahh—ahh—too much—ohhh—don't stop, don't you dare stop—" She didn't know what she was saying. She didn't care. Her mouth had stopped belonging to her.

She couldn't stand it. She had to peek.

Arianna cracked one eye open, tilted her head off the pillow, and looked down along her own body—down past her bouncing young tits, down the arch of her back, to the place where she was being invaded.

And there it was.

A shaft. A long, thick, dark shaft—so dark it looked polished, gleaming wet with her own slick and the three other men's seed—sliding into her stretched pink cunt in a slow, glistening motion that she could actually watch happen in and out, in and out, her lips clinging to him and dragging and letting go with every retreat, her little white slit swallowing that huge black length like it had been made to and had only just found out.

Oh my god. Oh my god, he's black.

She came again—the third—just from the sight of it, a sharp, hard clench that ripped a raw cry out of her, and the man behind her took no notice whatsoever and just kept that slow, relentless rhythm, using her like a machine that had been delivered to his house, because he was that confident, because he knew he didn't need to do anything fancy.

"AHH—oh—oh my god—" she gasped, staring down at it, unable to look away. " You're—ohhh—you're huge, ohh fuck, look at it—look what you're doing to me—"

Then he sped up.

And now she could see it—a hard black rock of a cock pistoning in and out of her little stretched-out sleeve, faster, harder, each stroke shoving deeper, each stroke making her wet slit swallow him whole to the root and then spit him back out shining. He tore her open. He genuinely tore her open, and her cunt lost the battle, gave up, surrendered, wrapped itself around that thick black length, and milked it for everything it had. His big swollen balls swung up and slapped against her—heavy wet impacts on her clit and her thighs—and she heard them, heard them, the sound of a huge man with a huge sac emptying himself into his friend's wife, and the sound was obscene and perfect, and it undid her.

"Ah—ah—ah—ahh—" Every thrust punched a syllable out of her, a steady, helpless rhythm of moans timed to the slap of his hips, lust and ache blended into one long sound. "Ohhh—it's—oh god, it's so deep—it's in my belly—ahh—"

So much baby cum, she thought, giddy, wrecked. So much black seed. "Oh god, oh god, oh—"

"Oh, he's Black," she gasped out loud, to nobody, to the ceiling, to her husband somewhere below, turning sausages. Oh—a Black bastard baby—he's going to make my husband know a beautiful Black bump—

And she came again, harder than all of them, because of the idea—because of the thought of walking around this house for nine months with a baby the color of the man currently buried in her, and her husband rubbing her belly and never once knowing, never guessing, just proud and happy and clueless while she smiled and thought, You brought a spatula.

They do exist. Those big black cocks. She'd read about them and joked about them, and now one was splitting her in half on the good sheets.

He took her harder. Her grunts punched out of her on every thrust now—no words left, just ahh, ahh, ohhh, ahh—and he grabbed her waist again and drove and drove, and the whole bed was knocking the wall, bang, bang, bang, and she felt him change—felt the whole big body above her tighten, felt the rhythm go from controlled to hungry—and she knew what was coming, and she wanted it so badly she could have screamed.

"Oh—make me a Black mommy," she sobbed. "Make me one, make me one, please—ahh—ahh—ohh—"

He grabbed her hard by the hips, slammed in to the hilt, and pushed—one long final shove that buried every last impossible inch and pressed that fat black head flush against the mouth of her waiting womb—

—and flooded her.

The first rope hit her cervix like a warm wave, and Arianna cried out, a loud raw sound into the pillow, and came with him, clenching and milking and pulling—and then the second rope came, and the third—and she lost count somewhere around seven or eight, thick heavy pulsing floods of black seed pumping straight up into her, coating her white egg, bathing her ready womb, filling her until she felt full, actually full, sloshing, brimming—and the last thought she managed before it took her was small and clear and delighted:

I am a Black whore.

He kept pumping. Rope after rope after rope, like he had been saving it, like he had known exactly where he was going to put it and had been holding back all afternoon just for this. Arianna's body gave a final long shudder and then folded—her arms went out from under her, her cheek hit the soaked sheets, and she collapsed flat under him, and for two, three whole seconds she lost consciousness, lights out, gone, drowned in it, taken by this black beast, and bred into the mattress.

I am bred Black.

She came back to the sound of her own heartbeat and the deep creak of the stairs because somewhere below a glass had finally fallen over and because the front garden was still full of hard cocks and because her husband was still out there turning sausages.

She didn't lift her head. She didn't move at all. She just lay there, ruined and dripping and glowing, and felt a thick warm trickle escape her and slide down the inside of her thigh.

This is the most beautiful sperm-roulette I could ever have, was her final thought.

To be continued.