So usually it’s the woman who loses her sexual appetite the longer she’s married… but that sure wasn’t the case in my marriage.

In my marriage, it was Emery who had lost the passion for lovemaking.

During college and early in our marriage we’d fucked like bunnies: anytime, anywhere. I mean I’m not a slut, I’ve always been a one man at a time gal, but I’ve always loved kinky sex.

I gave him head in a half-full movie theatre, I gave him head in the back of a taxi, and I gave him head under his desk at work… continuing when his boss walked in to talk to him for a couple of minutes… while I kept quietly sucking him… the risk of getting caught only enhancing the rush.

We had fucked in the bathroom at the airport even as our names were paged to board the plane; we had fucked in the hot tub during a party while others watched (college was pretty wild); we had fucked at my sister’s wedding… in the church.

Now, we only fucked missionary style… on occasion.

I had become rather insecure when he quit wanting me. At first I blamed it on having two high school kids (we were always on the go… well I was, anyway… Emery seemed to just work more and never be at home). I definitely blamed his work as he was always working late hours as he tried to make partner. Then when he did make partner I thought he would be home more… nope… even less.

Now my daughter was in college, although still living at home, and my son was a high school sophomore. So life had calmed down somewhat… as each had their driver’s license and their own car.

I was an elementary school teacher, and when I started getting attention from a younger black teacher, Jake, I was flattered; it made me feel pretty again.

Although he was almost twenty years younger than I, he was constantly flirting with me. It started subtly by his complimenting me almost daily: my hair, my outfit, my shoes.

Of course, since my husband no longer noticed any of these things (or more precisely, my husband had never noticed my shoes), I basked in these compliments.

As the fall went on, he noticed some of my fashion quirks.

“Connie, I have to admit you completely intrigue me,” Jake said, as he glanced down at my legs… something he often did.

“I do, do I?” I slyly flirted back, enjoying this harmless flirting with a man much younger than I… and since I’m from the South, being with a black man would still be considered taboo to most of my family. Although I’d be lying if I denied that I’d occasionally wondered what it would be like to be fucked by him. Jake was a very good looking, well-built black man.

“You’re the only staff member who wears pantyhose every day,” he said.

“I’m happy you’re noticing,” I smiled. My high school boyfriend had loved pantyhose, which I’d worn often with my cheerleading uniform, and eventually began wearing all the time for him. I’d always found I liked the silky sheer look of the suntan hosiery that we wore with our uniforms, and felt they really accentuated my legs.

So even after we broke up, I kept wearing them, treating them as a required accessory, just like I did jewelry.

In college I discovered garter belts and stockings and thigh highs, and often wore those underneath my clothing to feel sexier… and, of course, they provided much easier access for whoever I was dating to slide his dick in me. I loved public sex, and simply flipping up my skirt instead of taking things off was much quicker.

“How couldn’t I notice?” he leered, looking down at my legs again without even feigning he was doing anything else.

“My eyes are up here,” I joked.

“And your perfectly pedicured toes are down there,” he said, looking at my purple painted toenails enhanced by my sheer mocha nylons and my open toed shoes.

“You notice my toes?” I questioned. The only other guy ever to notice my toes was my high school boyfriend. He would suck each toe through my nylons, and get hard just by looking at my feet in nylons. His predictable erections were handy whenever I wished to embarrass him, which was often.

“Oh yeah,” he nodded, in a tone completely similar to my ex’s.

I don’t know why… maybe curiosity… but I glanced down at his crotch and couldn’t help but notice a bulge that looked truly impressive. The big black dick myth is one I had always been curious about. I mean in porn, the black dicks are always huge, but truthfully so are the white ones… I mean all the professionals have beautiful fuck-the-living-shit-out-of-me-cocks.

He smirked, catching me looking, “My eyes are up here.”

I stammered, breaking my gaze away from his crotch, “W-w-what?”

Thankfully he didn’t push it as he continued his compliments, “And I love the open toed shoes you wear.”

“No one ever notices that,” I said, flattered that someone noticed the care I put into my fashion.

“Yeah, I’ve never understood closed toe heels. Why hide your painted toenails? Nobody hides their fingernails.”

“I guess,” I said, trying to act casual, even as his avid attention not only flattered me but was turning me on.

“I mean if you weren’t married, I’d be all over you,” he said bluntly.

“And if I were fifteen years younger,” I chuckled, my fortieth birthday a week away.

He replied suavely, “I like older women. Especially beautiful ones.”

I could feel my cheeks blush at his forward response. Remarks like that couldn’t be taken any other way than as pointed flirtation. Pointed as in having a goal in mind.

I had to remind myself I was married, and at work, as I tried to laugh it off, “It’s mannerly to respect your elders.”

He headed out of my classroom as he tossed off over his shoulder, again his intent clear, “And it’s more than mannerly to worship your elders big time.”

My panties dampened as I heard his not so subtle innuendo. Fortunately, he was gone from my classroom before I could respond; I really had no response for him anyway.

…..

That night, I was home having dinner with my mother in the dining room, like I did most Thursday nights. We had a few glasses of wine as we complained about our men (Dad was still Dad, and Emery was still working long hours and none of that work was in me).

Drunk enough to share more than I should, I said, “And to make matters worse, I’m being flirted with aggressively by a first year teacher.”

“Is he hot?” Mom asked.

“Why? Does that matter?” I asked.

“It always does,” she said.

“Well, he’s black,” I revealed, thinking this would be enough to stop the conversation in its tracks.

“Delicious,” Mom smiled, surprising me. “Now spill the beans.”

I retold the entire semester of flirting and all the details of today’s conversation.

She nodded, “Mmmmmmm, that’s so wonderfully taboo.”

“Mother!” I gasped. “Don’t encourage me. I was tempted enough.”

“Oh, is my baby girl developing a craving for some chocolate?”

“Mother!” I repeated, shocked by her words, yet based on her usual teasing about my lack of a sex life, they shouldn’t have been surprising.

Maybe this is weird, but my mother was my best friend. Of course, that wasn’t always the case. In my teenage years I have to admit I was a nightmare, but once I hit my twenties she was the one that was still there (high school friends are just that… 99 percent of them fade away as soon as you graduate… Facebook being an effective way of pretending you’re still friends).

Mom and I do a lot together: shop for clothing, get pedicures and manicures and so forth.

So since I’d grown up I’d told her everything, and unusually for a parent she never judged, just wanted to know more. So she knew very well that my sex life had become dormant, and she knew I was very frustrated about it.

“Did you ever try a chocolate stick in college?” Mom asked.

“No,” I admitted.

“Well, maybe it’s time,” Mom teased.

“Mom, I’m telling you this to help me control my temptation, not to light sparks in it,” I said, shaking my head. Although it wasn’t all that odd for our talks to get sexual if we drank, we mostly indulged in generic bitching about the lack of attention and sex we each received. Although at first I had to get past the preconception that discussing with her what it was like to have sex with my dad was really weird.

“I’ll be honest,” Mom said. “All the best sexual encounters in my life have included chocolate.”

“Oh my God!” I gasped, our talk today getting much more sexual than our usual complaining.

“What?” Mom asked. “I love black cock. Is that a crime?”

I gasped. “In the South it pretty much is in practical terms.”

“Yes, your grandfather is a very racist man,” Mom agreed.

“As is Dad,” I added, having listened to my parents discussing race on many occasions when I was growing up. Even as a child it was obvious to me they weren’t on the same page about that.

“True,” Mom nodded, before she added, “which is why he doesn’t know about my chocolate cravings.”

“This is too much,” I objected. This conversation was getting far more revealing than any of our previous ones. Now she seemed to be implying that even now she was doing more than simply craving chocolate. Was she opening her box? I felt uncomfortable asking.

“I used those exact words when I had over ten inches inside me,” Mom smiled wickedly.

“Oh my God!” I repeated, even as my imagination betrayed me and I tried to visualise what ten inches would feel like… my husband wasn’t even five! Luckily my vibrator, bought for me by Mom as a gift a couple birthdays ago, was seven inches and did a lot better job filling me up me than my husband did.

“I said that too,” Mom quipped. “Over and over and over and…”

“I can’t believe this,” I said, even as I wondered how big Jake was. The bulge in his pants today had looked impressive, but it didn’t really tell me much.

“That’s what I said the first time I fished that massive monster out of his pants,” Mom continued, clearly enjoying the conflicting play of emotions showing on my face. I didn’t know whether to be scandalised, envious, or both at the same time.

“I can’t take this anymore,” I said, covering my ears.

Mom walked around behind me, pulled my hands away and smiled, “That… I never said! In fact, I thoroughly enjoyed multiple orgasms without a single word of complaint.”

“Mom!” I said exasperated, still torn in different directions. In one respect I was horrified that my mother would cheat on Dad; in another, my head was swimming with vivid fantasies of how it would look and feel to give in to Jake. I could faintly smell how wet my panties were getting.

“What? I’m just saying that years from now you sure don’t want to regret that you’ve never taken a chocolate drive shaft for a ride,” Mom continued. Knowing she had my attention again, she returned to her chair.

“I’m married,” I reminded my mother.

“I know, and I sure wouldn’t say this if Emery was satisfying you sexually,” Mom continued. “But he isn’t, and he hasn’t been doing his job for a long time. It’s obvious to anyone who loves you that you’re not happy, and there’s no reason why you can’t be happy once in a while.”

“You’re suggesting I cheat on my husband?” I demanded hotly.

“I guess I am,” she nodded placidly, before adding, “But I would argue it’s not actually cheating.”

“How so?” I asked. Mom was full of surprises today.

“If the cock under discussion is bigger than your husband’s, it isn’t cheating,” she explained.

“That’s ludicrous,” I said.

“Not really. Emery can’t possibly give you what you need, although the way he’s been ignoring you, he likely wouldn’t even do that if he had it to give,” Mom pointed out.

“I don’t think I could do it,” I said, the conversation suddenly sobering me up.

“Why not? He doesn’t satisfy you. If he were doing his job, you wouldn’t be fantasizing about Jake,” she said.

“Who said I fantasize about Jake?” I prevaricated.

“Am I wrong?” Mom asked, knowing me too well.

“I didn’t say that,” I smiled playfully.

“Well, you know what you’re always going to wonder about,” Mom smiled back.

“What’s that?” I obliged.

“Whether the saying ‘Once you go black you never go back’ is true?” Mom answered with a huge grin.

“But you apparently fucked black guys in the past and now you don’t,” I pointed out.

Mom didn’t respond, but the look on her face spoke a thousand words. A picture leapt into my head of smiling cats and canary appetizers.

“You still do?” I asked, the answer suddenly obvious.

“You’re not the only one sick of being ignored by your husband,” Mom answered.

“You’ve cheated on Dad?” I questioned, again the question rather rhetorical.

“Nope,” Mom said.

“Really?”

“No, I never cheat. I make sure they’re all bigger than your father,” she answered. “It’s easy to find out… just ask.”

“I can’t believe this,” I said, my whole world suddenly sent spinning. It was one thing to talk about fucking a black man, even to learn that my mom used to get fucked by a ten inch black cock, but it was another to learn your mother was still fucking black cock. And she was almost sixty!

“Honey, don’t judge me,” she said, although not as a request, but in the stern motherly way that told me that I was the one in the wrong here.

“I’m not,” I said, even though I obviously was.

“Look,” Mom said. “We have needs. When they’re not met, we find other ways to satisfy them.”

“But it’s cheating,” I pointed out.

“And our men cheat on us by choosing work over love,” Mom countered, an argument that sounded absurd at first, but after years of playing second fiddle to a job, I saw completely where she was going.

“I guess,” I nodded, as I reflected on my husband’s matrimonial obligations being shirked for money. In a very real sense he was spending almost all of his time whoring, as if his life was all about money and not me.

Mom kept going, “If you were happy at home would this guy be making you all wet?”

“I didn’t say he was,” I said, even though he definitely was.

“Connie, I know you better than you know yourself,” Mom scoffed, which was frustratingly true.

“Okay, maybe a little wet,” I shrugged.

“You liar,” Mom scolded. “Your panties were soaked, weren’t they?”

“Fine, yes, they were so soaked I walked funny,” I admitted, exasperated at both the conversation and at her always being right.

“And I bet your panties are dripping wet right now, just talking about him,” Mom assessed.

I hadn’t completely been paying attention, although part of the conversation had indeed been tantalizing, but once her words were spoken, I noticed that indeed I was very damp down below. “Okay, they aren’t completely dry,” I sighed.

“I’m not saying you should rush into his classroom and fuck him at school,” she said. “But you need to consider some possibilities. He’s an attractive and personable man showing you the interest your husband isn’t. He’s also a black man which means, likely, he will have a nice big dick to fuck you properly with.”

“Mom!” I again gasped, hearing Mom lecture me so bluntly and using the ‘f’ word so strange.

“Honey, if you’re like me, you have a nasty tongue in the bedroom,” she said, again true… I loved dirty talk, something Emery was not good at, but a couple of my exes had been great at.

Truthfully, in the bedroom I loved being called a slut. I didn’t want to be made love to, I wanted to be fucked, shafted, pounded. I loved shifting my persona from prim and proper teacher to submissive slut. I had thought Emery understood that, he sure liked it when we were younger, but although the stereotype is that after the marriage a woman’s sex drive fades, in my relationship it had been the opposite.

“I can get pretty vivid,” I vaguely answered.

“You’re submissive in the bedroom, right?” Mom asked.

“Are you?” I asked back. Trying to avoid the question with another question.

It didn’t work. “To the right man I am one hundred percent submissive,” Mom answered openly and convincingly.

“Me too,” I admitted, feeling more comfortable admitting such a thing after she’d opened the door.

“Well, it seems that the ‘like mother, like daughter’ statement is really true for us,” Mom laughed, just as the front door opened and my husband walked in.

He walked in looking stressed like he always does as he greeted, “Good evening, ladies.”

“Hi, honey,” I greeted, walking over to him, thinking Jake’s flirting and flattery today could be to my hubby’s benefit tonight.

He kissed me back, but like a brother, not a lover.

I could sense something amiss. I asked, “What’s wrong?”

“We’ll talk later,” he replied tersely, glancing at my mother.

Mom, who was drunk and annoyed, a dangerous mixture that usually meant bluntness shot out, “Let me guess, you won’t be in town for your wife’s fortieth birthday party?”

The look on Emery’s face answered her question. He looked at me completely guilt ridden.

I accused, “You can’t be serious?”

“I need to go to Hague to meet with members of the World Court to plead our case over the international trade royalties involved with oil.””And the only day that this can happen is my birthday?” I accused, my tone venomous.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to you,” he apologized, looking incredibly guilty.

“Did it ever occur to you to send someone else?” Mom asked.

“Yes, why can’t James or Eric go?” I demanded. “They’re senior partners and more experienced than you.”

“I’m the one who’s been leading this case the entire time,” he explained. “It has to be me.”

“Fine, whatever,” I said, waving my hand at him, too angry to even shed a tear. A caring husband would know it wasn’t fine, and would do whatever it took to make a fuss over his wife… but he just mumbled another apology before suggesting he’d leave the two of us alone.

Once he’d trudged upstairs, Mom gave me a hug and said, “On your birthday I’m taking you out after work for a special evening.”

“You don’t have to,” I said with a heavy sigh.

“You’re right, I don’t, but this is non-negotiable,” she said in the way that meant a decision had been made and no amount of arguing was going to change it.

We each poured ourselves another glass of wine and continued venting about our men, although we didn’t talk at all about Jake or black cock… although that night after Emery was asleep I masturbated to both. He didn’t wake up, but I was so pissed at him I wouldn’t have cared if he had.

…..

Friday, as usual, I wore pantyhose underneath my casual Friday jeans, and three inch open-toed shoes.

As I hoped, Jake wandered into my room before first period and noticed my outfit.

“Connie, not only are you the only woman around who regularly wears nylons, but you may be the only woman in the entire state that wears nylons underneath her jeans,” he noticed, gazing admiringly at my feet.

I shrugged, deciding to flirt back, still angry at Emery, and Mom’s words lingering in the back of my mind, “I like to dress professionally on the outside, but a little sexy underneath.”

“Are you trying to excite me?” Jake asked.

“Is it working?” I asked back.

“I plead the fifth,” he said, raising his hands in the air.

I glanced down at his crotch and bluntly said, “I think you’re presenting evidence that proves my case.”

“Guilty as charged,” he laughed, just as a couple of students entered the room.

I couldn’t help it, so I added, “You may have to pay for your crimes one day.”

He laughed and rebutted with wit, “As long as the punishment fits the crime, I’ll throw myself upon the mercy of the court.”

Like yesterday, my panties were damp… although unlike yesterday I’d escalated the inappropriate banter.

Yet, I didn’t see him the rest of the day and then it was the weekend… and I suffered through flirtation withdrawal.