When I married my high school sweetheart, I was inexperienced, but my curiosity to explore grew throughout the years. What I craved the most was interracial sex, it had easily become my go-to masturbatory fantasy. Women raved about it, from magazine articles to porn videos, saying that black was better, but I was a married mother who prided herself in being loyal, so I never acted on my desires.

It wasn’t until one day that the opportunity presented itself with a tall, handsome stranger at the gym. In large part, it was due to a pair of leggings that my husband insisted I wore. They were a trend all over social media because of the way they amplified your butt. That lead the stranger to approach me with a compliment about my lower body, introduce himself, and ultimately offer me some private training sessions. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity from such a tempting and imposing figure, after all, there was no telling what would happen.

The first couple of weekly training sessions at home were full of sexual tension, from the lascivious glances to the incidental contact that carried a jolt of excitement. I resisted my stomach-lurching urges and played coy, but deep down I knew that I would succumb to my carnal desires if we kept seeing each other. I wasn't strong enough. My flesh was weak.

The third time was the charm, aided by my masturbation-inspired decision to wear a pair of scrunch-butt shorts that my husband had gifted me, he put my wedding vows to the test. He carried me up the stairs – something that my physically weaker husband hadn’t been able to do on our first night as newlyweds – passing by the family pictures on the wall on our way to my marital bedroom.

We undressed each other like long-lost lovers. The outline of his manhood was impressive through his shorts and even more so through his boxers. I reserved fellatio for special occasions with my husband, but my newfound depravity forced me to my knees to unveil the work of art below his toned abdomen.

His dimensions were jaw-dropping, figuratively and literally. A length that allowed both my hands to hold it but a thickness that didn’t let my fingers fully wrap around it. It felt right to be on my knees acknowledging his superiority.

It’s so much fucking bigger than my husband’s, I thought, drooling over it.

While it was chocolate-colored, the taste was salty due to the precum oozing out of his head and the light perspiration from our unfinished workout. Every lick, flick and swirl of my tongue gave me an opportunity to familiarize myself with his throbbing member and its distinct taste.

My lips formed a cheek-caving vacuum around his shaft. That’s when I realized he was at least twice my husband’s size. I could barely fit half his length into my mouth. My pussy melted with anticipation for its turn while my jaw worked till it ached.

By the time he placed me on the bed and peeled off my clinging panties, my pussy was a wanton mess. If I hadn’t reached it already, this was certainly the point of no return. There was no argument for being a good, loyal wife anymore. At least not one that wasn’t visibly contradicted by my body. I was my own worst enemy.

His large, strong hands positioned me to his liking. It wasn’t only our skin color that contrasted, but also the hardness of his muscles and my soft curves. In my own marital bed, I felt like a sex doll for a man who wasn’t my husband.

He was only the second man I had ever been with, but in many ways, it felt like he was my first. His touch ignited my flesh into a lustful fire. He ravaged unexplored depths in my body – stretching me like I was a virgin, not a mother of two – in his quest to conquer it.

The walls echoed with the rattling of the bedframe and never-before-heard cries of pleasure. His stamina was fitting for that of a personal trainer. I wasn’t used to sex lasting more than a few minutes.

The relentless assault made me lose track of time. Was it time to pick up my kids from school? I was lost in pleasure. All I could process was the sexual ecstasy running through my body as my guts were being rearranged.

The ass cheeks that had caught his attention at the gym were now clapping on his thighs. Every thrust, deep and long, inched me closer to releasing, what was for me, an elusive climax. I wondered how many marital beds he had ruined, how many unsatisfied wives he had tamed?

For years, out of boredom-driven curiosity, I had grown obsessed with answering the question – is black better? The molten eruption of fertility splashing against my convulsing walls was a resounding yes.

I had surrendered my married flesh to him, betrayed my husband in our own marital bed, but the worst thing was that I knew I would never stop. I was addicted. I reveled in my wickedness.

After finishing our special full-body workout, he left, taking with him my sense of loyalty, and leaving behind only the shattered pieces of my marriage vows.