The group chat was a volcano of lust. My wife Bec, 40, with her massive milkers, and her friends were planning Katie’s send-off. When Demi suggested a male stripper, the digital floodgates opened. The conversation quickly escalated from muscles to meat. Cock size became the sole focus. "We need a monster," one typed. Photos of thick, veiny dongs flooded the screen, accompanied by filthy comments about girth and length. The topic of skin color came up. "Once you go black..." someone posted. The decision was unanimous: a black stud, supremely hung.

Bec, dripping with curiosity, volunteered to vet the talent. She found him online: "Black Stallion," a ripped athlete with a reputation for a horse-hung piece. She scheduled a "private interview" while I was at work.

She dressed to kill, her cleavage a deep canyon. When he arrived, her jaw hit the floor. He was carved from ebony marble. "How big?" she breathed, getting straight to the point.

"Twelve inches, ma'am," he grinned.

"Prove it. Upstairs."

In the bedroom, he gave her a private show. His shorts dropped. Bec’s pussy instantly soaked. His dick was a heavy, dark python, swinging low. "How big does it get?" she asked, voice husky. He stroked himself, thickening in his fist. Driven by lust, Bec freed her huge tits. "Let me help." She knelt, squeezing his shaft between her soft mounds. His dick was so long the swollen purple head nudged her lips. She sucked the tip while titfucking him, a sl