Lisa’s fingers trembled as she poured iced tea. Jamal, her son’s best friend, was sprawled on the patio chair, his gray sweatpants doing nothing to hide the heavy, thick outline of his dick resting against his thigh. It was a fucking anaconda in cotton blend. Her husband, Mark, was at work, his own average, forgettable cock out of sight and out of mind.

Every glance was a betrayal. She’d seen it first by accident, Jamal stepping out of their pool, his wet shorts plastered to a bulge that made her throat go dry. Mark’s dick was a polite cocktail sausage; this was a goddamn weapon. His low-hanging balls, a hefty pair of coconuts in the sack, swung with a weight that promised something primal.

“More tea, Jamal?” she asked, leaning over deliberately. Her v-neck tee gaped, showing the creamy swell of her big tits. She saw his dark eyes flicker down, then quickly away. Good boy. Naive. He didn’t know her mind was screaming *I need to see that black monster*.

“I’m good, Mrs. L,” he said, his voice warm. He was so kind. It battled the ugly, buried thought in her head: *They’re all so… well-endowed.*

Days became a torture of stolen looks. Jeans, shorts, the fucking sweatpants—each revealed the imposing print of his package. She’d catch her son, Tyler, beside him, and Tyler’s bulge seemed like a child’s toy in comparison. The comparison was automatic, filthy, and it