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“What did you do then?” Eleanor asked, feeling her pussy begin to juice at the other woman’s words. She didn’t care if Vicki was making up the story or not. It was so damned sexy she could hardly control her rampaging emotions.
“So I said, ‘Sure, stud, let’s fuck.’ I’d had all sorts of men before but never a black.”
“Is . . . is it true?” asked Cassie, from across the bridge table, putting her cards down in front of her. “I mean, about how black guys are really well hung?” Her voice was scarcely a whisper but it sounded like cannon-fire to the aroused Eleanor.
Her fingers slipped under the table, her cards forgotten. She had to get to the source of her discomfort. She lifted the hem of her skirt and rapidly sought out the juicy quagmire of her cunt. The fingers slid in easily, the frothy pussy fluids already doing their job of lubrication. She shuddered hard as she heard more of Vicki’s provocative words.
“Not really. I mean, God, he had a dork on him that was a good nine inches long.” She held up her hands to indicate exactly how long the man’s cock had been. “But he didn’t know how to use his cock. He was about average, even with that lovely tasty prick of his.”
“Tasty?” asked the fourth at the bridge game.
Jet-haired Mara was visibly sweating. The others didn’t notice that her hand had vanished under the table, too, and that a rhythmic squishing noise emerged from the area of her crotch. They were too engrossed in Vicki’s tale.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.