I fantasize about a black man

I’m alone when my husband falls asleep next to me every night. Our bedroom becomes dark and stuffy. He breathes deeply and evenly, but his body has become like a wall separating us. And I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, and feel everything inside me begin to vibrate with anticipation.

It started six months ago, completely by accident. I saw a video in my feed. It lasted only a few seconds: dark skin glistening with sweat, muscular shoulders, a deep voice. I closed the video, but that sexy image was seared into my memory. Now it comes to me on its own, especially at night.

I imagine him tall, like a basketball player, with broad shoulders and that predatory, confident smirk that sends shivers down my spine. His eyes are dark, piercing, full of sexual desire. He doesn’t mince words: he grabs my hair, pulls my head back exposing my neck, and sinks his lips into my skin leaving bruises that I later hide under a scarf.

In my fantasy, he pins me against the cold kitchen wall. His large, rough hands grip my wrists above my head holding them in place with one hand, while the other slides down my body. I feel the texture of his skin so hot and contrasting with my pale one. He whispers in a hoarse voice: «Do you want this? Do you want me to fuck you?» The words are rough and commanding making my heart pound like crazy. His fingers roughly spread my thighs slipping under my skirt, and I’m already wet. My panties stick to my skin, and moisture runs down the inside of my thighs.

In reality, I barely move under the covers. My husband sleeps 10 inches away from me, his breathing even, and my pussy pulsates swelling with every mental touch. I imagine him ripping my clothes, the fabric bursting, buttons flying. His thick, hard black cock presses against me, hot and heavy, and he enters with one powerful thrust stretching me to the limit.

I feel everything: his veins, the pulsation, how he fills me completely thrashing inside, eliciting moans from me. He fucks me hard, his thrusts deep, the rhythm quickening, his hips slapping against mine leaving red marks. I imagine myself scratching his back, digging my nails into the muscles, and he growls and bites my shoulder intensifying the pain and pleasure. My fingers under the blanket are more active now.

Then I spread my legs wider rubbing against my palm, feeling my clit hard and sensitive, how each circle around it sends shocks throughout my body. The moisture is abundant and hot soaking the sheets, and I’m afraid my husband will hear a rustle or smell my arousal. I come under him at the climax of my fantasy, my body arching, my muscles clenching around his cock, waves of orgasm rolling in one after another making me gasp, biting my lip until it bleeds to keep from screaming.

And then emptiness. My husband stirs in his sleep, and I freeze. Shame washes over me like a cold wave: I imagine a strange black man dominating me. A man who takes what he wants, without question. I want to tell my husband: «Darling, when I think about sex with him, my pussy gets so wet so I can barely breathe. I’m wet just thinking about his roughness, about how he’ll fuck me.»

But the words stick in my throat. My husband is so gentle, so caring, and I’m afraid he’ll see me as a slut and a cheater. That our bed routine is missionary position on Saturdays, and that will seem like an insult to him.

So I stay silent. I lie in the dark fingering myself to another quiet but intense orgasm, my legs shaking. While he sleeps.