Janet Mason

Finding decent workers is a joke these days. My loaded husband hired another guy who's probably just here to jerk off the clock. Shane Diesel showed up for his performance review, but his cock was the only thing I planned on grading. Soon as we hit the office I shoved him against the door and grabbed his bulge. Call it sexual harassment, call it research—I hadn't taken a real fucking since the honeymoon and this felt like a seven-figure apology. He flipped the script fast. That thick black dick fell out heavy, heavy enough it made my wedding ring feel cheap. First it tasted like a forearm. Then it hit the back of my throat and kept sliding. Each new inch scraped out every memory of my shrimp-dicked husband. I hopped on the desk, legs spread wide, and watched that slab of meat stretch me past any legal limit. Shane drilled in inch by inch until my cervix started arguing and giving up. We wrecked every inch of the office—floor, leather couch, my husband's sacred chair—leaving footprints on the quarterly reports. By the time he was finished I had black nut painted across my tongue and a new respect for affirmative action.