A white middle class english county wife is corrupted by a black farm hand

Hi. Don’t know where to start my story so I’ll begin by
telling you a bit about myself. My name is Corrie and
I’m 31. I’m about 5ft5 with blue eyes and short blond
hair. My husband says it makes me look a bit boyish. I
don’t have big boobs, 32b and a nice rounded bottom. I
met my husband at a Young Conservative ball when I was
14 and he was 17. He is the only man, until recently,
that I have ever had sex with. Not that we had sex when
we met. We are both strict church-goers, and when he
went off to university I stayed at home on daddy’s
farm. He came back and joined his daddy’s firm and we
got married. I had 2 boys and quickly settled down to
be a country wife and mother, living in a bungalow on
my dad’s farm.

Sex with Peter is ok. We do it every Friday night and
always in the missionary position. We have never done
oral sex, but I thought it was very nice. All this
changed 2 months ago.

I had taken my boys to their private school and was
driving down the country lanes near me when I got a
puncture. I was on my way to my friend Sues for a
coffee and girly chat so I was dressed in a flowery
summer dress and sandals. Not the outfit to change a
wheel! I had an idea what to do, but there was no way I
could get the wheel nuts off. I since learned that the
garage use a power tool to put them on, so what chance
did I have?

After struggling for about 15 minutes I heard a voice
behind me.

“Want a hand?”

I turned round and saw a black man about 6ft 2 with a
shaved head and a very nice smile. I said ok. He
changed the wheel in about 5 minutes.

“Would you like to come to my cottage and get a bit
cleaned up?” he asked, pointing to a farm workers
cottage across the road. I agreed and off we went. The
cottage was small but neat. He said his name was Paul
and he was a farm worker.

“The only black farm worker in Worcestershire!!” and we
both laughed.

We were standing quite close together and he reached
out and cupped my boob. I looked up at him stunned. No-
one except my husband had touched me there. As I looked
up, my mouth open in surprise, he bent down and kissed
me, pushing his tongue into my mouth. I was stunned but
started to kiss him back. He picked me up and carried
me to his kitchen table. He sat me on the edge and
moved between my legs, which opened automatically. My
arms, which I put round his neck when he picked me up,
stayed there.

He pushed me back so I was lying on his table. There
were some papers on the table, but he swept them off
onto the floor. My arms fell across my face as I felt
my dress being lifted over my knees. I half expected
the familiar clumsy nudging of a cock near my pussy,
but I felt what I now know was his tongue. Oh my god I
had never felt anything like it. Both my hands went
down and grabbed the back of his head and pulled him
into me, and firework went off in my head. I though sex
with Peter was good but this was amazing.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better he
pulled away and before I could even think what was
happening I felt him slide into me. I had never been so
wet. He went straight in and started banging really
hard, grabbing my boobs like handles. I started to
orgasm straight away. I had never had sex like it in my
life. My head went from side to side I kept saying “oh
god, oh god, oh god”.

“You fucking love it don’t you? You love a big fat
black cock fucking your posh white cunt,” he snarled.

Normally I don’t like swearing but this just turned me
on more. Before I knew it he was grunting and I felt
him cum deep inside me. That pushed me over into one
final orgasm.
He pulled out, laughing. I just lay on the table,
gasping like a landed fish.

“You’re one fine fuck, lady. What’s your name?”

“Corrie,” I replied.

“If ever you want a good fucking again, Corrie, ring
me.”

He wrote his number on a piece of paper and put it in
my bag, then he left. When I finally recovered my wits,
I made myself decent and drove home. In the bath, I
vowed never to ring him.

Two days later, I dug the scrap of paper out of the
bin. Shaking, I dialled. A deep voice answered.

“Paul, its Corrie.”

“Come round about 12” he said, “and dress sexy.”

I wore some black riding boots, a light blue long linen
skirt, a white blouse and a bustier, some Chanel No. 5
and a bit of dark red lipstick. I never dressed up for
Peter.

When I arrived at Paul’s cottage, he gave a whistle of
approval.

“Sweet,” he said, “but put on more lipstick.”

I applied another coat.

“More,” he said.

Turned on beyond belief, I painted it on. My lips
looked puffy with arousal, and with all the lipstick
on, I looked like a prostitute. I realised that was
what Paul wanted. He wanted a white whore. The thought
made my go so moist and set hundreds of butterflies
loose in my belly. I had never felt such sexual
arousal.

There followed an hour of the most brutal sex, in fact
I have to call it fucking, I have ever had. He fucked
me doggy, which I loved, on my belly with his big black
hands on my boobs and with me on top, which he loved
but I wasn’t very good at. He said practice would make
perfect. I realised then that this would happen again.
And again.

Finally he got me to suck him. The feeling of him
swelling in my mouth was incredible. I think I made up
for lack of practice with enthusiasm. He grabbed my
blond crop with one hand and thrust in and out of my
mouth. Just as I felt him tense up, he pulled and came
all over my face. It went in my mouth and hair,
everywhere. He then smeared it across my face with his
big black cock. I just died.

Since then I have become his slut. I have shaved my
pussy for him (I told Paul I read it was unhygienic). I
went to the shopping centre in Redditch dressed as his
slut girlfriend, in short white boots, a short
minidress half unfastened, and lots shiny metallic
lipstick. He loves me in lipstick. He loves me smearing
it down his cock. He loves cumming down my throat and
across my face and hair. With practice, I can get 3/4
in my mouth, and I aim to deep throat him by Christmas.

We saw some friends of mine in Redditch, but they
didn’t recognise me with my dark glasses on. Lots of
men looked at me though. Paul said it made him feel
proud. In the multi-storey car-park he made me suck him
off, pulling out and cumming over my face and tits. You
should have seen the look on the ticket guys’ face!

A few times I have met him on my way to church. This is
harder, because I have to get Peter to get the boys
ready, but I make an excuse about needing to get some
things from the shop for lunch. I already have the
things in my boot, so Paul gets a suck or a fuck in my
Sunday best. I feel so wicked in church afterwards!

I now meet Paul 3 or 4 times a week. In my craft room
at home I have a hidden stash of what I call my “slut
gear”, boots, minskirts, leather skirts, basques and
stockings and loads of Pauls favourite lipstick! I
don’t know where I’m heading. It can only end badly.
Paul takes pictures and video of us fucking and
sucking, and winds me up by saying he’s going to invite
some friends over to gang-bang me.

He has also taught me to be a potty mouth. If I can’t
meet him, he gets me to do phone sex with him. I sit at
my desk with my legs spread, fingering my shaved pussy,
telling him I want his big black cock to fuck me like a
slut and cum all over my face and tits. And the
language I use when we fuck would make a navvy blush!

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