“Anything,” you say.
“Anything?” the black woman challenges you.
A world of opportunities with her blossoms before you and you nod.
“I want to ride you,” she says, handing the strap-on over. You haven’t worn one before, but for her, and inside the House, you’re willing to try. She helps you to put it on and soon there’s a solid weight dangling between your legs, a purple silicone c**k. It feels strange, but not bad, and when she pushes you down onto your back, you gladly roll.
She straddles your waist chastely, her long hair spilling down her chest, and you reach up to touch her breasts, her waist, her hips. From this angle she’s even more beautiful than she was before – you had no idea that this was what it was like for men. Her torso is lean and her eyes are heavy and when she leans
