Tyrone's hands had, regrettably, moved from my bunsto the bed sheets and he was gripping them tensely, his biceps bulgingwith the effort he was puttin... into his fuck. With a vigor that I hadrarely before seen, Tyrone was equal parts fucking me and making love tome, growling and grunting. I imagined him a brawny gladiator and I washis victory spoils or he was the dashing knight who had rescued me and Ithe helpless damsel now favoring him with her charms. Or that he was thecotton slave and I was. We had travelled different roads but had both ended up at the same place. Mid-twenties, married to older, successful, career men. My husband is a concert promoter / band manager and is in a prime position to get the pick of the up and coming, barely dressed, blond bimbo's who are looking to break into the music biz.I must admit this was me when I first met him, dancing around a pole as I sang Tina Turners Private Dancer. He was checking out the club for an upcoming gig for a band he was. More

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