The first part opens with a brief prologue of my sweet housewife Jessie at home while her husband Stephen is away at the office. The house is in need of some renovations, and I call my lovely bride to let her know that the builder is going to be coming by later to look at the master bedroom. You complain about having to get the house in order and why can’t I be there to see him instead, but as much as I find you cute when you grumble, I can’t get away from work. You are about to hang up when you ask what the builder’s name is. “Dayvonne? What kind of name is that?” you wonder to yourself as you hang up and start cleaning. You’re in mid-clean, listening to your favourite songs on the radio, when you hear the doorbell ring. You go to the door—and for a moment you’re in shock. Because standing there is a huge chiseled hunk of dark granite. The builder I’ve hired is a black man, and in the 1950s-era conservative neighbourhood, that is a deep shock. You stand there for a moment in utter surprise, because I did not warn you that the builder was black. After a moment, you snap out of it and hurriedly invite him in, careful to close the door quickly and nervously glancing out the window to see if maybe one of the neighbours saw you, like your good friend Betty across the way. You nervously get the introductions out of the way, and you ask him if he’d like a cup of tea. You go to the kitchen to prepare it, all the while talking to yourself: why did Stephen not tell me? What was he thinking? Not that you’ve got anything against the idea, but . . . you’d think he would’ve said something, right? But you’re starting to blush, and it’s not just from embarrassment, and you keep sneaking peeks the whole time. You bring him his tea and the conversation goes much in the same way as it did in the first run. He comments on the music you’re listening to, and you soon find yourself engaged and chatting with him. Your chatting soon blossoms into shy flirting, and at one point you blurt that you have loads of time, Stephen is at the office for hours and won’t be back till late. And by and by, the conversation turns towards the compliments: talking about how popular he must be with the ladies, how he doesn’t have a wedding ring, etc. And maybe you start talking about your own marriage, nervously fiddling with your own ring. Soon, however, your curiosity is starting to get the better of you and you start talking about the things you’ve heard, the rumours. And you almost can’t believe how blatant it is now, but you can tell he’s not uncomfortable at all. But he wants you to say what you want. And eventually, you ask to see it. And ho. Lee. Your jaw drops and your teacup spills on the carpet. You drop to your knees to scrub it instinctively . . . but then you’re face to face with his huge monster cock, fat and dark. And the mess is immediately forgotten. You nervously ask to touch it, admiring its girth and firmness, comparing it against your husband’s. You love the contrast against your dainty, delicate fingers and pale skin. You gulp nervously . . . and then ask if maybe you can taste it. After all, you’ve got time. And maybe after a few moments of you sampling the head of his thick veiny cock, you look up and say, almost casually, whether he’d like to see the master bedroom after all. The custom fades out on your smile — still shy but very coy, with a hungry gleam in your eye. Something’s been awakened. Something dark.