Darla Crane

My lazy-ass son wrecked my chill night with my juicy gossip rag, buried in Tinsel Town dirt. He stumbles in all beat up, whining about some 'black dude' he's dodging over 12 grand. Turns out it's Jack Napier, ready to wreck my precious boy unless Mom steps up. Budget's tight, so I figure, hell yeah, I'll ride that beast while junior squirms. Saves the kid from the streets and scratches my itch for that monster black cock the PTA bitches envy! Jack grins, says blow and bang his thick 12-inch slab, debt's square. Son's glued to the chair, face twisted, as I slurp down that ebony meat, gagging but loving it. My heavy jugs smack my chin while Jack's pounding hammer drills my womb like a jackhammer. Kid's clueless I crave BBC—his ghostly mug says shock city. I'm floating on cloud nine, lips lapping my own slick from that brutal black railing. My snug snatch? Stretched for good. Same for my boy—prime view of Mom guzzling from the dark spigot and chugging Jack's hot load!