SexyText - porn stories and erotic novellas

Please, Laura | Ch. 01

**❧ SCENE ONE -- "The Dinner"**

I chose the green blouse, not the tight one that screams vanity, but the one that breathes with me. Soft cotton caresses my skin, loose over the shoulders, sleeves rolled up as if by instinct, buttons undone just enough to slip from thought. It's a quiet rebellion, a whisper of who I am beneath the surface.

My trousers were black, simple, soft cotton--not those glossy things people squeeze themselves into for parties. These ones breathe. They don't sculpt anything; they just move with me. And that's enough. My ass has always been a bit bigger than average--full, round. I used to hate how it looked. Now, at 42, I don't care. It's mine, and it balances out my 5'8" frame like it was made to.

You should know I usually dress like an onion--layers over layers, kind of casual. Some might even say a bit hippie. And even though I do enjoy the comforts of modern life, I kind of like hearing that. It suits me. I've got strong values.

That part of me--the casualness, the layered quietness, the no-bullshit simplicity--has rubbed a few people the wrong way over the years. Especially at work. I've had more than a few run-ins with upper management. I'm polite. I'm warm. But when it comes to my team, I don't back down. I'll fight like a wolf for my own. Fierce. Protective. Belligerent, even. You cross someone I care about, you're crossing me. And I don't do halfway.Please, Laura | Ch. 01 фото

No heels. I never wear them. I'm tall enough already, and adding inches just makes me feel like I'm looming over everyone. I wore my flat boots, scuffed a little at the toe, soft at the ankle. The kind of boots that know my stride better than I do.

My hair hung loose, long and thick, brushed to a heavy, lustrous shine--chestnut threaded with silver streaks I no longer hide. They're mine, etched like tree rings, like undeniable proof of battles fought and years claimed. They tell a story I've stopped apologizing for. My hair has always been my sanctuary, the place where I let my vanity breathe. I'm not one for frills or mirrors, not really--but my hair, and the skin of my face, I tend to with a quiet devotion. There's pride there, feminine and fierce, almost private. In most things I've moved through life with boldness, sure of who I am--except in the body I inhabit. Even when I was adored, I doubted. But my hair and skin? They've always felt like mine. My small rebellions. My soft thrones.

I was raised in the '80s and '90s, and it lingers in me like perfume in the folds of an old scarf. There's something in my tone, in the way I look at men without blinking, in how I carry myself--proud, defiant, privately sensual. I come from a time when a woman could be tough without being loud, when independence was worn like skin. My feminism smells of cassette tapes and cold coffee in smoke-filled kitchens. And I'll fight every scrap of machismo I come across--because we still don't have full equality, and we deserve it, in every room, every office, every bed.

As I adjusted the blouse in front of the mirror, I paused for a moment on my reflection. My build is average, neither thin nor heavy, a body that has learned to carry itself over time. My chest, medium-sized, doesn't seek attention, but it shows under the fabric with a discretion I've come to appreciate. My skin, caucasian, ordinary white. My hair, dense and somewhat curly, falls like an untamed cascade. My forehead, a bit high, makes room for thoughts that sometimes weigh too much; my eyes, small and slightly close-set, hold an intensity I don't always know how to tame. My nose, prominent, widens when I laugh or speak, as if wanting to devour the air. My long hands, restless, seem to search for something I can't name. Everything about me is long.

John told me I looked beautiful as we left the apartment. He wore a grey suit--no tie, of course. Top button undone. 5'7", lean, bald, with a neatly trimmed beard and dark blue eyes that didn't ask--they took. He smelled incredible--clean skin, heat, and something purely him that made my pulse skip.

We met working for my previous company, where we were both too competent and too unwilling to yield. Our profiles overlapped. We were both trusted, respected, hard to ignore. And I--though I would not admit it then--felt threatened. I thought he was there to replace me. To outshine me in the quiet way men sometimes do when they're admired simply for not interrupting. I bristled. He listened. I argued. He answered. And yet, he was always good to me. Not soft, but fair. Fairer than I was to him. I never said sorry. I never could...

The holiday dinner was already loud when we walked in--finger food, waiters with trays, everyone pretending they weren't on their fourth glass of wine. I hate these things, but I know how to play the game. I smiled, made the rounds, introduced John to my team. He smiled too, shook hands, held his posture like someone who doesn't need to fill silence to be noticed. He's always been that way. Underestimated. Until he speaks. He's ten years younger, but in his mind, he's every bit my equal.

At one point, I was near the bar talking with a few colleagues, going over some supply chain drama from last quarter. Nate was there--one of the managers from strategy. I barely knew him, but everyone did. He was hard to miss.

He's Black, around 6'6", and built like he could carry a fridge up three flights without breaking a sweat. Broad. Muscular. Movie-level handsome, but like he didn't care whether you noticed or not. His presence just filled space without asking permission.

He said something about vendor delays--dry, typical--and I replied. I don't even remember what I said, but I heard my voice shift. Just slightly. Brighter. Quicker. My hand moved when I spoke.

It wasn't flirtation.

It was just attraction.

But it was something light in my tone. And John noticed.

I felt it before I saw it--a searing heat grazing the side of my face, an unshakable instinct of being watched. It prickled my skin, a silent alarm that quickened my pulse.

When I glanced over, John was across the room, drink in hand, still as a photograph.

He wasn't glaring.

But his jaw was set.

His lips were closed like he was chewing something bitter.

He looked at me like he was watching something fall and didn't know whether to catch it or let it break.

I smiled--reflex, nothing more--and stepped away from the conversation with a light hand on someone's arm. Not Nate's. I crossed to John. He kissed my cheek when I reached him. It was warm. Soft. But there was a half-second delay--just enough for me to feel the shift.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. Wine. Laughter. Photos. Someone made a speech. I didn't really listen.

But I kept thinking of that look on John's face.

Not angry.

Not jealous.

Just... alert.

When we got back home, I kicked off my boots the second we walked through the door. My feet ached, the kind of sharp ache that reminds you of your age, your weight, and every glass of wine you drank.

John didn't say anything. Just followed me in and set the keys on the counter with a little more force than necessary.

I went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water. Let the silence stretch. It didn't feel like peace. It felt like something hovering above our heads, just waiting for one of us to blink.

I leaned on the counter. My shirt was sticking to my back. I reached up and pulled the pins from my hair--let it fall heavy around my shoulders. I could feel his eyes on me.

"You okay?" I asked, not turning around, letting the question hang heavy in the air.

A pause, thick with unspoken weight.

Then: "Yeah. Just tired."

Total bullshit, and we both knew it.

I changed my mind, I know exactly what this is. He's jealous. Of Nate. And he shouldn't be--he really shouldn't. I love him. I want him. But fine, I'll admit it: if I were single and Nate made a move, I wouldn't exactly run the other way. That man could fuck, no doubt. But I'm not single. And I haven't done anything wrong.

If John's upset, he should say something. Be a grown-up and talk. Sometimes I wonder if it's pride holding me back. People say I've got too much of it myself, but I don't see it that way. To me, that's just being an adult. If something's broken, fix it. Don't just sit there and sulk. I wasn't about to chase a ghost I never invited.

His tone was clipped. His body was stiff. His words were too careful.

I walked past him, brushing his arm lightly with mine. He didn't move.

In the bedroom, I peeled off my blouse slowly, too slowly, like I wanted to feel the fabric drag across my skin. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror--bare shoulders, the faint marks of my bra pressing into skin still warm from too many eyes, too many conversations, too much everything.

He came in a few minutes later. Changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt. Said nothing. Climbed into bed. Faced the ceiling.

I slid in beside him, pulled the sheet over us.

Silence.

Not angry. Not hostile.

But charged.

Like he was on the edge of something and didn't know what name to give it.

I could feel the tension in his body, the weight of whatever he was holding in. It wasn't jealousy. It was something quieter. Heavier. He was playing back the night in his head, moment by moment--some look I'd given, some laugh that landed wrong.

And it changed him.

That night, he didn't touch me.

Didn't kiss me.

Didn't even look at me once we were in bed.

But his silence clung to me like a second skin.

What I didn't know then was that it had always lingered there--a dormant fantasy of John's

**❧ SCENE TWO -- "The Message"**

Three days later, one of my sisters gave birth to my first nephew. The baby was tiny, almost comically so, as if crafted from the faintest peach fuzz and the fleeting scent of milk breath. I held him when asked, felt his weight in my arms, but my mind wandered elsewhere, tethered more to routine than to the moment. My sister looked like a war veteran--exhausted and in love. I stayed in the guest room, helped with feedings, did what was expected. I didn't sleep much. But I didn't mind. The house was warm and slow. It made the noise in my head quiet down.

John texted every few hours--photos of the cat, memes, the silly stuff we'd normally toss back and forth. The usual warmth lingered in his words, but beneath it, a subtle discord hummed, like a wire pulled too tight. I couldn't shake the sense he was holding something back.

That evening, he even called--just to put my four-year-old daughter Diana on video, the one from before him, from another life entirely. He said he wasn't much in the mood to talk, and true enough, he barely did.

Then, the following night, after the baby had finally stopped screaming and the whole house had gone still, I got the message.

"'Did you know how you looked when you were talking to Nate the other night?'"

I blinked at the screen, the dim room casting faint shadows across its glow. I lay in bed, draped in one of my sister's oversized T-shirts, no bra, my legs tangled in the cool embrace of the sheets, a sudden tension coiling in my chest.

What the hell kind of question was that, anyway? I stared at the screen way longer than I'd ever admit, my mind racing with a mix of irritation and curiosity I couldn't quite pin down.

Then I typed back:

"'What do you mean how I looked?'"

Three dots.

Then nothing.

Then more dots.

"'Like you wanted something. Not in a bad way. Just... you had this look.'"

He'd seen that look on me before--I knew it. I don't hide it well when someone catches my eye. Never have. And John had never made a thing of it. A glance, a smile, maybe a tease later, but never this. He always understood that attraction doesn't mean betrayal. That noticing someone isn't the same as wanting them.

But this time, something was different.

He couldn't let go of it.

My stomach flipped. Not because I was caught doing anything. I hadn't. I hadn't even thought about Nate since that night. Not really. Maybe a flicker. A shape. A scent.

But this... this wasn't about Nate.

This was about John.

About how he had seen me.

I sat up. Felt the shirt cling to my back. I could smell the baby's shampoo on the sheets. I wasn't turned on--not yet. But I was alert. Something in me had woken up.

"'You're imagining things,' I wrote."

He replied immediately:

"'Maybe. But I can't stop.'"

There it was. The shift. The current beneath the words.

I could've shut it down.

Should've, maybe.

Instead, I let the silence hang for a few minutes, then typed:

"'What can't you stop?'"

His answer came in pieces.

First:

"'Thinking about you.'"

Then, after a minute:

"'Thinking about him. And you. Together.'"

I stared at the screen. My heart kicked. My thighs pressed together under the sheets before I even knew why.

It wasn't the image itself.

It was John saying it.

John, my husband--the smart pervert, always so lovely and protective with me. Saying this.

Letting the leash slip.

And I--I should've been weirded out. Or defensive. Or something.

Instead, I gazed at the message, biting my lip as a forbidden thrill stirred within me, and typed with a trembling hand: "'Go on.' It was an invitation, a step into uncharted territory I wasn't sure I was ready to explore."

**❧ SCENE THREE -- "Go On"**

Go on, I'd dared, the words lingering like a spark in the dark. I wasn't sure what I was inviting, or perhaps I knew too well and refused to voice it, the truth a heavy pulse beneath my skin. But I lay there in that room that smelled like baby powder and dust, in a shirt too big, no panties, legs shifting against each other like they couldn't get comfortable, staring at the screen in anticipation.

The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

"'I keep seeing you on your knees.'"

There it was.

Not even a hello. Just straight to the blood.

"'Where?' I typed, thumb hesitating."

I could feel my own heartbeat in the tips of my fingers.

"'At work,' he wrote."

"'In your office. Or maybe the conference room. Him standing there. You looking up at him like you did when you laughed at his joke. Just like that.'"

My breath caught.

I wasn't wet yet, but my body had already leaned in, fully committed, no retreat possible. A silent threshold had been crossed, and I felt the weight of it settle in my chest, both thrilling and unnerving.

"'What am I wearing?' I asked."

It felt ridiculous, juvenile. Like sexting in college. But also electric. So not us--and that's what made it tick.

"'That skirt,' he replied."

"'The gray one with the zipper on the side. You're wearing the black thong.'"

Fuck, I only wear that thong for him.

I shifted under the covers. My thighs were already pressing. My fingers traced along the hem of the shirt without thinking. Not touching--yet. Just preparing.

"'You've really thought this through,' I typed."

"'Every night since the dinner.'"

"'Every morning, too.'"

I smirked.

And I knew--this wasn't just dirty talk. This was something he'd been sitting on. Something that had been boiling inside him, and now it had cracked the surface.

"'So what happens next?' I sent."

He didn't hesitate this time.

"'He unzips the skirt. He is enjoying, even watering, watching your great booty for the first time. You're still wearing your glasses. You don't say anything. You just let him.'"

I let my hand slip between my thighs, no pressure yet, just the simmering heat of skin brushing skin, a quiet promise of what might follow. My breath hitched, caught in the charged stillness. The idea of John typing that, picturing it, sweating on the other side of the phone, turned something sharp inside me. Not because of Nate. Not even the act.

It was the loss of control.

His loss of control.

That this quiet man, my calm, thoughtful husband, had a part of him that wild, and that I had the key to let it out.

"'Tell me more,' I wrote."

"'Slow.'"

That was it. The match.

And he struck it hard.

"'He pushes you down. Not rough. Just... certain.'"

"'You're already wet.'"

"'You want it. He knows.'"

I bit my lip. My fingers pressed lower now, gentle, not yet frantic. Just enough to feel. I wasn't touching myself for him. Not really. I was doing it for me--because the version of me he was seeing was... powerful. Open. Craved. And I wanted to meet her. Even if only through the screen.

"'What do I say?' I asked."

The pause was longer this time. Then:

"'Nothing. You just look up at him. That sexy face of yours. And Nate thinks what every man thinks when he sees your face.'"

That stopped me for half a second. I know well his fantasies, well, at least some of them...

"'I'm there too,' he wrote."

"'Watching. Jerking off while I watch you.'"

And now it was full. The fantasy had weight. Legs. It walked into the room.

I let my fingers move with more intent now. Eyes half-lidded, screen lighting my face.

I didn't care about Nate.

Not really.

What turned me on was how far John was falling--how undone he was.

How every message sounded more like a prayer than a plan.

"'I want to see you lose it,' I typed, my words raw and urgent. 'Right now. For me. Damn, I'm getting wet.' The confession spilled out, a reckless edge to it, mirroring the heat building within me."

And his reply?

"'I'm already close.'"

I imagined him. Alone at home. Shirtless, probably, maybe sitting at the edge of the bed, cock in hand, flushed, whispering my name in between gasps.

And that was it.

I came.

Not loud, but deep. Full-body.

The kind that hums through the legs and chest like someone rang a bell inside you.

I dropped the phone on my stomach, chest rising.

My legs twitched once.

I laughed.

Soft, stunned, a little disoriented.

I'm sure he wanted me to resist him a little longer, to give in more fully to the fantasy. But the truth is, I was incredibly turned on, and I've never had trouble reaching orgasm in moments like that. This time, I couldn't hold back when I felt how wild he was. There was something about his dark confession that I found deeply arousing.

I typed, fingers trembling slightly:

"'Now that I know this, I'll make sure you're well satisfied with it ????. When I get home, I will give you a great blowjob while I whisper exactly what you want to hear ????,' I typed with a playful wink implied."

And I meant it.

Not because of the fantasy.

Not because of Nate.

But because in that moment, in the dark, under baby-pink sheets that smelled like new life, I realized I liked being the one who undid him.

I liked it, perhaps a little too much, the thrill of unraveling him weaving into something deeper, a dangerous delight that whispered of desires I hadn't yet named.

**❧ SCENE FOUR -- "The Return"**

When I walked into the apartment, I already knew something was going to happen.

I sensed it the moment I stepped in. Not cologne, not food, nothing tangible. Just... a charged stillness, a primal hum in the air, like the tense breath before a thunderstorm breaks. The kind that makes your skin tighten behind your knees.

I dropped my bag by the door and kicked off my boots. The hallway light was on, dim. The rest of the apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

"Diana? John?" I called.

No answer. Just the low hum of the fridge.

I stepped into the living room--and there he was.

Sitting on the couch. In nothing but his underwear. No shirt. Legs wide. Hands on his thighs. Eyes fixed on me like I was something he'd conjured and wasn't sure how long I'd stay.

The lights were dimmed. The coffee table was clear. No distractions. Just me. Him. The space between.

He didn't say a word.

I looked at him and--God--I felt it in my chest. The way his eyes held mine. Like he was starving and trying not to pounce.

 

I didn't smile. Didn't play cute. I just pulled the hair tie from my wrist and twisted my hair into a bun. Tight. Practical. That motion--he always watched it like it was foreplay.

I started unbuttoning my coat.

Slow. Deliberate.

He swallowed.

"You've been obsessing over this, haven't you?" I asked, my voice a slow caress.

His reply was a whisper, raw and heavy. "Every damn second."

I let the coat slide off my shoulders and fall to the floor. Then the cardigan. Then the heels.

I stood there in a thin white blouse and black slacks--creased from travel, loose around the thighs. Nothing fancy. But his eyes traced every inch like it was silk and gold.

I walked over to him.

Dropped to my knees.

My fingers found the waistband of his underwear. Not to pull. Just to feel the heat.

"You ready?" I asked.

He nodded. Couldn't speak.

But I didn't touch him--not yet.

Instead, I looked up and said, with my voice steady and low:

"I'm going to take care of you and your wishes."

His breath hitched.

I saw his whole chest tighten.

He opened his mouth, and I slipped my hand inside his underwear, just enough to tease.

But this time, I led the fantasy. And I knew what John liked most and how he liked it.

I started to stroke him, to worship his beautiful cock, average in size but perfect to me. But this wasn't about him; it was about Nate's.

I painted a vivid picture for him, my words as seductive as my touch. "Picture Nate's thick, dark cock against my face," I murmured, my hand moving with intent, "the raw contrast igniting something primal. I'd stroke him with both hands, worshipping every inch until he trembles."

John's eyes rolled back, a moan escaping his lips as he muttered, "You are going to have a big black cock all over your face. Shake it well. Worship it."

I continued, my voice dropping to a husky whisper, "I will enjoy it. I'll run my nose up and down to smell it, savoring the musky scent that's uniquely his."

"Fuck, Laura... you are amazing" he breathed out, his hips bucking slightly, seeking more friction.

"And I will lick it all over to make it easier to suck it," I said, my own arousal growing with each word, each fantasy that I wove. "Give him a blowjob like I never did to you."

I could see the effect my words were having on him, his body trembling with the effort to hold back, to savor the filthy scene I was creating.

"I'm going to make sounds with my mouth, because I know he'll enjoy watching me force it in--even though it doesn't really fit."

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his hands on my shoulders.

"He will touch this big sexy nose you love while sucking him," I said, my free hand coming up to trace the contours of my own nose, imagining his touch.

"You son of a bitch," he muttered, a mix of endearment and jealousy in his tone.

I was so wet, and these sentences made me start to moan, my own need growing uncontrollably.

"He'll put his big balls in my mouth while jerking off on my face... mmm," I continued, my hand moving faster now, my own excitement betraying my rhythm.

"Full of flavor. Those balls are filled by you and for you. Your face will smell like them," John said, his voice thick with desire.

"Yes, I crave it. That raw, intoxicating taste. Fuck... Do you like watching me like this? Are you stroking yourself, imagining that heavy cock claiming my face?" I asked, my eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Yes, and you? I'm close, Laura..." he managed to say, his voice strained.

"Yes! I love that BIG, BLACK, COCK and those BIG, BLACK, BALLS full of semen for my face. I know you would like to see my face covered in all that cum. Blasted like never before," I purred, challenging him, my own climax building with each filthy word.

"Fuck!!!" The word tore from John's throat as his body tensed, the orgasm ripping through him.

I aimed the cock to my face as John always had a kink with facials, and that had always seemed good to me.

The cumshot was intense, and I felt rewarded as his hot cum splashed across my face, marking me as his with thick ropes. Some of it went deep inside one of my nostrils, and I started to laugh, releasing the sexual tension that had been coiled tightly within me.

With a wicked gleam in my eye, I cleaned the last drops with my mouth, savoring the salty taste of him, and tucked his softening cock back into his underwear.

"You're welcome," I replied.

He stared at me, eyes raw, as if I'd shattered something inside him--or set it free. I couldn't tell which. And honestly? I reveled in not caring, in the power of leaving him so utterly undone.

Was I imagining Nate while...?

Yes. I was. And I loved it.

I'll have to slow down next time, I thought on my way to the bathroom.

**❧ SCENE FIVE -- "You've Never Looked Like That"**

Laura stood before the mirror, her skin still ablaze from the fire of their encounter. The remnants of John's desire adorned her face like a forbidden mask, thick and pearlescent, a silent hymn to the ferocity of their passion. "God, you came so much," she said, her voice echoing through the apartment, a brazen confession that sent a shiver through her core, rekindling the ghost of pleasure.

John, lounging in the living room, heard her and felt a surge of primal pride. "Yeah," he called back, his own body still thrumming with the aftershocks of his release.

Laura caught his gaze in the reflection, her eyes glinting with a wicked edge. "Want to see me in the mirror?" She knew his answer before he gave it, knew the way his breath hitched at the thought of her, cum-covered and wanton, admiring herself with his essence dripping down her chin.

John appeared behind her, his presence a commanding force as he wrapped his arms around her waist. "You are so beautiful," he murmured into her skin, planting soft kisses along her shoulder. His breath was still ragged, a testament to the intensity of his release.

She could feel his gaze on her, a look that seemed to pierce through her very soul. It was a look of reverence, as though she were both a sacred vision and a forbidden temptation. "You've never looked at me like this," Laura murmured, her voice a fragile thread as she cleaned her face, the warm water erasing the tangible proof of his surrender, yet leaving its weight on her skin.

With a quiet exit, John left the bathroom, his voice trailing behind him, "I know." The undertones in his voice were complex, a blend of relief and an unspoken fear that Laura couldn't quite decipher.

Laura finished her ablutions and made her way to the kitchen for a drink, the cool water doing little to quench the fire that John had ignited within her. She found him in the living room, his eyes following her every move. She leaned against the counter.

"So," she began, her tone deceptively casual, a sharp curiosity beneath, "will you tell me when this started?"

John's demeanor shifted, his confident exterior giving way to a more vulnerable side. "I don't know," he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor momentarily. "The dinner, I guess."

Laura raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued. "That recent?"

He hesitated, then shook his head. "Okay. No. Before. I just... I never told you."

Crossing her arms, Laura considered his words. "With Nate?" she asked, the name hanging in the air between them.

"Not exactly. But that night--the way you laughed with him, the way you looked--it stirred something in me."

Laura considered this, her mind replaying the evening in question. "He's hot," she said bluntly. "Nate. Objectively. I'm not blind."

John's lips curled into a half-smile. "Yeah."

"But that's all," Laura asserted, her eyes locked onto John's. "I mean it. I don't want him."

"Maybe." John's response was more of a contemplative murmur than a statement of doubt.

Laura could see the obsession in his eyes, a darker, raw and untamed desire that had nothing to do with Nate and everything to do with her. It was a heady realization, one that sent a thrill coursing through her veins.

"Does it bother you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "That I think about this stuff?"

Laura took a moment before answering, her gaze never leaving his. "No."

She closed the distance between them, dropping to her knees beside the couch, her forehead pressed against his. "But I need to know you're not just doing this because you think I want it. That this is your thing. Not mine."

John nodded, his hands finding their way to her hair, his fingers twining in the soft strands. "It is. It's mine. But I want it with you. I only ever wanted it with you."

That look was back, the one that made Laura feel like the only woman in the world. It was a look that promised endless nights of pleasure and a connection that went beyond the physical.

Laura stood, her hand extended towards John. "Come with me," she said, her voice a sultry command. She led him to the bedroom, the air charged with anticipation.

The room was bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, casting sensual shadows across the walls. Laura pushed John onto the bed, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. She straddled him, her hands roaming over his chest, her nails scratching lightly over his skin.

"I want to hear you say it," she demanded, her voice a low purr. "Tell me what you want."

John's eyes darkened with desire, his voice a hoarse whisper as he gave voice to his deepest cravings. "I want to see you touch yourself. I want to watch you come undone."

Laura smiled, her fingers trailing down her body, teasing her nipples into hard peaks before continuing their journey south. She parted her folds, revealing the slick, pink flesh beneath. Her fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles around her clit, each stroke eliciting a soft moan from her lips.

John's cock twitched in response, his eyes riveted to the sight of Laura pleasuring herself. He reached down, his hand closing around his shaft through his underwear.

Laura's breath caught, her orgasm swelling like a storm within her, muscles taut as she pursued her release. "Fuck, John," she gasped, her body quaking as waves of pleasure shattered through her, leaving her both broken and whole.

**❧ SCENE SIX -- "First Coffee"**

The first coffee of the day is a ritual, a quiet sanctuary. Anyone who dares to shatter it with chatter before caffeine deserves no mercy. Yet Karen--always Karen--slips through the barricade, forgiven before she even asks.

She slid into the seat across from me in the break room like she owned it. With her thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, she radiated an intellectual allure, a quiet seduction amplified by her deceptively casual attire--clothes that whispered sultry secrets. I couldn't help but wonder what layers of herself she hid beneath that effortless charm. Her long brunette hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face that, while ordinary at first glance, held a magnetic pull that drew people in. Her wide hips and thin waist were the stuff of male fantasies, and her full curves had driven more than one man to distraction. She was wearing those tight gray pants that made every guy in Finance forget what a spreadsheet was. Not her fault. Her presence entered rooms a full second before the rest of her.

Karen's fourteen years younger than me. But we clicked from the beginning. Same dry humor. Same way of clocking the bullshit in the room. She's got softer features than I do, but we're not that different. Both with long brown hair, both smart enough to make things look easy when they aren't. She reminds me of myself when I was her age.

She sipped her coffee, gave me a once-over. "You look smug, Laura. That's either the glow of sex or the thrill of revenge. So, which is it?"

I smirked. "Little of both."

"Oh my god, tell me."

I hesitated, glancing around the room. Two interns walked out. Nobody else was close.

"Okay," I said, lowering my voice. "So... John and I had a little moment. A new kind of moment."

She leaned in, wide-eyed. "Kinky moment?"

I shrugged. "Sort of. He told me he's been fantasizing about... well, me. With someone else."

She blinked. "Wait--what? Like a threesome?"

"No. Just... him watching. Imagining me with someone. Specifically..." I paused, then added, "Nate."

Karen's eyebrows shot up so fast I thought they'd detach.

"The tall guy from Strategy? Holy shit, Laura."

I laughed into my coffee. "Yeah. That one."

She leaned back, mouth open in mock scandal. "Girl. That man is a wall. A hot, six-foot wall of a real man."

I rolled my eyes. "Haha, Karen, it's just a fantasy."

"But like... he said that? Out loud? Well, he always was kind of a pervert."

"Yes, but he was... different. Unfiltered. Obsessed. I've never seen him like that."

Karen stirred her coffee slowly. "And you? Did it freak you out?"

I paused, searching for the right words. "Not exactly. It's not my desire, not truly. But seeing him unravel like that, consumed by a hunger for me?" I shook my head, a faint tremor in my voice. "It stirred something primal, something I didn't expect to feel."

Karen grinned. "You liked the power."

I nodded. "I liked him like that. All desperate and sweaty and unable to keep it together."

"Fuck," she said. "So what now? You gonna let him keep going with it?"

I gave a sly smile. "I already did. A little."

She raised her cup like a toast. "To depravity."

I laughed. "To well-managed depravity. Karen, life is short."

Then she leaned in and said, "You'll tell me if it gets real, right? Like if Nate ever ends up in the picture for real?"

I looked at her, serious now. "That's not going to happen."

"Okay," she said, backing off. "But if it were to happen, you will tell me every detail. That's the vibe."

I nodded once. "Damn right."

"You bitch," she said, making me laugh.

We finished the coffee. She left to take a call.

I stayed a moment longer, staring into the bottom of my cup.

The truth lingered, elusive--I wasn't sure what I craved. Yet one certainty burned through the haze: I relished the unknown. It was a dangerous thrill, a tightrope I walked willingly, unsure if I'd fall or fly.

**❧ SCENE SEVEN -- "At Work"**

The first message pierced through my morning haze at 10:47 a. m.

"I can't stop picturing you."

It landed like a spark on dry tinder, igniting something I wasn't ready to face.

I was in a meeting. Something about budgeting, everyone half-asleep and nodding too much. I ignored it.

Then five minutes later:

"Your face. The way you were kneeling last night."

I swallowed. The screen glared at me, as if it held a secret I didn't want exposed.

I typed back when the room took a break:

"Babe, I'm working. Later."

He replied instantly.

"Can't wait. I'm hard at my desk thinking about you."

"You. And a black guy with a huge cock."

"Even you between two of them. Hands on you. Your glasses still on."

There it was.

Not Nate.

Them.

Men. Big. Black. Powerful.

A forbidden realm had cracked open within him, a fault line of desire, and now every thought, every boundary, was tumbling into its depths. I felt the tremor of it in myself, unbidden.

At first, I refused to picture it, resisted the pull. It felt too vast. And here I was, trapped in the sterile hum of my office, where such thoughts should have no place.

But he kept going. Text after text.

Short. Sharp. Almost breathless.

"One behind you."

"Another in front."

"You taking all of it--like you need it--while their friends stroke their cocks, watching you."

"All of them wishing they could take you like those two are, Laura."

My hand was trembling slightly as I put the phone down. I couldn't think.

I couldn't even type.

My face was flushed. My thighs were pressing together under the desk. And I knew--I had to get out of the room.

I told Karen I needed the bathroom. She didn't ask.

I locked the door behind me and leaned against the sink.

Cold tile. Blinking light. Silence.

My phone buzzed again.

"You'd be perfect being destroyed."

"They wouldn't be able to stop."

"You wouldn't want them to."

"I'd record everything to relive it later."

My breath hitched. My pulse drummed in my ears. I didn't picture Nate.

I didn't picture names.

I pictured hands. Weight. Skin against mine.

I pictured being watched--by John's hungry gaze, by no one at all, by a faceless crowd. The weight of unseen eyes burned into me, a thrill I couldn't name or escape.

I reached down.

I wasn't even quiet.

I came quickly, too quickly, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, the other between my legs, trying not to moan out loud.

When I opened my eyes, I was shaking.

I didn't answer him.

But I was fine. Alive.

Because something in me had already answered. Not with words. With my body. And I was fine with it.

**❧ SCENE EIGHT -- "Home"**

I stepped into the apartment, my body still aflame beneath the surface. It wasn't visible on my face anymore, but it simmered under my skin--low, at the base of my belly, a relentless buzz that had haunted me since the bathroom. I wondered if it would ever fade, or if I even wanted it to.

My thighs still felt the tremor. My lips were dry. And I was half-terrified he'd notice.

John was in the kitchen. Eating something from a pan. Barefoot. Shirt clinging to his back, hair messy. He looked... younger. Or maybe just hungrier.

He turned when I closed the door.

We locked eyes.

He smiled.

But his smile wasn't casual.

It wasn't "Hi, how was your day?" It was "Did you think about it again?" It was "Are you still wet?" It was "Do you want to tell me?"

I dropped my keys in the bowl and walked in slowly.

"Hey," I said, voice almost normal.

"Hey," he said. "Long day?"

"You could say that."

He watched me, his eyes tracing my body as if hunting for a hidden signal. As if he could sense a trace of something primal I hadn't fully washed away.

I sat on the stool by the counter. Took off my shoes slowly, one by one.

He came closer. Not touching--just standing there, plate in one hand.

"You look like something happened," he said.

I met his gaze. "Something did."

That was all it took.

He set the plate down. Came around the counter. Stood between my knees.

I didn't move. I let him come. Let him feel the heat radiating off me.

His hands found my thighs, my underwear. My pulse kicked. Then he knelt down and inhaled my scent.

"You touch yourself today?" he asked, voice barely there.

I nodded. "Bathroom. Office."

He exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for hours.

"Fuck."

I tilted my head, a challenge in my gaze. "Does that get you off?"

He stared at me, his eyes raw, unguarded. "You have no idea," he whispered, his voice trembling with unspoken need.

I leaned in, pressed my mouth to his. Not hungry. Not fast. Just firm. Solid. Present.

And then I said it. Quiet, but deliberate:

"I didn't think of Nate."

He blinked. Confused. Then understanding passed over his face like shadow over water.

"What then?" he said.

"I thought of them. The ones you think of."

He swallowed.

"Did you like it?" he asked.

I took a breath. Honest.

"I don't know yet. But I liked how it stirred me, how it awakened something. Like I'm..." I faltered, the words catching in my throat.

"Say it," he urged, his whisper a plea and a command.

I looked straight into his eyes.

"Like I'm dangerous. Like they could force me. And that is incredibly exciting."

I always had this fantasy of a gangbang--he loves it, and we've played with it in the past. But never with black men, and that's something that, especially for him, changed everything. I didn't mind it, yet.

He kissed me again--harder now. His hands pulled at my clothes, not desperate, just certain.

 

And when we made love that night, it wasn't wild, nor a staged performance. It was something quiet, profound, and... irreversible. Like whispering a solemn "yes" to his darkest fantasy, a binding vow made in silence, without ever hearing the question posed.

**❧ SCENE NINE -- "Yes"**

The next day, John didn't text me at all, and I have to confess I ached for it. I craved the game, the electric pull of his words, even as I questioned why I needed it so badly. When we got home and were making dinner, our conversation was normal, like it was from another time, and although I tried to keep it normal, inside I wondered what had happened. I hesitated to ask, but decided to let it go.

After dinner we were watching something we'd already seen. I don't remember the title. Some thriller, something with dim lighting and dramatic music and people running in trench coats. I wasn't following. Not really.

John's arm was around me on the couch. My legs were over his. We'd eaten. We were full. Relaxed.

But the room felt hot.

His fingers traced the inside of my thigh, a lazy, tender rhythm, yet unyielding. It was as if his mind wandered elsewhere, his touch an absent caress hiding a deeper intent.

I looked over at him.

"You're not watching," I said.

"Nope."

"What are you thinking about?"

He didn't answer. Just looked at me. That look again--the one that said he wasn't sure if he was allowed to say what was in his head.

"You can confess it, tell me you're picturing me sucking a big black cock," I whispered, my voice a soft dare, trembling with unspoken curiosity.

He leaned in, kissed my neck once. Then said, right against my skin:

"You'd look so fucking beautiful doing it for real. But I'm thinking of something specific."

I blinked.

I didn't say anything.

Didn't need to.

He kept going.

"You. A big black man. Impossibly huge. You on your knees in front of his BBC. Me, watching."

"BBC?"

"It means Big Black Cock."

"Mmm... I have to admit, those words make me feel kinda vulnerable. But I'm getting into it," I chuckled, confident.

I shifted in my seat. My breath caught.

His hand slid between my legs, under the waistband of my pajama pants. He knew exactly what he was doing--he'd learned every contour of me by now.

I was already warm. Already opening.

He kissed me, deeper this time. His fingers moved slowly, as if syncing his rhythm to my breath.

"I want to see you jerking him off with those hands of yours, aiming his cock at your face--milking him, begging to be facialized by him."

I swallowed hard, gazing into his eyes--bloodshot, burning with a feral intensity. He seemed possessed, consumed by something beyond restraint. And I--I was open to it, already wet, my body betraying my hesitation.

"You'd jerk him so well," he whispered. "You'd love it. And I'd be there. Right there. Watching you beg for his cum. For a facial. You are his cumslut."

"John--" I cried out, eyes closed, moaning.

"Shhh," he whispered, but he didn't stop. He kept talking, kept working me with his hand. His voice grew tighter, rougher.

"You're loving it. Every second, every inch. His male, powerful scent filling that sexy nose of yours," he said, kissing all over it as he spoke.

"You are big black cock whore! Come on, say it!"

"I only want you," I moaned, eyes closed.

"I know you want to surrender to it. Admit it--you love big black cocks! You always did!," he said through the strain in his voice, thrusting harder now, breaking the rhythm with those teasing pauses I craved.

"Fuck! I'm going to come!" I skipped the response, digging my fingers--and nails--into his arm.

And then, right when I was close, in the point of no return, when I couldn't think anymore--

He asked it.

Not directly. Not clearly.

But just enough to pierce:

"Do you want to do it, Laura? Would you do it for real? For me? Say it, Laura, come on, say it! Now!"

And in the middle of it, right as my body gave out, right as I came into his hand--

I said it.

"Yes."

I didn't shout it.

Didn't whisper it.

Just cried it out. Like a truth that had been waiting behind my teeth for years and I didn't even know.

He froze.

His hand was still on me.

His chest was rising fast.

He didn't look scared, nor merely excited. He looked... transformed, as if a veil had lifted. And I felt it too--a shift, a fracture. Something had slipped free within us, a door once locked now creaking open, revealing a threshold we could no longer ignore.

**❧ SCENE TEN -- "The Search"**

Each time he gazed at her--dressing with that subtle femininity he adored, reaching for her coffee, sweeping her hair into that tight bun, smiling with a charm both whimsical and disarming--he saw it anew. That word. That fleeting moment, a revelation etched into his mind, stirring a hunger he couldn't silence.

He couldn't stop replaying it. Not just the sound--but the truth in it. Or what he thought might've been truth.

And then, the next night, he needed more.

He wondered, feeling his throat swollen.

Laura had already turned off her lamp. She was curled up on her side, half-breathing, half-asleep. He was supposed to be scrolling--half-distracted, half-there.

Instead, he opened the browser.

He typed slowly. Carefully.

"Black bull bbc cuckold"

The search results struck his chest like wildfire. Not a mere spark--an inferno. It consumed the room, flames licking at the walls, leaving no corner untouched, no place to escape its heat.

He clicked.

Scrolled.

He'd seen porn. This wasn't that.

He went deeper.

Forums. Listings. Profiles.

He found a site. Not just cam girls or fantasy forums--real contact. Profiles. Handles. Creators on OnlyFans, yes, but also independent pages. Some with rates. Locations. Bookings.

Some... not far.

He clicked on two.

Both were local and had OF profiles. Huge. Cut. Confident. The kind of confidence that came from having done it before.

One of them stood out. He was a very young fellow, barely past boyhood. Not handsome, not in the conventional sense--his features were rough, nearly feral. His body was heavyset, imposing in its mass, but there was something primal in the way he looked straight into the camera. Not posing. Claiming. His cock was enormous, impossibly long, humongous, and as thick as a can of coke. And his balls were in harmony, big as tennis balls and heavy, full of black seed. Indeed, the cumshots you could see in his photos were huge and so thick, similar to PlastererMatt. No doubt he suffered hyperspermia. He was perfect. John envisioned it, yearned for it--that cumshot marking Laura's face. His deepest fantasies had always revolved around facials, bukkakes, and the raw allure of interracial sex. This youth, in his primal potency, could bring them all to life, shattering the boundary between dream and reality.

His palms were sweating.

He wrote to both.

"Hi. I'm exploring a fantasy involving my wife. Watching her... with someone. Someone like you. Nothing unsafe. Private, clean. Well paid. I'd like to discuss."

Less than an hour later, a reply popped up. It was the hefty youngster.

"Done it before. What exactly are you looking for?"

John stared at the reply. His leg bounced with a kind of anxious hunger.

Read it once.

Twice.

Ten times.

That was it.

The door wasn't hypothetical anymore. It was open. Wide open.

One more message, and it would no longer be a fantasy.

He hesitated several minutes, boiling up, falling, before writing again:

"Can we meet first? Just to talk. I want to be sure it's the right fit. There's a park in the city center. Quiet. Tomorrow?"

He offered $1000. The porn content creator countered: $1200.

Done.

The next afternoon, John arrived five minutes early and sat on a bench near a cluster of trees. The sun was high, but his hands were cold.

When the youth arrived--ten minutes late--John knew instantly who he was. He was obese, like a tower of raw strength, a bit childish, wearing Chicago Bulls shorts, a white T-shirt XXXL or even bigger which marked his big boobs, the calm stride of a big boy pretending to be grown. He was even larger in person, and John couldn't stop his eyes from flicking, just once, toward the youngster's thigh as he walked.

It was there. Subtle but impossible to ignore--a shift, a movement beneath the fabric that made John's stomach clench.

They shook hands. The youngster's grip was firm, warm, casual. Like he did this all the time.

John laid it out quickly. What he wanted. What he imagined. What Laura looked like.

He even showed a photo.

The youth gave a slow nod, studied the image, then looked back up with a raised brow.

"Dayum! A white MILF. She has a kind of nerd style. I like to ravage them. You sure she's into it?"

John didn't answer directly. He just said, "She doesn't know yet. But I'm working on it."

A pause.

Then John blurted something he hadn't planned.

"If I pay a bit more... would you show me? Not everything. Just... I need to know it's real."

The youth tilted his head, amused. "What--you want to see it? Where?"

John hesitated a second, out of ideas, "I live around the corner." A chuckle.

"Bro! You ain't tryin' to blow me, right?"

John laughed. Too fast. "God, no."

The youth smirked, shrugged, and nodded.

"Ok, but show me those $100 now."

The street was almost empty. They didn't talk much on the way. John was uneasy about revealing where he lived to a stranger, yet adrenaline surged through him, pushing him forward.

Already at home, John headed straight to the bathroom to splash water on his face, but the young fellow followed close behind.

"Damn. Nice place you've got here, bro," he said in a low voice, his tone carrying a hint of mockery.

"Thank you," John mumbled, his voice barely audible. His ears felt blocked by the pounding of his own heartbeat, and he could hardly hear himself speak.

In the bathroom, the youth pulled down his waistband with agonizing slowness. John's mouth went dry as the youth's cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the veins standing out in stark relief against the dark skin. It was... a lot. Even flaccid.

No need to ask twice.

The youngster gave it a few strokes--casual, like checking the weather. It responded. Fast.

John felt something within him shift, a tectonic unease. Not just arousal--not quite. Something darker, more primal, pulsed beneath the surface. He couldn't name it, yet it gripped him, unyielding.

John's heart pounded in his chest as he stood in his, until now, sweet bathroom, the scent of musk and arousal hanging heavy in the air.

The youth looked at him again.

"Yo, you want the full show?"

John hesitated. Then:

"No, no. But I'll give you a hundred more if you finish in the sink. I want to check everything is perfect as I imagine it. And I need this to end in a huge facial for my wife. That is the point," John said, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his stomach.

The youth's eyes, dark and piercing, locked onto John's. "What you saw on my OnlyFans is exactly what it is. No tricks," he replied, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through John's core.

John nodded, reaching for his wallet. He counted out the bills--five crisp twenties--and handed them over. The young man's fingers brushed against John's, sending a jolt of electricity up his arm. He watched as the youth stuffed the money into his pocket, his gaze never leaving John's. And then he noticed it, the scent. The bathroom was already steeped in that intoxicating sweaty aroma of that huge black genitalia, a raw and magnetic presence that saturated the air.

"Alright," the youngster said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Lemme see your girl's picture--she's got that naughty look with those glasses."

John pulled out his phone. He scrolled carefully, pausing on one of his favorite photos: A selfie from Laura, smiling just slightly, sweet, her glasses perched on her nose, the light catching the curve of her cheek. It was close-up, and effortlessly her.

He held the screen out, the image facing the youth.

There was a beat of silence. Then a sharp exhale.

The youth leaned in, his gaze fixed. His hand moved with practiced ease, his fingers wrapping around his shaft, pumping slowly, deliberately. His huge balls swayed with each stroke, the sound of his skin against his skin and even hitting the sink, filling the small room. John could see the precum glistening at the tip of the youngster's cock, a clear sign of his excitement.

"You like what you see, don't you?" the youngster asked, a smirk playing on his lips. John didn't answer, his throat too tight to speak. The youth chuckled.

The scene was grotesque. That young fellow took up nearly the entire bathroom, and the smell of balls swollen to the brink was driving him to the edge--moment by moment, losing himself.

"I bet you can't wait to see this inside your wife's tight pussy."

John's breath hitched at the youth's words, his mind filling with images of Laura writhing beneath the youngster, her glasses fogged with the heat of their passion. He could almost hear her cries of pleasure, could almost see the way her body would arch as she took the youngster's massive cock deep inside her, being totally engulfed beneath his humongous body, while his big arms wrapped around her, holding her in place.

The young guy's breathing deepened. His movements grew sharp, intense, focused entirely on the photo of Laura on John's phone--like she was right there in front of him, like nothing else existed. John could feel the tension building in the air, tight and electric, as if the whole room were holding its breath.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come on this white bitch's glasses!

Your wifey will end so fucking covered. She wants to.

This cumslut need to swallow every last drop!

Here it comes!"

the youth grunted, his hand a blur as he jerked himself off. John watched, mesmerized, such animal spectacle, as the impossible bar of black meat erupted, white thick ropes of hot cum spurting from the tip, splattering against the sink porcelain, hanging from the faucet, even reaching the mirror, in a messy, beautiful display. He'd never seen anything like this. Not this close. Not this real. Not this overwhelming.

The semen was impossibly thick, white, in thick long ropes, the last ones clinging to his cock like a testament to his virility. John couldn't tear his eyes away, his own desires mirrored in the youngster's carnal release. It was twisted. It was wrong. And it turned him on more than anything ever had.

"I'm really doing this," John thought. "This is happening. I will see Laura's face receive all that massive amount of cum. Oh my god, yes."

He almost stood. Almost walked out. Almost said it was too far.

But then his eyes fell again on the photo. Her soft smirk. The pores of her skin. Her glasses.

And the youth still staring at her like she was everything.

No, he couldn't stop now.

He was too far in.

There was no retreat, no path back. John stepped closer, his voice a hushed tremor. "Laura needs to be covered in cum like that." The words hung heavy, a confession of obsession, a vow to cross a line he knew might unravel them both.

"She will. I'll save it until the day comes," the youth said with quiet confidence, pulling his shorts back into place.

John watched again a load he already saw in some videos and pictures like the ones the youth has in his OnlyFans, but seeing it in real was another thing. He wished to produce that amount and thickness. The semen he was watching was so white, in thick long ropes and globs making a total mess. The smell reached John's nose and he couldn't wait any more. There was no return.

While giving a last look to the picture, "Laura's face needs to receive that cumshot. And then she should eat it all. I bet she will love the texture and taste of black's cum," he thought, imagining it, even knowing Laura was never into swallowing.

"I will have to clean this mess up..."

**❧ SCENE ELEVEN -- "Some Fantasies Stay Fantasies"**

"Okay," Karen said, dropping her voice to a sneaky whisper. "Serious question, girl."

I raised an eyebrow, halfway through my first coffee, a spark of curiosity buzzing under my skin.

She leaned in, eyes flashing with that troublemaker grin. "So, have you fucked Nate yet, huh?"

I snorted, letting out a quick laugh. "Jesus, Karen. I wish, but no!"

She grinned, sipping. "What? You can't just drop a bomb like that and expect me not to ask."

"It wasn't a bomb. And no--I haven't fucked Nate. That ship has sailed."

"Has it, though?"

I smiled, shaking my head. "Yeah. He was never the point."

"Oh, right," she said, playful. "The point is your hot, out-of-control husband."

"Exactly." I took another sip, letting the warmth settle. "He's been... totally unhinged, you know? Like, climbing-the-walls wild. It's honestly pretty amazing, even if it throws me off sometimes."

"Let me guess, black guys and cuckolding thing?"

"Completely," I said. "And not just Nate. Now it's all 'you'd be so beautiful surrounded by them' and 'they'd ruin your face' and all those wild ideas."

Karen widened her eyes. "He says that?"

"Verbatim."

"Holy shit."

I laughed. "He's obsessed. And I love seeing him like that. I just let him go. Feed him lines, play the part, you know."

"And you're okay with it?"

"Yeah," I said. "Because it's just fantasy. It stays in the bedroom. And I get off on seeing him unravel like that."

Karen tapped her fingers on the table. "Okay, but... would you ever want to do it? Like, actually do it?"

I paused, blinked. "No. No, I couldn't."

"Because you don't want to? Or because of him?"

I tilted my head, thoughtful. "Look, I've always been sexually open. I think when someone desires something, you don't have to shame it. You can talk about it, play with it. That's what fantasy is for."

She nodded. "But?"

"But..." I looked at my cup. "There are some things, you know, that lose their safety once you make them real. They start tearing at the walls, messing up everything. Certain doors, once you open them, there's no shutting them again, and the chill that creeps in can cut deep."

Karen went quiet for a moment, her stare cutting right through me. "You're speaking from experience, aren't you?"

"Sort of," I said, my voice dropping low, heavy with old memories.

**❧ SCENE TWELVE -- "No Going Back"**

The photos hit just after lunch. I was on my break, the sunlight slicing through the window, overexposing my screen in a harsh glare. My phone buzzed--three images, one message. A jolt ran through me, a premonition I couldn't shake.

I opened them.

And stopped breathing.

A very young black man, very dark-skinned, enormous. Colossal, with fat belly. Hairy body, kinda ugly face. But that didn't matter to me. He was a very young guy, at most in his early twenties, you can still see the acne. He was sitting on a chair, relaxed, confident. Entirely naked. His flaccid or semi-flaccid cock--thick, long, impossible--spilling over the edge of the chair like a fat and heavy sausage.

In the second photo, he was in briefs. But they didn't hide anything. Not even close. The bulge was unreal. Like someone had digitally altered the image and forgotten to tone it down. The fabric was about to explode with an anaconda and its heavy load inside. But it was real. His eyes too. Looking into the lens like he already knew me. Like he'd already been inside me.

When I saw the third image, I froze, breath caught in my throat. I hadn't expected it. It wasn't him--but a blonde woman's face, captured in the raw aftermath of what seemed a bukkake scene, a fat dark cock head resting against her chin. Her eyes were tightly shut, her expression unreadable--almost troubled, maybe overwhelmed. Her features were striking beneath the thick layers of very white semen. One of her eyelids was buried under a full pool of cum.

 

Poor girl.

I'd never seen anything like it--not even in the wildest films John had shown me. Maybe fake...

And yet, as that thought passed through my mind, something else stirred in me. A flush, a question that excited me:

"Is this what John wants for me? He wants that disgusting young guy with boobs bigger than mine to cum on my face? I would end up drowned..."

After being totally stunned for a couple of seconds,

"Would I do it for him? I'd never seen him like this before.

And what if we just did it--just like that?

No... I'm already thinking crazy things.

He's just playing with the fantasy. That's all."

My chest tightened.

Then I read the next message:

"Found him. He's real. He said yes. We can do it. If you want."

No pressure. No push.

Just a door. Open. Silent.

I locked the screen. Put the phone face down. My heart was hammering and my hands were trembling.

A storm churned within me--fear, anger, lust, and a sickening nausea, as if I'd been wrenched off balance by a force I hadn't known pulsed in my own blood. It clawed at my core, relentless.

I didn't answer.

I didn't know if I was supposed to.

I still don't even know if this is just part of the role play, or if he's testing me with a fake question to see how far I'm willing to go.

I had a meeting at 2:30. Strategy. Product updates. A few familiar faces around the table--including Nate.

He said something about procurement that made half the room chuckle. I barely heard him. My head was pinging between bullet points and the pictures I just watched. And eventually: Me in front of him, John watching, mouth open, hands shaking, breathing hard.

The thought hit me like a slap.

Not the man.

Not the act.

John. Watching me. Losing control. Again.

My thighs clenched under the table. The sense of danger was driving me wild.

I excused myself at the first moment I could. Walked fast down the hall, passed two interns, ducked into the bathroom and locked the stall.

I didn't hesitate.

Didn't try to talk myself down.

My hand was in my pants before I sat.

I wasn't touching myself because of that man.

Not at first.

Firstly I was thinking of John. Then the whole situation. Finally pleasuring that black bull.

John watching me.

Me feeling small jerking that huge bar of black meat under the stranger's belly... intoxicated by his scent... making him roar... looking at his cocky eyes... John breaking... I couldn't take it anymore.

And when I came, it was quick and sharp and angry and terrifying.

Because I didn't want it.

But I felt powerful and fresh.

I stood up. My legs trembling. Flushed. Fixed my hair.

Whispered: "It's just a fantasy. Please..."

But the echo in the tile walls didn't sound like it believed me.

The rest of the day I was very busy but I could manage to focus, somehow.

I got home early. Tired. Wired. Half-sick with nerves. The front door opened quiet.

I stepped inside.

And there they were.

Both of them.

In the living room.

In underwear.

John sitting on the armrest. The man--that man--on the couch, giant thighs spread, hands still shining from something I didn't want to ask about. His briefs looked ready to burst. The fabric was stretched so tight, it seemed like it could snap with the slightest movement. Too much weight. I almost could smell it, taste it.

They both looked at me, chuckling.

My hand slipped.

The strap of my purse fell.

The bag hit the floor.

I was frozen in place, barely managing to stammer out, "Mmm... hey there?"

John stood up, shy, a bit shaky. "Hey." That was all he said, his voice tight with something unspoken.

I didn't answer. My eyes locked on the young stranger's crotch. His belly. His boobs. His face. And then his eyes. He was looking at me like he already knew how I'd taste.

I was furious.

I was scared.

I was curious.

I was feeling attractive. I was feeling like a powerful and attractive woman who wants to give herself submissively to a dominant and cocky young alpha male. Making him feel a winner.

I was getting aroused. I was tainted. I was surrendering to John. I was surrendering to a black stranger.

I gathered my hair and tied it up into a bun, securing it with a hair tie. My scalp tightened. My hands shook. I noticed them approving of me. Then John stood behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders, telling me what he wanted to see while caressing the features of my face:

"Laura, I love you, but I need to see your face covered in so much cum. Completely drenched. I want to see it seep into your well-cared-for skin. Your sexy nose crossed by thick ropes of cum... your little eyes vanished... And I want to take pictures of it... please. He has hyperspermia, so he can definitely make it happen."

"Are you really sure about this? You really want to see me like that? I mean, I assume you've already thought through the potential consequences," I said, turning my face towards him and staring deep into his eyes.

"Yes, I need to see you like that. Just a handjob and a facial, Laura. And then, I want you to swallow it all. You will love it," he whispered, completely lost in his desire.

I kept looking at him for a few seconds, watching his desperation--before turning my gaze back to the young black man, who was watching me with that cocky look in his eyes while grabbing softly, almost caressing his thick bulge, wanting me to give in, to surrender.

The smell in the room was clouding my thoughts, like a slow, sweet drug.

Am I actually going to jerk him off onto my face?

Am I really going to let him give me, Laura, a facial?

Am I seriously going to let this happen?

The thought caught me mid-breath. For some reason, I didn't mind the swallowing part.

Ten minutes later, I was in the bathroom.

My hands on the sink, my eyes locked on my own reflection.

My face glowed, slick with a thick dampness, strands of hair clinging to my skin. My nose was still full of the smell of semen, My throat bore the lingering, viscous weight, my mouth the sharp taste, my stomach a smoldering heat.

Then, in the mirror, I could recognize myself again--yet not quite the same.

"Oh my God, I did it and I love it!" My chest was still heaving. My lips were swollen. I smiled happily.

To be continued...

Rate the story «Please, Laura | Ch. 01»

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