Interraical temptation
’m standing there, watching you squirm, your eyes wide and your breath hitching as you try to play the good little wife. Your words tumble out, all nervous and stuttering, but I can see the truth in the way your body presses against mine, the way your hips wiggle just enough to rub against my cock. It’s hard as fuck, straining against my pants, and I know you feel it—hell, I can see it in your face, that mix of guilt and hunger. You’re married, you say, but that’s not stopping your hands from lingering on my chest, not stopping your thighs from clenching together.
“Bad things, what bad things?” I ask, leaning in close, letting my voice drop low and rough. You’re flustered, babbling about “sex thoughts” and how you’re a married lady, but your body’s telling a different story. I feel your heat, the way you’re practically grinding against me, and it’s taking everything not to rip those clothes off you right here. “Please, sir,” you whisper, and fuck, that gets me going. My cock throbs, pressed tight between your legs, and I know you’re thinking about it—how big it is, how it’d feel.
I grab your hand, the one you’re using to “push” me away, and slide it down to my bulge. You don’t pull back. You don’t even flinch. Your fingers wrap around it, tentative at first, then squeezing, stroking, like you can’t help yourself. “Feel the huge size of your black cock,” I tell you, and your eyes glaze over as you rub me, your breath coming faster. I lean in, my lips brushing your ear. “I want that hot white pussy. You’re sexy as fuck. Bet that husband ain’t giving you what you need. Bet his dick’s nothing compared to this.”
You moan, soft and desperate, and I slide my hand between your legs, finding you soaked through your panties. “Damn, girl,” I say, my fingers teasing your tight little pussy. “You’re dripping wet, but still so tight.” You’re trembling now, muttering about how I shouldn’t, how you can’t cheat, but your hips are rocking against my hand, begging for more. “Please stop,” you say, but then you add, “Please stop making it feel so good,” and I know I’ve got you.
“Is the married white slut liking what a black man’s doing?” I ask, and you fucking melt, admitting you love my touch, my words, the size of my cock. You’re practically begging to see it now, and I’m not about to make it easy. “All you need to do is ask,” I tell you, my voice firm. “Ask if this black man will let his white man’s wife look at his BBC.”
You’re on your knees before I even finish, your eyes locked on my bulge like it’s the only thing in the world. “Can I pull your trousers down now?” you ask, your voice shaking with need. I grin, loving how eager you are, how you’re calling yourself a slut without even realizing it. “Damn, you’re in a hurry to see my BBC, aren’t you?” I say, and you nod, your hands already reaching for my belt.
“Go ahead,” I tell you, stepping closer. You fumble with my pants, pulling them down, and when my boxers come off, my cock springs free, thick and heavy, right in front of your face. Your eyes go wide, your lips parting like you’re starving for it. “Look at that,” I say, gripping the base to show it off. “Ever seen a cock like this? Bet it’s nothing like your husband’s.”
You’re shaking your head, whispering how big it is, and I can see the war in your eyes—guilt versus want. But your hands are already moving, wrapping around my shaft, stroking slow and careful like you’re worshiping it. “You want more, don’t you?” I say, my hand tilting your chin up so you’re looking at me. “Beg for it. Beg your black master to let you do more than just look.”
Your lips tremble, and I know you’re about to break. “Please, sir,” you whisper, your voice thick with desire. “Can I… can I touch it? Just a little? Please?”
I smirk, leaning down so my face is close to yours. “That’s my good girl,” I say, my cock twitching in your hand. “Touch it. Stroke it. But if you want more, you better beg real nice, slut. Show me how bad this married white pussy wants it.”
“Bad things, what bad things?” I ask, leaning in close, letting my voice drop low and rough. You’re flustered, babbling about “sex thoughts” and how you’re a married lady, but your body’s telling a different story. I feel your heat, the way you’re practically grinding against me, and it’s taking everything not to rip those clothes off you right here. “Please, sir,” you whisper, and fuck, that gets me going. My cock throbs, pressed tight between your legs, and I know you’re thinking about it—how big it is, how it’d feel.
I grab your hand, the one you’re using to “push” me away, and slide it down to my bulge. You don’t pull back. You don’t even flinch. Your fingers wrap around it, tentative at first, then squeezing, stroking, like you can’t help yourself. “Feel the huge size of your black cock,” I tell you, and your eyes glaze over as you rub me, your breath coming faster. I lean in, my lips brushing your ear. “I want that hot white pussy. You’re sexy as fuck. Bet that husband ain’t giving you what you need. Bet his dick’s nothing compared to this.”
You moan, soft and desperate, and I slide my hand between your legs, finding you soaked through your panties. “Damn, girl,” I say, my fingers teasing your tight little pussy. “You’re dripping wet, but still so tight.” You’re trembling now, muttering about how I shouldn’t, how you can’t cheat, but your hips are rocking against my hand, begging for more. “Please stop,” you say, but then you add, “Please stop making it feel so good,” and I know I’ve got you.
“Is the married white slut liking what a black man’s doing?” I ask, and you fucking melt, admitting you love my touch, my words, the size of my cock. You’re practically begging to see it now, and I’m not about to make it easy. “All you need to do is ask,” I tell you, my voice firm. “Ask if this black man will let his white man’s wife look at his BBC.”
You’re on your knees before I even finish, your eyes locked on my bulge like it’s the only thing in the world. “Can I pull your trousers down now?” you ask, your voice shaking with need. I grin, loving how eager you are, how you’re calling yourself a slut without even realizing it. “Damn, you’re in a hurry to see my BBC, aren’t you?” I say, and you nod, your hands already reaching for my belt.
“Go ahead,” I tell you, stepping closer. You fumble with my pants, pulling them down, and when my boxers come off, my cock springs free, thick and heavy, right in front of your face. Your eyes go wide, your lips parting like you’re starving for it. “Look at that,” I say, gripping the base to show it off. “Ever seen a cock like this? Bet it’s nothing like your husband’s.”
You’re shaking your head, whispering how big it is, and I can see the war in your eyes—guilt versus want. But your hands are already moving, wrapping around my shaft, stroking slow and careful like you’re worshiping it. “You want more, don’t you?” I say, my hand tilting your chin up so you’re looking at me. “Beg for it. Beg your black master to let you do more than just look.”
Your lips tremble, and I know you’re about to break. “Please, sir,” you whisper, your voice thick with desire. “Can I… can I touch it? Just a little? Please?”
I smirk, leaning down so my face is close to yours. “That’s my good girl,” I say, my cock twitching in your hand. “Touch it. Stroke it. But if you want more, you better beg real nice, slut. Show me how bad this married white pussy wants it.”
4ヶ月前
