Craving Her Fake Boyfriend's Touch

Claire had spent the entire semester drowning in footnotes and denial. At forty-one she still carried herself like the elegant literature professor she was—silk blouses buttoned to the throat, dark hair twisted into a severe knot, voice cool and measured even when she praised a student’s insight. Jamal made that composure crack. Twenty-four, brilliant, broad-shouldered, skin a deep rich brown that seemed to drink the office lamplight. He argued with her about Morrison and Baldwin until her pulse hammered in her throat, then held her gaze a second too long, dark eyes frank and hungry. She told herself it was admiration. She lied.

Tonight the building was nearly empty. Rain streaked the high windows of her office. Jamal sat across the desk, thesis pages scattered between them, voice low and precise as he dismantled a theoretical framework she had once published. When he finished he didn’t look away.

“I’ve wanted you since the first week,” he said, quiet, raw. “Not just your mind. Your body. The way that blouse sits on your tits when you lean over the podium. I jerk off thinking about spreading you open on this desk and tasting every pale inch of you.”

Claire’s breath left her in a shaky rush. Heat flooded her cunt so fast she had to press her thighs together. She could have shut it down. She didn’t.

“I’ve wanted the same thing,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Your hands on me. Your mouth. That thick cock I keep imagining when I touch myself at night.”

Jamal stood. He came around the desk slow, deliberate, until he towered over her chair. “I’m going to put my dark hands all over this white skin,” he murmured. “Pinch those pretty pink nipples until you whimper. Lick your pussy until you’re dripping down my chin. Then I’m going to fuck you deep and hard right here so every time you sit at this desk you remember who claimed you.”

Claire’s hands shook as she rose. She crossed to the door, turned the lock with a soft, final click, and turned back to him.

“Then do it,” she begged, already unbuttoning her blouse with frantic fingers. “Fuck me on the desk, Jamal. Please. I can’t wait another second.”

He closed the distance and kissed her like he’d been starving. Mouth hot, tongue demanding, hands already shoving the blouse off her shoulders. Her bra followed. His palms cupped her full breasts, thumbs dark against pale flesh, rolling her nipples until she moaned into his mouth. She yanked his shirt up, traced the hard planes of his chest, then lower, cupping the heavy bulge straining his jeans.

They stumbled to the desk. Papers cascaded to the floor. Claire hiked her skirt to her waist, shoved her soaked panties down, and spread her legs wide on the polished wood, heels still on. Jamal dropped to his knees like a man at prayer. He dragged his tongue through her dripping folds in one long, filthy stroke, groaned at the taste, then sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked. Two thick fingers pushed inside her, curling, fucking her steadily while his tongue lashed. Claire’s head fell back, hips bucking, one hand fisted in his tight curls.

“Fuck—Jamal—yes—”

He didn’t stop until she was shaking, thighs clamped around his head, juices shining on his chin. Then he stood, freed his cock—thick, dark, veined, the head already glistening—and notched it against her entrance. He thrust in hard. Claire cried out at the stretch, the sudden overwhelming fullness. He bottomed out, held there, both of them staring at the erotic contrast: her pale stretched cunt gripping his black cock.

“Been wanting to bury myself in this tight white pussy for months,” he growled, and started fucking her in deep, rough strokes. The desk creaked. Her breasts bounced. She locked her ankles behind his back and met every thrust.

They rolled. She straddled him in the big leather chair, sank down onto every inch with a broken moan, and rode him hard. His hands gripped her hips, dark against her fair skin, guiding her, slamming her down. She ground her clit against him, head thrown back, mouth open.

“Claire—fuck, take it—”

“Jamal—don’t stop—claim me—”

She came first, screaming his name, cunt clamping and fluttering around his pulsing cock in violent waves. Just as the orgasm ripped through her a sharp knock sounded at the door.

Lena’s amused voice floated through the wood. “Claire? I’ve got the graded papers. Coming in—”

The doorknob turned.

Jamal stayed buried to the hilt inside her, both of them frozen, sweat-slick and still twitching with aftershocks, as the lock held for one impossible second and then began to give.