Divorcee's First BBC Temptation
Divorced white mom Rachel gets her first taste of huge BBC at a backyard barbecue.
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Rachel adjusted the strap of her sundress for the third time, cursing under her breath as another bead of sweat trickled between her full breasts. Forty-two, freshly divorced, and standing in her best friend Linda’s backyard like some suburban refugee from a bad rom-com. The divorce papers were barely dry—signed six weeks ago after fifteen years of missionary-position mediocrity with a man whose idea of adventure was adding ranch to his salad. Now here she was, curvaceous hips swaying under thin cotton, tan lines from last weekend’s desperate solo sunbathing peeking out, surrounded by laughing couples and the smell of charcoal and cheap beer.
Linda’s place was pure chaos: kids screaming near the inflatable pool, husbands arguing over burger flip techniques, wives gossiping by the cooler. Rachel clutched her plastic cup of spiked lemonade like a lifeline, her witty mouth already loaded with self-deprecating one-liners about being the token divorcee. That’s when she saw him.
Marcus. Twenty-eight, Black, built like the personal trainer he apparently was—Linda’s new gym crush who’d shown up with a six-pack of craft IPAs and arms that looked carved from warm mahogany. Broad chest stretching a tight white tee, confident smile flashing white teeth against dark skin, jeans hanging low on narrow hips. Rachel’s stare locked onto the way his pecs shifted as he laughed at something Linda said. Instant interracial tension crackled hotter than the grill.
He caught her looking. Of course he did. That smile widened, and he sauntered over, beer in hand, eyes raking over her generous curves with zero subtlety.
“You must be the famous Rachel,” he said, voice a deep rumble that vibrated straight to her neglected pussy. “Linda said her best friend just got sprung from husband jail. Freshly single looks damn good on you.”
Rachel arched a brow, heat flooding her cheeks—and lower. “Freshly single and dangerously under-fucked. Careful, Marcus. A girl in my condition might mistake that chest for a flotation device.”