Karaoke Whispers: Her First Taste of Ebony Lips

Simone’s pulse hammered against the thin fabric of her blouse as she slipped out of the main karaoke lounge, the off-key chorus of some forgotten pop song still vibrating through the wall. Twenty-eight, married six years, and for the first time all night she could breathe without her husband’s hand resting possessively at the small of her back. The company party had stretched past midnight; half the office still shouted lyrics under pink and blue stage lights while she needed one moment alone.

The back room was barely larger than a storage closet—dim, smelling of dust and spilled gin, lit only by a single amber bulb. She leaned against the scarred wooden table, eyes closed, when the door eased open again.

Damon filled the frame. Thirty-two, six-foot-four, shoulders that strained the charcoal dress shirt he wore open at the throat. His deep voice had always done something unholy to her in meetings; now it rolled over her skin like warm oil.

“Running from the crowd, Simone?”

She straightened, heat flooding her cheeks. For months she had watched him across conference tables, cataloguing the way his dark hands moved when he spoke, the low rumble when he laughed. Fantasies she never admitted even to herself. Now those fantasies stood three feet away, eyes locked on hers.

“Just needed air,” she managed. “My husband is… very into group singing tonight.”

Damon’s mouth curved. “I noticed. He doesn’t look like he knows what to do with a woman who bites her lip the way you do when the bass drops.”

The banter landed charged, immediate. She felt the wall behind her, thin enough that laughter and off-key chorus still leaked through. One thin wall. Her husband was right there.

“You’ve been watching me bite my lip?” she asked, voice lower than she intended.

“Since the day you walked into the office in that red pencil skirt.” He stepped inside, shutting the door with a soft click. The lock wasn’t thrown, only the quiet understanding that no one else needed this room. “Wanted to know what that mouth would feel like. Still do.”

Simone’s breath snagged. The confession hung between them, heavy as the summer humidity outside. She could have laughed it off, returned to the party, played the good wife. Instead she let her gaze travel the strong column of his throat, the broad chest, the powerful thighs under tailored trousers. Heat pooled low in her belly, treacherous and welcome.

“You’re dangerous,” she whispered.

“Only if you want me to be.”

He closed half the remaining distance. The air thickened. She could smell his cologne—cedar and something darker—and underneath it the clean heat of his skin. Her nipples tightened against the lace of her bra; she knew he noticed.

Damon began to sing, voice dropping into a husky R&B register that seemed to vibrate straight through her ribs. No microphone, just the rich timbre rolling out a slow verse about wanting, about tasting, about losing control in the dark. Each note slid under her clothes. Her breath caught audibly. She bit her lower lip hard enough to feel the sting, exactly the habit he had already called out.

The song ended on a low, unfinished note. He stood close enough now that the warmth of his body reached her.

Simone’s mind raced—husband only feet away, the risk, the months of quiet hunger—and then she deliberately closed the last inches. Her voice was a raw whisper against his collarbone.

“I’ve never tasted ebony lips. I desperately want to.”

Something fierce lit behind his eyes. Their mouths crashed together. No tentative testing; hungry, open, consensual fire. His tongue swept past her lips and she moaned into it, tasting mint and heat and pure want. Damon’s hands found her waist, large palms sliding up her back, pulling her flush so she felt the hard ridge of his cock already thickening against her stomach. She arched, fingers spearing into the short tight curls at his nape, gripping as the kiss deepened.

He backed her against the table. The wood edge bit her ass through her skirt. One of his thighs pressed between hers; she rocked on it shamelessly, skirt riding higher. His mouth left hers only long enough to trail hot open kisses down her jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath her ear. She gasped, hips rolling harder.

“Fuck, the sounds you make,” he growled against her throat. “Been dreaming about them.”

Simone’s hands roamed without permission from her conscience—down the hard planes of his chest, over the ridged abdomen, lower until her palm pressed the thick outline straining his zipper. He was heavy, long, already pulsing under her touch. A fresh rush of wetness soaked her panties. She stroked him through the fabric once, twice, feeling him swell further.

Damon groaned, the sound vibrating into her mouth as he claimed it again. His fingers found the hem of her blouse, slipped underneath, skimming bare skin until they cupped her lace-covered breasts. Thumbs dragged across tight nipples; she whimpered, kissing him harder, tongues sliding, lips bruising. The party noise continued next door—laughter, another song starting—but it only sharpened the forbidden edge. Every second risked discovery, and that knowledge made her grind against his thigh with desperate little circles.

He pinched one nipple lightly through the lace, then the other, rolling until pleasure spiked sharp. Simone broke the kiss just enough to pant against his lips.

“I can feel how hard you are. God, Damon—”

“Been hard for you since you walked past my desk this morning.” His voice was pure gravel. One hand left her breast to yank her skirt higher, palm sliding up the bare back of her thigh until he cupped the round swell of her ass, squeezing. Fingers dipped under the edge of her panties, brushing the slick outer lips of her pussy. She jerked, a soft cry escaping.

“Soaked already,” he murmured, wonder and lust tangled. “All for me?”

“Yes.” The admission tore out of her. “Only for you right now.”

He stroked once along her dripping slit, gathering wetness, then brought those fingers up between their mouths so she could see the shine. Simone leaned in and licked them clean, eyes locked on his, tasting her own arousal mixed with the salt of his skin. Damon’s control frayed; he crushed her mouth again, harder, freer, while his other hand worked his belt open with urgent jerks.

The thick length of his cock sprang free—dark, veined, heavy enough that it slapped against her lower belly when he freed it. Simone’s knees went weak at the first sight. She wrapped both hands around him, stroking from root to swollen head, smearing the bead of precum with her thumb. He was hotter than she expected, silk over iron, and so thick her fingers barely met.

Damon hissed through his teeth, hips punching forward into her grip. “That’s it—touch me like you’ve wanted to for months.”

She did. Slow, tight strokes while he shoved her blouse higher and yanked the cups of her bra down, baring her pale breasts to the amber light. His mouth fastened on one nipple, sucking deep, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out softly. The dual sensation—hot mouth on her tit, massive cock throbbing in her fists—short-circuited every remaining scrap of caution. She pumped him faster, twisting on the upstroke the way she suddenly knew he liked.

He released her breast with a wet pop and spun her so her back pressed to his chest, both of them facing the locked side of the door that led back to the party. One of his hands covered her mouth lightly—not silencing, just holding—while the other shoved her panties aside and two thick fingers plunged into her cunt. Simone moaned against his palm, fucking herself down onto those fingers, feeling them stretch her, curl against the front wall exactly where she needed.

“Listen to them out there,” he breathed into her ear, voice pure sin. “Your husband singing while I’ve got my fingers buried in his wife’s tight little pussy. While she’s stroking this Black cock like she never wants to stop.”

The words detonated inside her. She came hard and sudden, walls clenching around his fingers, juices running down his wrist. Her muffled cry vibrated against his hand. Damon worked her through it, relentless, until her legs shook.

He eased his fingers free, turned her again, and pressed the glistening tips to her lips. Simone sucked them clean without hesitation, tasting herself mixed with his skin, eyes glassy with lust.

“More,” she whispered when he withdrew them. “I need more of you. I need to taste every inch.”

Damon’s cock jerked in her still-stroking hands, darker at the head, leaking steadily now. He backed up until he sat on the edge of the table, legs spread, that massive ebony shaft jutting up thick and proud.

“Then get on your knees, Simone. Show me how bad you’ve wanted this.”

She dropped without another word, the thin carpet rough under her bare knees, heart slamming against her ribs. The party noise still filtered through—her husband’s laugh rising for a second above the music—and the danger only made her mouth water harder as she leaned in, lips parting for her first taste of him.

Simone’s lips parted and closed around the thick, dark head of Damon’s cock, tongue swirling over the leaking slit to gather the salty-sweet precum she had craved for months. The first taste exploded across her senses—musky, clean, unmistakably him—and a low moan vibrated up the shaft as she sank deeper. He was enormous, stretching her jaw wide, the heavy veins pulsing against her tongue while she worked him with wet, worshipful strokes. Spit slicked her chin almost immediately; she didn’t care. She bobbed faster, cheeks hollowing, taking him until the blunt head nudged the back of her throat. She gagged deliberately, eyes watering, staring up at him through wet lashes with pure lust, refusing to pull off even as her throat convulsed around him.

“Fuck—look at you,” Damon rasped, one big hand cradling the back of her head, not forcing, just steadying while her nose brushed the tight curls at his base. “Swallowing Black cock like you were born for it. Your husband’s out there crooning love songs and you’re choking yourself on me.”

She moaned around him again, louder, the forbidden words making her cunt clench and drip down her thighs. Sloppy strings of spit connected her lips to his shaft every time she rose; she jacked the spit-slick inches she couldn’t yet fit, twisting her fist, worshipping every ridge. Her free hand cupped his heavy balls, rolling them gently while she forced herself deeper still, gagging wetly, tears tracking mascara down her cheeks as she held his gaze. The amber bulb painted everything golden; the party noise next door—her husband’s laugh cutting through another chorus—only made her suck harder, greedier, determined to ruin her throat for him.

Damon growled and hauled her up by the arms before she could make him spill too soon. He spun her toward the battered leather couch shoved against the far wall, the one she hadn’t noticed until now, its cushions cracked and smelling faintly of old smoke. He bent her over the arm without ceremony, yanking her skirt all the way to her waist and dragging her soaked panties down to her knees. Cool air kissed her bare ass for half a second before his palms spread her open. The fat head of his cock dragged through her dripping folds, coating himself, then he thrust home in one long, brutal stroke that punched the breath from her lungs.

“Oh God—Damon—” she cried, fingers clawing the cracked leather as he filled her completely, stretching her walls around that thick ebony length until she felt every pulse. He didn’t give her time to adjust. Hips snapped forward, slamming deep, pounding strokes that made the old couch creak and her tits bounce free of the yanked-down bra. Each wet slap of skin on skin echoed under the muffled karaoke; she bit her own forearm to muffle the broken moans spilling out of her.

“Tighter than I dreamed,” he snarled, one hand fisting her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise as he drove into her. “This married pussy gripping me like it never wants another cock. Tell me how it feels.”

“So fucking full—better—ah—better than anything,” she sobbed, pushing back to meet every thrust, the angle dragging his shaft over her swollen clit on every withdrawal. Juices coated his balls; her thighs shook. He reached around and rubbed tight circles on her clit while he fucked her through another sharp, shaking orgasm, her cunt milking him in rhythmic spasms that nearly dragged him over with her.

Before the aftershocks faded he pulled out, flipped her onto her back on the couch cushions, and hooked her knees over his elbows, pinning her legs wide open. He sank back into her in one smooth drive, burying himself to the root while their mouths crashed together. Tongues tangled, desperate and messy; she tasted her own arousal still lingering on his lips from earlier and moaned into the kiss, nails raking down the hard muscle of his back hard enough to leave welts. He railed her missionary-style with deep, relentless strokes, the wet sound of her cunt taking him obscenely loud in the tiny room. Every grind of his pubic bone against her clit sent fresh sparks racing up her spine.

“Your husband never fucks you like this,” Damon panted against her mouth between kisses. “Does he?”

“No—never—God, you feel so much better than him,” she moaned openly now, past caring who might hear, legs trembling in his grip as another climax built. “His cock doesn’t stretch me, doesn’t hit so deep—fuck me harder, Damon, please—make me forget him—”

He did. Hips pistoned, balls slapping her ass, the couch groaning under them while she scored fresh red lines down his shoulders. Their mouths stayed locked, swallowing each other’s groans, her walls fluttering and seizing around the thick invasion until she came again with a muffled scream, vision whiting out, juices gushing around his cock.

Damon pulled free with a wet pop just as his own orgasm hit. He stroked himself twice, aiming, and thick ropes of hot cum lashed across her tongue, her open mouth, then striped her bare tits in heavy white lines. Simone moaned in pure greed, catching as much as she could on her tongue and swallowing greedily, the salty flood coating her throat. What landed on her breasts she scooped up with her fingers and rubbed into her skin like lotion, smearing his seed over her nipples and down between her cleavage until she glistened.

He helped her sit up. She righted her bra with shaking hands, smoothed her blouse down over the sticky mess on her chest, tugged her skirt and panties back into place. Cum still leaked from her well-fucked cunt, warm and slick between her thighs, soaking into the fabric as she stood on unsteady legs. Damon cupped her face and kissed her one last time—deep, possessive, tongues sliding slowly so she could taste his own release still coating her mouth. She melted into it, fingers curling in his shirt, memorizing the flavor.

When they broke apart she gave him a secret, satisfied smile that didn’t quite reach the calculating flicker in her eyes. She slipped back through the door into the main lounge, the off-key singing washing over her as she found her husband still belting lyrics under the pink lights, completely oblivious. Damon watched her go from the shadows of the back room, already hard again at the sight of her walking away with his cum painting her insides.

What he didn’t know—what no one knew yet—was that Simone had already decided tonight was only the first time. Tomorrow morning she would text him the photo she’d secretly taken of his cock still glistening with her spit, and the affair would become a weekly ritual right under her husband’s nose.