Stranded Cyclist Ravished by Her and Her Black Boyfriend

Rupert saw her from the driver's seat just after six, the office lot already emptying behind him and the roadside shoulder catching the last warm light. She stood beside a slim city bicycle, one hand on the saddle, the other pushing blonde hair off her face. The rear tire sat soft and useless against the gravel. He pulled over before he had time to talk himself out of it.

She looked up when his door opened. Twenty-four, he would learn, and small enough that the bike frame nearly reached her hip. A fitted tee and cutoffs, sun on her arms, a gold band glinting when she lifted her hand. Young wife, he thought, and then he was already out of the car with the spare tube kit he kept in the trunk for no good reason except that he was the sort of man who kept spare tube kits.

"Flat," she said, almost apologetic. "I was trying to make it home before dark."

"I can fix it." He crouched, worked the wheel free, and found the puncture along the tread. His name came out while his hands stayed busy. Rupert. Twenty-eight. Accounts at a downtown office, the kind of job that left his shirt still buttoned at the collar even on a Friday. She told him she was Brigitte, and that she lived half a mile up the hill in the pale house with the wide porch.

He patched the tube, seated the tire, and pumped until the wheel rang solid under his thumb. She watched his forearms and didn't pretend she wasn't. When he stood, she opened her wallet.

"Let me pay you. Please. You didn't have to stop."

"I don't want money."

She held the bills a second longer, then slid them back. Something in her face shifted, not disappointed exactly, more like a door finding a different latch. "Then come to dinner. Next Friday. Seven. I cook, and my boyfriend will be there. Jerome. He'd want to thank you too."

Boyfriend. The ring stayed on her finger while she said it, plain as the invitation. Rupert heard himself accept. She gave him the address, touched his wrist once in thanks, and rode off with the repaired wheel humming under her. He sat in the car afterward with the window down, already picturing the petite blonde in a kitchen, already inventing the way her mouth might look if he ever got brave enough to put his hands on her. The ring and the boyfriend both sat in the fantasy and did not stop it. He drove home hard in his pants and told himself dinner was only dinner.

The week made a liar of him. At his desk he replayed the slope of her waist. In the shower he braced a forearm on the tile and stroked himself to the thought of bending her over a table while she still wore that little gold band. By Friday his pulse was a stupid drum. He stood on the porch in a clean shirt, a bottle of wine sweating in his fist, and let the fantasy run all the way out: her dress up, her panties aside, her saying his name while he took what he had been too polite to ask for on the shoulder of the road.

The door opened before he knocked twice.

Brigitte filled the frame in a tight black dress that clung to her breasts and stopped high on her thighs. No apron. No pretense of a quiet meal. Her blonde hair was down, her mouth painted, her eyes bright with something that looked a lot like appetite. Behind her, filling the hallway, stood a tall Black man in a dark shirt open at the throat. Thirty-two, broad through the chest, watching Rupert the way a man watches a gift he has already decided to unwrap.

"You came," Brigitte said. She took the wine and kissed Rupert's cheek, close enough that he smelled her skin. "Jerome, this is Rupert. The man who fixed my tire and wouldn't take a cent."

Jerome's handshake was warm and unhurried. "Good of you. Come in. She's been talking about you all week."

They ate at a small table, candles low, Jerome's knee occasionally brushing Brigitte's under the cloth while she kept finding reasons to lean toward their guest. She asked about his office. She laughed at nothing. She let the neckline of the dress do half the talking. Rupert's fantasies, which had felt private and a little shameful in the car, started to feel observed. Jerome's mouth held a knowing smirk every time Brigitte's fingers lingered on Rupert's wrist.

After the plates were cleared she didn't offer coffee. She stood between them, one hand on the back of Rupert's chair, and looked at Jerome as if confirming a plan they had already made in bed.

"We should stop pretending this is about pot roast," she said.

Rupert's throat went dry. "I don't—"

"You want to fuck me." She said it cleanly, no giggle in it. "I saw it when you were on your knees with my wheel. I liked it. Jerome liked hearing about it. We like a certain kind of man. White, polite, helpful. A man who thinks he's going to ravish the little blonde wife and then finds out the night belongs to us."

Jerome's voice was low. "We want to use you. She rides you while I take her mouth. I fuck her while she tells you what you are. You watch. You take what we give you. You don't get to be the one in charge. If that isn't what you want, you walk out now and we never mention it. If it is, you say so."

The fantasy inverted so fast Rupert felt dizzy. He had pictured himself pinning her. What rose in him instead was hotter and meaner and entirely his: the need to be looked at while another man had her, the need to hear her call him small, the need to be the helpful guest who got ravished instead. His cock strained against his pants. He looked at her mouth, at Jerome's steady eyes, at the ring on her finger that suddenly made the whole offer filthier.

"I want it," he said. "I want you to do it. Both of you. I'm saying yes."

Brigitte smiled like a woman who had just been handed a toy. "Good boy. On your feet."

She sank to her knees on the rug before he had fully stood, dress riding up, and opened his belt with quick sure hands. His cock sprang out, flushed and leaking, nothing like the thick threat he had imagined bringing to her door. She hummed, pleased, and took him into her mouth in one wet slide. Heat. Tongue. The soft pull of her cheeks. Rupert gripped the chair and groaned. Jerome watched for a long moment, then stripped without hurry, shirt, pants, briefs, until he stood naked and heavy, a massive dark shaft already thick and rising, veins along the length, the head broad enough that Rupert's stomach flipped.

"Look at him," Brigitte said, pulling off with a string of spit. "That's what you don't have. Keep your eyes on it while I suck you."

She went back down, bobbing, one small hand working what her mouth couldn't leisurely cover. Jerome stepped closer and stroked himself once, twice, letting Rupert see the full size of him. Brigitte's eyes flicked up, wicked, and she reached back to squeeze Jerome's thigh without ever letting Rupert slip from her lips. The sound of her sucking filled the room. Rupert's knees shook. He had come here to ravish her and instead she was on the floor devouring him while her boyfriend's cock hung in the lamplight like a verdict.

"Enough," Jerome said. "Get him on the couch. I want his view."

They moved him. Rupert sat, pants around his ankles, shirt open, cock wet and rigid. Brigitte peeled the dress off. No bra. Tiny black panties that she stepped out of and dropped on his chest. Her body was slight and tight, breasts high, nipples drawn stiff, the gold band still on as she climbed over him facing away. Reverse. Her ass settled against his stomach. She reached between her thighs, lined him up, and sank down in one slow greedy drop.

"Oh—fuck—" Rupert's head hit the cushion. She was slick and hot and clenching, taking every inch of him while her back arched. Then she leaned forward, palms on his knees, and Jerome stepped in front of her face.

"Open," Jerome said.

She opened. Jerome fed her his cock, careful at first, then deeper, one big hand in her blonde hair. Rupert watched from underneath, helpless and buried in her, as that thick black shaft stretched her lips and glossed them. She moaned around it. The vibration traveled straight down onto Rupert's cock. She rode him in short rolling hits, ass flexing, while Jerome fucked her mouth with steady strokes that made her throat flutter.

"That's it," Jerome murmured. "Show him. Let the little office boy see what a real cock looks like in you."

Rupert couldn't look away. Spit shone on Jerome's shaft. Brigitte's wedding band flashed every time she braced a hand on Jerome's hip. She bounced harder, using Rupert like a seat, and the wet sounds of her cunt mixed with the wet sounds of her mouth. He grabbed her hips and she slapped his wrist without pulling off Jerome.

"Don't thrust," she gasped, coming up for air, chin slick. "You lie there. You watch him ruin my throat. You cum only if I let you."

She took Jerome again, deeper, gagging once and pushing through it because she wanted to. Rupert felt himself swell inside her and bit down on a shout. She rode until his balls drew tight, then lifted off with a filthy sound and left him throbbing in the air, denied.

"On your knees on the floor," Jerome told her. "Face him. I want him looking at your face while I fuck you."

She dropped, cheek near Rupert's thigh, and presented her ass. Jerome knelt behind her, spread her, and pushed in. The stretch made her cry out, a bright broken sound, and her fingers scrambled until they found Rupert's cock. She jerked him in a messy fist while Jerome drove into her from behind, heavy strokes that shoved her forward an inch at a time.

"Listen," she panted, eyes on Rupert's. "This is what you came for and you didn't even know it. Pathetic little cuck. Fixing my tire like a gentleman so you could sit here and watch a Black man fuck your dinner hostess. Your cock is twitching in my hand and you haven't even been inside me for a full minute. Jerome's splitting me open and all you get is my fingers. Say it."

"I'm your cuck," Rupert heard himself say, voice wrecked. "I'm pathetic. I want to watch him fuck you."

"Louder."

"I'm a pathetic cuckold. Use me. Please."

Jerome laughed once, low, and slammed in harder. Brigitte's fist sped up, slick with her own spit from earlier, twisting at the head. She talked through it, filthy and precise. Told Rupert his cock was a toy. Told him her pussy belonged to Jerome tonight and every night she felt like giving it. Told him the ring on her finger didn't save him, it just made him dirtier for wanting a wife who brought her boyfriend's cock home and made guests clean up after it. Rupert's hips jerked. She squeezed the base and denied him again, smiling while Jerome's balls slapped her.

"Not yet," she said. "You don't get to finish until you've tasted him in me."

Jerome fucked her until her arms shook and her insults turned into moans. He pulled out shining, hauled her up, and nodded at the couch. "On his face. Now."

Brigitte swung a leg over Rupert's head and sat. Her cunt, flushed and open and leaking Jerome's precum mixed with her own, sealed over his mouth. "Clean it," she ordered. "Every drop he put in me. Get your tongue in there, cuck."

Rupert licked. The taste was thick, salty, hers and not hers. She ground down, riding his face, smearing him from nose to chin while she praised him in that same mean sweet voice. Good cuck. Hungry cuck. Keep going. Jerome stood over them, cock in hand, and slid it between her breasts. She pushed them together, spit down the valley, and let him fuck her tits while Rupert worked underneath, tongue buried, eyes open, watching that dark shaft piston above him.

"He's going to cum in my mouth," she told Rupert, breathless. "You're going to stay right there and feel me shake when I swallow him. Don't you dare stop licking."

Jerome's rhythm broke. He groaned, pulled up from her tits, and pushed into her waiting mouth. Brigitte took him to the root as much as she could and swallowed while he came, throat working, a little spilling at the corner of her lips and dripping onto Rupert's forehead. She moaned around the pulses, cunt clenching on Rupert's tongue, and ground down harder until Rupert, untouched except by her earlier hand and the filthy weight of her, spilled across his own stomach in helpless stripes.

She lifted off only when Jerome had finished, a string of cum connecting her lip to his cock. She looked down at Rupert's wet, glazed face and smiled like she had won something she had been owed since the roadside.

Jerome leaned in and kissed her, deep and unhurried, above the mess of Rupert's face. Their mouths moved together, sharing the taste, while Rupert lay spent and shining beneath them.

"Good willing cuck," Jerome said against her lips, loud enough for Rupert to hear. "Did exactly what we wanted."

"Perfect," Brigitte murmured, kissing Jerome again, one hand idly smearing cum across Rupert's cheek. "Same time next Friday. You'll come back. You'll fix nothing. You'll just open your mouth and take whatever we decide to feed you."

They let him dress with shaking hands. At the door Brigitte kissed Jerome once more, slow and possessive, then looked at Rupert with cum still glossing her chin.

"Go home," she said. "And next week you're swallowing his load off my tongue while I sit on your face and make you thank me for every inch he leaves in my cunt."