Trusted Friend's BBC Invitation

Emily stood at the kitchen sink in her little suburban house, the late afternoon sun slanting through the blinds and catching the sheen of sweat on her bare shoulders. At twenty-eight, she still had that tight, firm body her husband Jake had married five years ago—perky C-cup tits that strained against the thin white tank top she wore with no bra, nipples already stiff from the filthy thoughts swirling in her head, and a narrow waist flaring into hips that filled out her tiny denim shorts. Those shorts rode up her ass every time she shifted, the crotch snug against her bare pussy lips because she hadn’t bothered with panties. Jake was gone for the whole week on some boring business trip out of state, leaving her alone with the house, the quiet, and the relentless ache between her legs that had nothing to do with missing him.

For months now, every time she closed her eyes and slipped her fingers into her cunt, it wasn’t Jake’s average white cock she pictured. It was Marcus. Jake’s best friend since college, thirty-two years old, six-foot-four of solid black muscle, that easy grin flashing white against his dark skin, and—Christ—the massive bulge he never quite hid in his jeans. She’d seen it once last summer at the pool party, the outline of that thick BBC snaking down his thigh, and ever since her pussy had clenched around nothing whenever he was around. She’d fingered herself raw thinking about him splitting her open, about that heavy black dick stretching her tight white hole until she screamed. Jake trusted him completely. Marcus was the good guy, the one who helped fix the lawnmower, who dropped off tools, who never crossed a line. But Emily’s fantasies had gotten dirtier by the week: Marcus pinning her to the counter, forcing that fat cockhead past her resisting lips, breeding her while Jake was none the wiser.

The doorbell rang just as she was rinsing a glass, and her heart kicked hard. She knew it was him. Marcus had texted earlier about dropping off the socket set Jake had left at his place. Emily wiped her hands on a towel, felt the wet heat already slicking her thighs, and opened the door.

Marcus filled the doorway like he owned it. Dark jeans hugging powerful thighs, a black t-shirt stretched tight across his broad chest and thick arms. His eyes—warm brown, always respectful—flicked over her tank top, the hard points of her nipples, the way her shorts barely covered the undersides of her ass cheeks. He grinned that slow, knowing grin.