Sarah's BBC Job Interview

I sat across from Marcus in his sleek downtown office, my heart hammering against my ribs. At twenty-eight, I had never felt more out of place than I did in that moment. My husband, David, had encouraged me to apply for the personal assistant job after I’d spent years as a stay-at-home wife. The salary was almost obscene, the office luxurious with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. But none of that explained the way my thighs kept pressing together under my pencil skirt.

Marcus was thirty-two, built like a linebacker poured into a tailored charcoal suit. His dark skin seemed to drink in the sunlight streaming through the glass. Every time those deep brown eyes drifted down to the way my tight white blouse stretched across my breasts, or lingered on the thin gold band on my left ring finger, a fresh pulse of heat rolled through my belly.

“So, Lauren,” he said, voice low and smooth like aged whiskey, “tell me why a married woman wants to spend her days at my beck and call.”

I swallowed. The question felt heavier than it should. “I… I need to feel useful again. David’s a good man, but our life has gotten… routine.”

Marcus leaned back in his leather chair, fingers steepled. “Routine how?” His stare didn’t waver. “Be specific.”

My cheeks burned. I could feel my nipples tightening against the lace of my bra. “Our sex life has slowed down. He’s tired from work. I’m… frustrated.”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “Frustrated. Interesting word.” His gaze dropped openly to my chest again, then lower, as if he could see straight through my clothes. “When was the last time you came so hard you couldn’t remember your own name?”

I squeezed my thighs together so tightly I was sure he noticed. My mouth had gone dry. “I… I don’t remember.”

Marcus stood up. He was even taller than I’d realized, easily six-four, and the way the fabric of his suit pulled across his broad chest made something deep in my core clench. He walked around the desk until he was standing right in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something rich and masculine.

“The real reason I called you in today isn’t about scheduling meetings or fetching coffee, Lauren.” His voice dropped another octave. “I wanted to see if a pretty married white housewife like you could handle what I really need from my personal assistant.”

My breathing had turned shallow. I looked up at him, lips parted. His hand reached out, slow enough that I could have pulled away. I didn’t. The contrast of his dark fingers against my pale cheek made me whimper softly.

“Have you ever been with a Black man?” he asked.

I shook my head, but the confession spilled out before I could stop it. “No. But… I’ve thought about it. A lot. I watch videos when David’s asleep. Big Black cocks stretching tight white pussy. I touch myself and come harder than I have in years. My husband… he can’t satisfy me anymore. He’s too small. Too gentle. I need to be fucked. Really fucked.”

Marcus’s eyes flared with heat. “Stand up.”

I rose on shaky legs. He turned me slowly until I faced his desk, then stepped in behind me. One large hand settled on my hip, the other traced up my side until his fingers brushed the underside of my breast through my blouse.

“Last chance to walk out that door, Lauren. Once I touch this married pussy, I’m not going to stop until it’s ruined for your husband.”

I answered by pressing my ass back against the massive bulge I could feel straining against his slacks. “Please.”

His hand slid down, yanking my skirt up over my hips in one rough motion. The cool air hit my soaked panties and I moaned. Marcus hooked two thick fingers under the lace and tore them aside, exposing me completely.

“Fuck, look at that pretty pink married cunt,” he growled. “Already dripping for BBC.”

I couldn’t wait another second. I spun around, dropped to my knees on the thick carpet, and attacked his belt with trembling fingers. When I finally freed him, my eyes widened. His cock was enormous—thick, veined, and so dark it looked like polished obsidian. Easily ten inches and so wide my fingers didn’t meet when I wrapped both hands around the base.

“Jesus,” I whispered in awe.