The humid night air felt heavy against my skin, a stark contrast to the nervous chill humming through my veins. I stood on the porch of the model home, my running shoes silent on the pristine wood. I’d spent the last hour convincing myself to turn the car around, but then I saw Jamal.
He was leaning against the railing, his silhouette imposing and solid against the glow of the streetlights. He was a few inches taller than me, broader too—a comfortable, powerful weight to him that made my own muscular frame feel suddenly small. He was dressed simply: a dark t-shirt, worn jeans, and heavy work boots.
”You made it,” he said, his voice a low rumble that settled right in my chest.
”I made it,” I breathed.
Before I could say anything else, he moved in. He tasted like mint and the heat of the night. His hands stayed at his sides, but he leaned his weight into me, pinning me slightly against the siding of the house. It was a brief, hungry claim that left me lightheaded. He pulled back just enough to grin, then turned to the keypad on the door. His fingers moved with practiced ease, punching in a six-digit code. The lock clicked with a heavy, expensive sound.
”After you, Waylon,” he whispered, gesturing into the darkened foyer.
The house smelled of “New Home” scent—vanilla and expensive carpet. It was perfectly staged, the kind of place you see in magazines where nobody actually lives. We wandered through the first floor, my eyes darting to the shadows, but Jamal seemed entirely at home. He led me up the stairs to a second-floor loft. It was a cozy space, outfitted with a sleek grey sofa bed and a minimalist rug.
Jamal dropped his gym bag on the floor and reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. His chest was broad, his skin shimmering slightly in the dim light. I kicked off my running shoes, the dull thud of them hitting the carpet sounding like a gunshot in the quiet, staged house. My hands were still trembling as I pulled my shirt over my head and dropped my shorts. Standing there naked in the middle of a designer loft felt like a dream—the kind where you’re exposed and vulnerable, but the heat radiating from the man on the bed made it impossible to look away.
I knew I was in good shape; the gym was my sanctuary, and my muscles felt tight and primed. But under Jamal’s steady, dark gaze, I felt a different kind of tension.
”Wait,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. I looked up at the corners of the ceiling, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Jamal, we shouldn’t be doing this here. What about cameras? This is a show house. Someone has to be watching.”
He stopped, his hands moving to the button of his jeans. He looked at me with an amused, dismissive tilt of his head. “Relax, Waylon,” he said, his voice smooth and teasing. “Do you think we’re the only ones to ever have sex in a show house? People do it in the bathrooms, the closets, you name it. Besides,” he stepped closer, the height difference more apparent now that we were in the tight space of the loft. “I have this place reserved for two hours for a ‘private viewing.’ I paid for the privilege. Gotta do something to make up the time, right?”
Jamal moved to the grey sofa bed with an easy, unbothered grace. He stretched out, his larger frame taking up most of the cushions. He looked perfectly at home, his dark skin a striking, beautiful contrast against the neutral tones of the expensive fabric.
”Come here, Waylon,” he rumbled.
I climbed onto the sofa bed, the cushions shifting under my weight as I knelt beside him. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, my eyes darting toward the darkened hallway once more, but Jamal reached up and caught my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Stop thinking,” he whispered.
I took a breath and leaned down, focusing everything on him. As I took his flaccid length into my mouth, the intimacy of the act finally started to drown out the paranoia. He was soft and warm, the taste of him grounding me in the reality of the room. As I worked, I felt the change. What had been soft and heavy began to stir, pulsing against my tongue. I swirled my tongue around the head, picking up my pace, and felt him respond instantly. He began to thicken and lengthen, a slow, steady transformation that filled my mouth until I had to unhinge my jaw just to accommodate him.
”Yeah, just like that,” Jamal groaned, his head falling back against the armrest.
His large hands slid around to my back, his palms feeling like brands against my skin. He moved lower, his fingers digging into the muscle of my seat before he delivered a sharp, sudden slap. The crack of his palm against my skin was loud in the empty house.
”God, you’re smooth,” he muttered, his voice thick with genuine marvel. He slapped me again, firmer this time, his hand lingering to squeeze and knead the flesh. “I can’t get over this. You’re like silk stretched over stone, man.”
The sting of the slaps felt good, a sharp jolt of electricity that finally burned away the last of my reservations. I gripped his thighs, pulling myself closer as I continued, looking up at him through my lashes, my eyes watering slightly from the depth of him. I saw his face twisted in a mask of pure, concentrated pleasure. The “married man” in me was gone.
”On your back,” Jamal commanded, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
I shifted, the fabric of the sofa bed rustling beneath me as I rolled over. I watched him stand and move across the loft to the wall. With a flick of his wrist, he dimmed the lights until the room was bathed in a soft, amber haze. “That’s better,” he grunted. “Now I don’t have to worry about you looking at the corners of the ceiling every five seconds.”
He returned to the edge of the bed, the mattress groaning under his weight as he knelt between my legs. He reached out, his large, dark hands hooking under my knees and shoving them upward, pinning them toward my chest until I was completely bared to him. Then, he leaned in.
The first stroke of his tongue was wide and wet, tracing the seam of my ass with agonizing slowness. I gasped, my hips giving an involuntary jerk, but he held me firm, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of my inner thighs to keep me open. He buried his face against me, the heat of his breath ghosting over my skin a second before his tongue flicked deep into my rosebud. He was thorough, using the flat of his tongue to swirl over the sensitive opening before darting inside with firm, rhythmic pressure.
”God, Jamal,” I choked out, my head tossing back. He let out a low, vibrating hum against my skin, the sound echoing through my entire lower body.
Jamal reached back into his gym bag, the metallic clink of hardware echoing. He pulled out two thick, black silicone cock rings. He rolled the first one over my length and tucked it behind my balls with a practiced tug. The immediate restriction made my cock throb, making me feel even harder and more exposed. I watched as he did the same for himself.
He grabbed the bottle of lube, the liquid cool as he poured a generous amount into his palm. He began to massage my asshole, his thumb circling the opening, working the slickness deep into the folds. He slid one finger inside, then two, pumping them slowly.
”You have no idea how sexy you look right now,” he whispered. “All muscled up and shaking for me in this fancy-ass house. You’re built so tight, man. I bet you’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?”
My face burned a bright, hot red. He angled his fingers, finding my prostate. A jolt of pure electricity shot through my spine. My toes curled, and a strangled moan escaped my throat. After a few more minutes, Jamal withdrew his fingers and coated his own cock with lube until it glistened like polished mahogany. It was huge.
”Jamal,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Wait. I… I’m a little nervous. I don’t know if I can take something that big.”
He leaned over me, framing my face with his palms. “Hey. Look at me, Waylon. Just look at me. I’m not going to hurt you. We’re going to go as slow as you need, okay? Just breathe with me. Eyes on me.”
I locked my gaze onto his dark, steady eyes. He began to push forward, a slow and deliberate invasion. The pressure was immense. As the head of his cock forced its way past the muscle, my control snapped and a sharp, high-pitched squeal escaped my throat.
”That’s it,” Jamal encouraged. He shifted his weight, rising to brace himself on his palms. He moved with a slow, rhythmic movement, pushing more of himself inside of me with each thrust. With each surge, he gained more ground. The tip of him grazed my prostate with a blunt, heavy pressure that made my vision swim.
The rhythm shifted. Jamal lowered his entire weight upon me, his massive chest crushing against mine, his hips rising and falling faster now. I reacted instinctively, wrapping my arms and legs around him, pulling him in as our mouths locked together in a desperate collision. Beneath the friction of our bellies, my cock was throbbing violently. Every time he hit my prostate, thick strings of cum oozed from the tip, milking me dry from the inside out.
Jamal broke the kiss and buried his face in my neck. He licked, nipped, and sucked a hard, bruised mark into the side of my throat. “Fuck, Jamal… fuck,” I choked out. “Please… give it to me. Give me that black cock, Jamal. Fill me up. Just fucking take me.”
”You like that, don’t you? Taking this big dick in a house that isn’t yours,” he rasped in my ear, his thrusts turning harder. “I’m stretching you out, Waylon. Every time you look at your wife, you’re gonna remember exactly how this felt.”
The friction was at a fever pitch. He had abandoned all gentleness, gripping my hips with fingers like iron bands. Each thrust was a heavy, wet thud that vibrated through my skeleton. “Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he whispered harshly. “I want you to see exactly who is doing this to you.”
The movement slowed, then stopped. Jamal gave one last, deep surge, burying himself to the hilt, and stayed there. We stayed like that for a few long moments, the only sound our ragged breathing. I let my legs fall, my heels sliding down his back.
”God,” I whispered. “Jamal… I still can’t believe it. I’m taking your whole cock.”
He let out a low chuckle, catching my lower lip in a gentle tug. “Believe it, Waylon. You’re taking it like a champ. Better than I expected, honestly.”
”I thought… I thought I’d break.”
”You’re stronger than you look,” he said.
Then he got me to turn over on my hands and knees. He pushed my shoulders down to the bed and pushed back into me from behind. The angle was deeper, more visceral. Jamal started to move, and the pace was raw and urgent. The quiet of the house was shattered by the rhythmic, wet clap of skin on skin. Every strike sent a shockwave through my frame.
”I’m close, Waylon… I’m right there.”
As he delivered three final, devastatingly deep thrusts, his entire body went rigid. I felt his cock surge inside me. At the same moment, I let out a guttural cry as I came, the force of it splashing onto the grey sofa cushions. Jamal let out a roar, his fingers digging into my shoulders as he emptied himself deep inside me, his hips pinning me down as he spent his load.
The silence that followed was heavy. Jamal eventually pulled back, the wet slide of him leaving me making me feel suddenly cold. We spent the next ten minutes in a quiet rhythm, using towels from his bag to clean the grey sofa bed, meticulously erasing the evidence of what we’d done.
As I pulled my shorts back on, the reality of the outside world seeped back in. Jamal placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Hey. Don’t go back into your head yet. We’re still here.”
He led the way down the stairs, and we stepped out into the cool night air. We walked to our separate cars. When I reached my door, I looked back. Jamal was leaning against his truck, the glow of the streetlamp catching the sharp line of his jaw.
”See you soon, Waylon,” he called out.
”Soon,” I promised.
As I pulled away, I touched the mark on my neck. For the first time in a long time, I felt completely awake.
