Disclaimer:
This story contains explicit content intended for mature readers (18+). It includes graphic depictions of sexual acts, themes of dominance and submission, objectification, power imbalances, and casual, non-reciprocal encounters. The narrative explores intense dynamics between consenting adults in a fictional context. Reader discretion is advised.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, shattering the quiet darkness of my room. I already know who it is, and my heart pounds before I even glance at the screen. His name lights up, followed by a message as blunt as his attitude.
“WYD? I’m horny as fuck… You want some dick? 😈”
A thrill pulses through me, tangled with a dash of shame. It’s a familiar cycle, this uneven balance of power that I both long for and dread. My fingers move before my mind can catch up, typing out a simple reply.
“Yes, Daddy. 🙇🏾♂️”
“Ight, Bet. Be there in 15,” he responds, and I know what that means: no small talk, no charades, just polish his dick. The thrill of surrendering to his will and becoming an object for his pleasure sends a shiver down my spine. I leap into action, shaving and moisturizing, preparing my body to meet his exacting standards. I slip into a tight pair of black, sexy jockstraps—his favorite. My heart pounds with a mix of thrill and nerves as I slip into them, feeling the fabric cling to my skin.
Minutes crawl by as I wait for him, my thoughts spiraling. I crave this—the way he takes charge, the raw need in his touch. But there’s also a dark undertone to my arousal. I know what I’m signing up for: a cut-and-dry encounter that leaves me wanting more, even when I hate myself for it. The power imbalance, the one-sided use—it excites me more than it should.
A heavy knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts, and my stomach twists. I open it, and there he is. He’s tall, towering over me, his deep brown skin smooth and flawless under the hallway light. His face is sharp, all jawline and full lips framed by a perfectly trimmed goatee. He gives me a once-over with eyes that burn with raw hunger.
He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. His presence commands the room as he steps inside, bringing with him an energy that shifts the air around us. He’s draped in his usual hookup wear—loose basketball shorts, a black hoodie, and slides. His durag is tied snugly over waves that I know lie beneath, and an impressive Cuban link gold chain rests against his chest, gleaming against his deeply rich dark-chocolate complexion.
He glides smoothly, almost predatory, each step calculated like he’s on a mission. His eyes lock onto mine with an unflinching gaze that makes my knees weak. He’s a natural leader, exuding control with every breath. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, deep baritone that rumbles through the room and reverberates through my body.
“On your knees.”
His words struck me with the weight of a commandment. My body obeys before my mind can catch up, sinking to the floor with a pounding heart as I kneel before him. He watches, his expression unchanged—serious, almost nonchalant, like I’m nothing more than a servant carrying out his orders. I look up at him, catching the way his eyes flicker with approval as I assume my position.
He removes his pants and boxer briefs, allowing his diamond-hard dick to break loose. His manhood is thick and veiny, with a prominent mushroom-shaped head and a slight upward curve. I breathe in the scent of his crotch—masculine and musky, with a hint of sweat and a slight tang of soap. It fills my nostrils, and I feel my body flush with heat.
“Open your mouth.”
His words are a decree, and I obey, parting my lips and letting his dick slide onto my tongue. His manhood is thick and heavy, and I feel his length pressing against the back of my throat. His moans fill the air, deep and rumbling, and I feel a surge of arousal in knowing that I am pleasing him.
His hands grip the back of my head, and he begins to thrust, pushing deeper into my mouth. His dick glides over my lips and tongue, and I feel his pubic hair brushing against my chin. It’s intense and overwhelming, and I feel myself falling into a state of blissful submission.
As I savor him, I sense my body heating up. I can feel pre-cum seeping through my jockstrap. His moans fuel me, driving me to please him, to satisfy his needs. I lose myself in the rhythm, the push and pull, the weight of his dick on my tongue.
I hear him grunt, and he grabs the back of my head, holding me still as he fucks my throat. It’s intense and rough, and I feel the pressure building in the back of my throat.
The routine continues with an unspoken rhythm, him in full control, me surrendering to his will. After a moment, he steps back, a rough hand gripping my shoulder.
He pulls out, his shaft glistening, glazed with a thick blend of spit and pre-cum that oozes down. With a firm gesture, he points to the bed.
“Bend over,” he says, his tone cold and detached. I do as he orders, positioning myself on the edge of the bed, head down, ass up. I arch my back, tooting my ass up towards him as his hands grip my hips. His touch is firm, unyielding, holding me in place as he aligns himself behind me.
He crosses my threshold, spreading through my chamber like warm sunlight, comfortably claiming my hole with the ease of a king returning to his throne. I can feel its thickness stretching me out. He fills me up to the brim, his head thumping my prostate and sending sparks of pleasure through my body.
He thrusts harder, his strokes long and deep, his body slamming into mine. His moans echo through the room, and his hands grip my hips tightly.
His rhythm intensifies, and I feel my body responding, my dick stiff and leaking. My heart races, and my skin burns with desire.
As he fucks me, I feel a rush of conflicting emotions. There’s a thrill in the lopsided nature of our exchange, in being wanted solely for my body. But there’s also a sting of emptiness, a sense of being used and discarded.
I know he doesn’t care, and that fuels my arousal, heightening my senses. I lose myself in the physicality, in the pure, raw need.
My penetrator grunts, and his dick throbs, pushing deeper into me. I feel his nut pumping into me, flooding my hole with warmth. He doesn’t stop, and I feel the pleasure building, a mix of lust and pain, of surrender and desire.
Time blurs, and before I know it, he’s finished. He pulls out, leaving me empty and aching. I stand up, my legs shaky, as I hear him adjust his clothes, the rustle of fabric the only sound in the room. My legs tremble as I push myself up, my body still burning from his use. He doesn’t say a word; he just stands there, his expression unreadable, his eyes already detached from me.
I know my role. I get up and head to the bathroom, grabbing a warm rag. When I return, he holds out his hand, taking it from me without a hint of gratitude. He wipes himself off, tossing the rag onto the bed as if to further mark his territory.
“Later,” he mutters, his voice deep and commanding, a final dismissal as he heads for the door. I watch him leave, the air growing colder as the door closes behind him. I’m left standing there, my body buzzing with the aftershocks of his dominance, my mind swirling with that familiar blend of arousal and shame.
This is what I wanted, what I signed up for. I’m just a booty call. A cut-and-dry encounter, leaving me with nothing but the thrill of having answered his call.
