u/BlackHardThrob

All characters are 18+ years and older.

Let's do something different today. Instead of you helping your younger Bro out. You come to him for advice on how to please your partner. If that doesn't get your attention maybe a single mom with only the experience of my father can come to me for advice on men.

For this role I expect you to be a naive sub that's willing to learn. I'll be your cocky confident sibling or son that's ready to teach you.

I am a black male and will only play a straight black male character.

You invite me over for mischief, your intentions clear. The moment I step inside, the air is thick with your arousing scent. When I go to the bathroom, you hide my condoms, leaving me no choice but to take you bare. "It’s okay," you whisper, pressing your body against mine, "just pull out."

But the moment I’m inside you, all bets are off. You grind your hips into my thrusts, your nails digging into my back as you beg, "Faster. Deeper. I need it." I try to pace myself, but you won’t let me. Your legs lock around my waist, your body arching as you hump my cock, taking every inch of me.

"I’m ovulating," you moan, your voice thick with need. "I want your babies."

I try to pull away, to free myself from your grip, but your thighs clamp down like a vice. Your pussy clenches around me, milking my balls for every last drop. I fight it. God, do I fight it, but you’re relentless. Your body sucks me dry, and I can’t resist. With a groan, I surrender, burying myself deep as I empty every last drop of my seed into you.

You’re rewarded with it all. Every last drop.

I often fantasize about being the center of a breeding ritual, where I am tasked with impregnating multiple women. Maybe it's a girlfriend, her friends, her sister, even her cousins. All of them eager and open for me. The idea of being worshipped as a symbol of fertility, of stretching them out and filling them with my seed, drives me crazy to think about. The thought of them lying there, legs spread, ready to take me in, drives me wild.

The room humming with anticipation and moans, thick with the scent of arousal and the promise of life. My girlfriend watches, her eyes dark with pride, as her friends, her sister, her cousins. All lying before me, legs parted, bodies offered like sacred vessels. They are mine to claim, mine to fill.

I move between them, each one gasping as I stretch them open, my thickness pulsing deep inside. Their worship is palpable, their moans a chorus of devotion. "Please," they whisper, "give us your seed." And I do. Again. And again. Their wombs clench around me, greedy for the gift only I can provide.

I am their God of Fertility.

We were married for 13 years and have been divorced for 8. I’ve moved on and found love again. I’m happily engaged to the future Mrs. Saunders.

You, on the other hand, have learned the hard way that what you once called boring was truly love. All the men who have come and gone since our divorce haven’t been me. You’ve tried so hard to find what you lost, but with no luck. Now, you’re sitting at the end of some bar at 9 a.m., with a balding, overweight alcoholic buying you drinks, hoping to get you drunk enough to take you home.

Then, you see a newspaper the bartender is reading. In the society section, printed in bold black type on newsprint, are my new name and the name of my bride-to-be.

"He’s getting married."

The words echo in your throat, hurting your pride to verbalize them. Of course he is. He always did everything right and on time, by the book. Even this. Even moving on.

You trace the rim of your glass, your chest burns. Were you really that easy to replace? Or was it just that easy to forget? Thirteen years, and he’s already picked out a ring for someone else. Thirteen years. The number tastes worse than a warm beer.

The balding man’s laugh grates against your nerves. He thinks this is a game. He doesn’t know you’re already lost in the past. You remember me, the way you'd roll her eyes at my corny jokes, the way you knew me. Knew you. Past tense. That’s the joke, isn’t it? 

She, my new bride now knows me better than you now know me. I'm no longer yours, but someone else’s.

Your fingers tighten around your glass. Mrs. Saunders. The name sits in your stomach like a stone. You always thought you’d hear it again, your name attached to his. Not hers. Never hers.

And the worst part? You let this happen. You walked away from boring. From safe. From love. And now love’s sitting at a bar, drowning in cheap liquor and cheaper company, while he’s out there… happy.