Good Boy Gets His First Taste of BBC [M20s/M40s] [oral sex] [public use]
Nick held the door for a tall, slender black woman with two white puppies on leashes. From the looks of it, the puppies were mother and daughter, both of them naked but for their harnesses, buttplug tails, collars, and white kneepads, white latex booties. Both had a Bitch of Spades tattoo on their ass, but the older wore it on her left cheek and the younger on the right. Crawling around like that looked uncomfortable, but all he saw on their faces was absolute bliss.
“Thank you, whiteboi.” The black woman nodded as she stepped through after her puppies. “Both my girls are full to bursting. Gotta get them to a park ASAP.”
“There’s a pee pad behind the neuter and nullification clinic down the street, Miss,” he offered helpfully.
He couldn’t see her eyes through the oversized sunglasses she wore, but he did see her eyebrows raise behind them. “Oh, is that so? Are you a good, leashed boy as well, or is that where you lost your balls?”
Nick blushed. “Neither, Miss. I just happen to cut through the alley on my errands sometimes.”
“Hmm, pity.” Without another word, she tugged on the leashes and let her two white girls in the direction he’d pointed.
The meeting had been a welcome distraction, but Nick’s nerves frayed again as he stepped inside the coffee shop. A week of meetings with Tom had shifted something inside him. Daily lattes now came with a side of hazel-eyed scrutiny and humiliating praise that stuck to him like cinnamon-sprinkled foam. He smoothed button-up khakis wrinkled from a morning of manual filing and joined the line. Tom was already there, a navy sweater snug over his frame, sipping black coffee with that easy smirk.
“Right on time, Nick,” Tom said, voice a low purr. “I like a whiteboi who knows his place in the rhythm.” His eyes traced Nick’s throat as he swallowed, then lingered on his lips. “Bet you’d handle a stronger shot just as steadily.”
“Hello, Sir,” Nick said, his smile polite but frayed. He ordered his latte—“Medium, please”—and fumbled for his payment screen, fingers twitchy. Tom’s comments had gotten sharper all week. Monday’s “You’re a quick learner” had slid into Wednesday’s “Ever tasted something worth kneeling for?” and then yesterday’s blunt “You’d steam up nice on your knees.” Nick wasn’t imagining it anymore.
He knew that’s what whitebois were for, to be admired, desired, and used by black superiors, but no one had ever shown him such attention before. He knew it was as much because he was quiet and mousy, easily overlooked, as it was because he was afraid to make a fool out of himself by inviting attention. Oh, he’d fantasized about being selected for boardroom service more than once, even taking Tiffany’s place as office bimboi in his most embarrassing dreams, but fantasies and dreams were safe.
No risk.
No consequences.
And no reward.
Tom leaned closer as the barista worked, his cedar-musk scent brushing Nick’s senses. “Quiet today. Thinking about how deep you’d take a real challenge?” His tone was velvet, but his gaze was steel, pinning Nick in place.
The latte hit the counter, and Nick grabbed it, turning to Tom with a steadying breath. “I’m flattered, Sir. I mean, you’re great to talk to, and I appreciated you taking the time to notice me, but I’d lose my job if I even considered such a challenge.” The outburst surprised even him. Somehow, his voice stayed soft and respectful, but inside, he was shaking with fear.
You didn’t just say ‘no’ to a black man!
Tom’s smirk didn’t waver. He set his cup down, arms crossing casually. “What if you had a better job? One with a real purpose?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. “I need an assistant—not freelance, but you’ll be very well taken care of. Figured you’d fit, what with those manners and all.”
Nick’s shoulders eased, but his brow furrowed. “An assistant, Sir?” He sipped his latte, foam catching his lip, and Tom’s eyes flicked to it, hungry, before lifting again.
Tom’s smirk tightened into something sharper, and he stepped closer, voice firm. “Harper & Sons has already been served notice that I intend to purchase your contract, including the balance of your educational debt, dependent upon a successful interview.
Nick’s cup froze midair, his breath catching. “An interview, Sir?” His politeness cracked, voice small, eyes wide behind his glasses. He glanced at his watch—12:37—and shifted his bag. This was too much, too soon. Sure, it’d been a week coming, but it could have been a month, and he still wouldn’t have been prepared. “I’d love to discuss it, Sir, but I’ve got to be back in eight minutes.”
The black man’s eyes glinted with a hunter’s gleam. “I’ve watched you, whiteboi. I know what you need, and I’m confident you’ll do very well indeed.” His hand landed on Nick’s shoulder, firm, guiding. “Join me over there. By the window.”
Nick’s gut churned with a mixture of unease and flattery… and a desperate thread of need. Tom’s certainty pressed like a thumb on a bruise, and that scared him. “Yes, Sir,” he mumbled, barely audible. He didn’t pull away.
Tom’s grip tightened briefly. “Good boy.” He steered him towards the window where he sank into a leather chair, legs spreading wide, jeans pulling tight over a bulge that made Nick’s eyes dart away. The black man looked regal, his arms draped over the armrests, commanding the room.
There was an awkward moment of silence as Nick stood before him, coffee in hand, bag hanging off his shoulder. He knew it would be wrong to bring over another chair, but he also knew it felt wrong to be standing above the seated black man. What seemed right was to kneel, but he feared that would be too forward.
“Take a load off,” Tom said, but when Nick moved for a chair, he tutted, pointing to the floor between his feet. “Right here, whiteboi. Where you belong.”
Nick froze, his heart pounding. He’d never served like this, never submitted to a black man like this—or at all. Oh, he’d watched the videos, listened to the lessons, and read all the BNWO romance novels he could get his hands on, but he wasn’t good with people. He was awkward and shy, always had been.
What if he said or did the wrong thing?
What if Tom didn’t like it?
What if he wasn’t any good?
Tom’s gaze pinned him, unyielding. “Interview has started,” he said, cutting through the silence. “Clock is ticking.” He made a show of adjusting himself, stroking that bulge in his jeans. “No more sissy lattes—you’ll be swallowing something richer. Full roast, straight from the tap.” His grin widened. He let go, and the bulge pulsed, drawing Nick in. “You’re built for it, whiteboi—polite and eager.”
Nick’s mind churned. His fingers tightened on the latte cup. His thoughts twisted. Did Tom have other employees? Was this spot a revolving seat, polished by other knees? His eyes darted to the kneeling pad, imagining shadows of men—twinks, femboys, sissies, even bimbois—slipping on and off it.
His eyes flicked up from the floor to find that Tom had unzipped his jeans right there in the coffee shop. That alone wasn’t a shock—there were black cocks and black pussies being savored by the window and the counter—but being a part of it was.
Tom yanked down his briefs, unleashing a monstrous black cock—thick and long, with balls already tensing up as his sac swelled. The whole thing pulsed with his heartbeat, a slab of ebony meat straight out of the filthiest BNWO instructional video Nick had ever stumbled across. It didn’t look real.
He stood rooted, jaw slack, words choked off by the sheer mass of manhood looming before him. The coffee shop—the noise, the smells, the people—faded into a blur. He had enough presence of mind to set his latte cup down, but his short-circuiting brain stopped him there.
“Ain’t got all day,” Tom said. His voice dropped into a smooth sort of whisper that Nick was sure would have been seductive if he’d been a girl. Fuck, what was he saying? It was seductive, a low rumble that hooked Nick’s gut, drawing him in. “Get those pretty whiteboi lips on my big black cock. Suck my superior black cream straight from the spout. You’re fucking drooling for it already.” He chuckled, but there was no malice in it, just raw confidence. “Stop fighting your purpose.”
Every nerve in Nick screamed at him to bolt, warning him this was a one-way plunge, but his knees buckled anyway. Tom stroked that beast again, and a fat rope of precum oozed out—thicker than Nick’s best cumshot after a marathon edge session. With a flick of his wrist, Tom aimed the cock down, then let it snap up, firing the sticky string through the air. It was hard to believe his aim could be so perfect, hard to accept that it was anything more than a fluke, but that string of precum flew up, sailed between them, and splattered beside Nick’s nose.
A perfect fucking bullseye.
The scent hit—pure black male musk, thick with power and balls-deep virility. It spun Nick’s head, dizzying him as the warm drip slid to his lip. His tongue darted out before he could stop it, lapping it up—salty, bitter, like a shot of espresso cut with something primal. His body lit up, nerves buzzing as if he’d been starving for this brew his whole damn life.
His knees hit the pad on the floor before his brain caught up, folding under the weight of that taste. Fear churned in his gut, but hunger clawed louder, raw and new. Tom squeezed his ebony shaft, forcing out a bigger bead of precum. From the floor, Nick swore he could smell it, taste it on the air, and his head lunged forward, tongue snaking out to slurp it up, hot and fresh, straight from the black man who’d claimed him.
OMG, it was better than anything he’d ever tasted. It was a jolt of rightness that scorched through him. The heat radiating off Tom’s cock washed over his face, leaving him feeling safe . . . owned . . . craved. His lips chased his tongue, and he pressed a sloppy kiss to the throbbing head. He was finally kissing a black man's cock! A lifetime of denial snapped inside him as he stretched his jaw to its limit, cramming three inches of that thick black shaft into his mouth. It was but a fraction of the beast, but enough to choke his senses.
Nick hollowed his cheeks and sucked, hard and desperate, bobbing like a slut on a mission. Drool pooled fast, spilling past his lips, and his tongue lashed at the steady stream of precum.
“Fuck yeah,” Tom groaned, slapping a hand on Nick’s head, giving him room to move but always keeping an inch inside him. “Ain’t met a whiteboi yet who couldn’t chug a black cock like a pro. You were bred to guzzle my dick, you greedy little femboy sissy twink.”
Nick hummed, lost in the moment, drunk on the flood coating his tongue. He reached up, but Tom swatted his hands away. “You suck, I fuck. Get it right, whiteboi,” he snarled, his voice tight with need. Nick’s jaw ached, his cheeks burned, and his tongue throbbed, but he powered on, shoving deeper, gagging as he swallowed another inch, nowhere near deepthroating, but enough to milk that beautiful ebony beast.
As huge as Tom had looked from a distance, and as massive as he’d looked up close, Nick found you couldn’t really appreciate a black man’s girth until it was filling your mouth and threatening to split your lips. He forced himself to take even more of him, fighting his gag reflex to do a good job, and managed to swallow another inch. He couldn't deepthroat him. That just wasn't happening. But he had him good and deep enough to suck his cock.
“Oh, yeah, good sissy bitch,” Tom rasped, both hands guiding now, steering Nick’s rhythm. “Best goddamn suck I’ve had, and it’s only your first.” Pride swelled in Nick’s chest at the words, and he trilled around the cock, tongue vibrating, drawing a guttural moan from Tom that made Nick leak into his khakis. “Fucking special—prime cock-chugger.”
Everything about who Nick was and what he was supposed (or not supposed) to be doing faded away. At that moment, there were no doubts, no self-conscious thoughts, no regrets. The world shrank to this—Nick’s whiteboi mouth, a black man’s shaft, and those filthy words of praise. He felt like he'd found a purpose that no job had ever given him, a place in life that no relationship had ever made him appreciate.
It was all fine and good to be told what a whiteboi’s purpose was in the BNWO, to be trained and educated in serving your black superiors, but it was another thing entirely to experience it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tom panted, hands clenching, holding Nick so the head of his cock sat fat on his tongue. He was breathing heavily now, his hands clenching tighter, still guiding him but holding back so that the head of his cock was smack-dab in the center of Nick’s tongue. “Right there, whiteboi, right there. Suck it, sissy—drain my black brew dry.”
With a roar that rattled the windows, Tom erupted. Hot, thick cum blasted Nick’s mouth, a geyser of seed so fierce he’d have recoiled if Tom’s grip hadn’t locked him tight. It flooded fast, backing into his nose, choking him as he gulped—nutty, metallic, and sweet. His brain giggled, a dumb shield against the overwhelming rush. He sucked harder, milking it, chasing every drop as it poured for a solid minute, then two, the heavy black cock softening only at the end.
It was all so different from what he was expecting, so much more intimate . . . powerful . . . overwhelming.
Nick kept sucking, addicted, hunting the dregs. Tom laughed as he shoved him off, then slapped his cheek—sharp, snapping him out of the haze. The black cock slipped free, trailing cum and spit down Nick’s chin, soaking his shirt. He reeked of sex, of Tom’s load, and guilt crashed in—until, that is, Tom stroked his cheek, tilted his face up, and purred, “Good boy.” He wiped some cum from Nick’s cheek and pushed it into his mouth, smiling when he sucked hard on that finger. “Consider yourself hired. Bought and paid for.”
Nick didn't know what to say.
He had no idea what to do.
His body didn’t know how to feel, his brain how to react.
He just sort of knelt there until Tom reached down, put his hands under his arms, and lifted him to his feet. In a daze, Nick let him lead him to the door, where he worried for a moment about how he must look, or what people would think, but then a pair of guttural roars, one coming right on top of the other, broke the spell. He looked to his left and saw a white femboy choking on a black man’s cock while a pregnant white slut kneeled next to him, smiling through a black man’s facial.
Tom slapped him on the ass and pushed him out the door. “I’ll see you soon, sissy. Paperwork should be done in a matter of days.
_____
An excerpt from "Blacked and Nullified: Corporate Sissy Slave for the Black World Order (Blacked Future)"
BUY LINK: https://books2read.com/CorpSissyBNWO