Classy_Ebony
Ebony Queen
- Joined
- Feb 1, 2024
- Posts
- 4
That night at the wedding, the air was warm and heavy with music and laughter—but beneath it all, something charged was building. The older white men didn’t just glance my way; they wanted me. Their eyes held a slow, hungry burn—dark, steady, unyielding. And I could tell—it was because I was Black. That difference made their gazes sharper, their touches bolder, like I was something rare and wild, something they’d been waiting for.
I’d had a few drinks—just enough to blur the edges of caution, to soften my nerves and let a warmth pool low inside me. The alcohol relaxed me, eased the tight grip of hesitation. It was the perfect veil to let their hands find me.
The touch of their hands was electric—rough, sure, and claiming. A palm pressed firmly against my hip, fingers digging in just enough to own me. The cool leather of a jacket beneath my fingertips sent a shiver rippling through my body, and I instinctively leaned into it.
Another hand slid down the curve of my back, tracing a slow, deliberate path that sent chills racing along my spine. When fingers brushed the inside of my thigh, just grazing the edge of my dress, heat flared sharply low between my legs. I froze for a moment, breath hitching, the sensation so raw and new.
I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t. The warmth in my chest and the buzz from the drinks melted any resistance. I wanted it—the roughness, the hunger in their eyes, the way their hands moved over me like they’d been waiting for this moment.
Their fingers roamed boldly, tracing my waist, gripping my hips, slipping beneath fabric to caress bare skin. The scent of cologne mixed with whiskey and sweat filled the air, thick and intoxicating. Their low murmurs brushed against my ear like promises and commands.
I felt the weight of their bodies close behind me, the heat of breath on my neck. Every touch pressed into my skin, every caress sent waves of fire rippling through me. My pulse hammered, my breath grew uneven, and I arched into their hands, letting myself be claimed.
It was the touch of a man—a white man, older and confident—something I’d never felt before. That rough, hungry sensation drove me wild in ways I hadn’t known were possible. The memory of it still burns beneath my skin, a fierce fire I’m not ready to put out.
That night, I gave in. I let myself be wanted. I let myself want back.
And I haven’t forgotten how it felt.
I’d had a few drinks—just enough to blur the edges of caution, to soften my nerves and let a warmth pool low inside me. The alcohol relaxed me, eased the tight grip of hesitation. It was the perfect veil to let their hands find me.
The touch of their hands was electric—rough, sure, and claiming. A palm pressed firmly against my hip, fingers digging in just enough to own me. The cool leather of a jacket beneath my fingertips sent a shiver rippling through my body, and I instinctively leaned into it.
Another hand slid down the curve of my back, tracing a slow, deliberate path that sent chills racing along my spine. When fingers brushed the inside of my thigh, just grazing the edge of my dress, heat flared sharply low between my legs. I froze for a moment, breath hitching, the sensation so raw and new.
I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t. The warmth in my chest and the buzz from the drinks melted any resistance. I wanted it—the roughness, the hunger in their eyes, the way their hands moved over me like they’d been waiting for this moment.
Their fingers roamed boldly, tracing my waist, gripping my hips, slipping beneath fabric to caress bare skin. The scent of cologne mixed with whiskey and sweat filled the air, thick and intoxicating. Their low murmurs brushed against my ear like promises and commands.
I felt the weight of their bodies close behind me, the heat of breath on my neck. Every touch pressed into my skin, every caress sent waves of fire rippling through me. My pulse hammered, my breath grew uneven, and I arched into their hands, letting myself be claimed.
It was the touch of a man—a white man, older and confident—something I’d never felt before. That rough, hungry sensation drove me wild in ways I hadn’t known were possible. The memory of it still burns beneath my skin, a fierce fire I’m not ready to put out.
That night, I gave in. I let myself be wanted. I let myself want back.
And I haven’t forgotten how it felt.
