White men Black girl. Attended a wedding

[Classy_Ebony]

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.

 

[OldSoldier96]

Forgive me if I overstepped but your beauty is breathtaking. Such a wonderful read.

 

[Classy_Ebony]

Forgive me if I overstepped but your beauty is breathtaking. Such a wonderful read.

I'm flattered

 

[IARainman]

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.View attachment 2559336

You're gorgeous!

 

[MacGuffinn]

I can see why.

 

[DinglyDangly]

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.View attachment 2559336

A great introduction, the start of a good story, will there be more?

 

[peekingone]

This is lovely. Very pretty.

 

[lifeis2short2b]

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.View attachment 2559336

I can't get through the story without getting totally distracted by your picture. Your a very pretty woman.

 

[Hawktalon]

I can say there is something about a beautiful black woman that can draw a man in. Showing her some true passion that she hasnt seen nowhere else. Reading her body like a beautiful story. Opening pages thats never been opened. Showing her what was really between those pages.
And that is a story i was very pleased to read.

Thanks for openin that memory up. Though it was for a short time, it make an everlasting memory.

 

[NakedCanadian]

What a beautiful remembrance of an erotically charged evening. Your prose and rhythm are perfect for conveying the sense of anxiousness and anticipation.
And the picture has the feeling of a deep smouldering passion behind the eyes.

 

[Classy_Ebony]

What a beautiful remembrance of an erotically charged evening. Your prose and rhythm are perfect for conveying the sense of anxiousness and anticipation.
And the picture has the feeling of a deep smouldering passion behind the eyes.

Thanks for taking the time to reply

 

[30bandits]

Beautiful...kissable lips.

 

[Worzel550]

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.View attachment 2559336

If that's you, Jeez, lovely story and you are hot

 

[ForgottenSpouse]

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.

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.View attachment 2559336

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.View attachment 2559336

The thing that reels a guy like me in is the story. Attention to detail; thoughtfully laid out and sets the tone for the story.

The story is laid out to where you can envision it; you can see yourself there being jealous of every guy that has the opportunity to have his hand in yours, on your hip but seeing what boundaries might he can push.

You keep building the story up, the anticipation, the jealousy I would have of every other man that has his turn to be in your presence in a close embrace.

The picture in my mind of you is as your title says, your dress creates an unrelenting want for you. But the image of you is what stuns a person the most when you see it firsthand.

The obvious is the beauty, the eyes that draw you in and hypnotize, I’d better stop there but it would be hard for anyone not to dream to be in your presence.

 

[Classy_Ebony]

The thing that reels a guy like me in is the story. Attention to detail; thoughtfully laid out and sets the tone for the story.

The story is laid out to where you can envision it; you can see yourself there being jealous of every guy that has the opportunity to have his hand in yours, on your hip but seeing what boundaries might he can push.

You keep building the story up, the anticipation, the jealousy I would have of every other man that has his turn to be in your presence in a close embrace.

The picture in my mind of you is as your title says, your dress creates an unrelenting want for you. But the image of you is what stuns a person the most when you see it firsthand.

The obvious is the beauty, the eyes that draw you in and hypnotize, I’d better stop there but it would be hard for anyone not to dream to be in your presence.

Thank u for taking the time to reply

 

[cutcrystal899]

Lovely story and photo is gorgeous

 

[IrreverendBoob]

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.View attachment 2559336

You have quite a talent with words; you evoke atmosphere, feeling, so that we your lucky readers can be in the scene as you compose it. I hope you continue to write, as your gift with words is a thing of beauty.

 

[Classy_Ebony]

You have quite a talent with words; you evoke atmosphere, feeling, so that we your lucky readers can be in the scene as you compose it. I hope you continue to write, as your gift with words is a thing of beauty.

Thank u

 

[Tangledskein]

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.View attachment 2559336

Beautifully written, expressive, intelligent and enticing. Encouraging us to want to read more, find out if there is any more. Is there?

 

[Ryan1974]

Nothing like a classy black girl, trust me.

 

[RedDevilCock]

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.View attachment 2559336

Extremely Sexy, the words paint a picture so real and intense!