White men Black girl. Attended a wedding

[wintergrain]

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. Now I can't stop thinking about it. Every time I see a mature older white man. I can't help but think back ever since that night.View attachment 2559336

 

[wintergrain]

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. Now I can't stop thinking about it. Every time I see a mature older white man. I can't help but think back ever since that night.View attachment 2559336

A beautiful post by a beautiful girl, Thanks for sharing, I can only tell you how I feel but I am sure there are many other white men out there who share the same secret desire for a woman of color that I do, I'm not talking about a once-and-done to fulfil some chocolate fantasy but a full time partner, women of color are the most beautiful and sexiest creatures on this planet, I would be one of those men staring at you longer than he should with a burning desire in his eyes that says I want you. Thanks for posting your pic, I can't stop staring into your eyes, they are holding me captive.

 

[Statius]

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. Now I can't stop thinking about it. Every time I see a mature older white man. I can't help but think back ever since that night.View attachment 2559336

Write this in a story and publish it here. You have a knack for story telling.

 

[Classy_Ebony]

Write this in a story and publish it here. You have a knack for story telling.

Thank you

 

[Classy_Ebony]

A beautiful post by a beautiful girl, Thanks for sharing, I can only tell you how I feel but I am sure there are many other white men out there who share the same secret desire for a woman of color that I do, I'm not talking about a once-and-done to fulfil some chocolate fantasy but a full time partner, women of color are the most beautiful and sexiest creatures on this planet, I would be one of those men staring at you longer than he should with a burning desire in his eyes that says I want you. Thanks for posting your pic, I can't stop staring into your eyes, they are holding me captive.

Thank you for taking the time to reply. I'm flattered