Exclusive Access
Pairing: Trevante Rhodes x Jamie Newberry ( Black female OC)
Summary: When a journalist scores an exclusive interview with a Hollywood star during Fashion Week, she expects to uncover his truths. Instead, she finds her own professionalism being stripped away, question by question, touch by touch, until the only story left to tell is the one written on her body.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, graphic language, dominance and submission, public sex, oral sex, praise, and power dynamic.
request from: @atasteofmir
The air in the private lounge at The Plaza Hotel hung thick with the remnants of champagne and expensive perfume. New York Fashion Week had drawn everyone who mattered to the city, and tonight, after the premiere of his latest indie drama, Trevante Rhodes had agreed to an exclusive with Culture & Style magazine. Jamie Newberry adjusted the strap of her sleek black dress, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. Her notebook felt heavy in her lap, not from its weight but from the significance of this interview.
She'd interviewed celebrities before—A-listers who'd perfected the art of saying nothing while making it sound profound. But Trevante Rhodes was different. Even from across the room, where he stood by the bar talking to a director, there was an undeniable stillness about him. The kind of quiet that made people lean in, hoping to catch whatever wisdom might be floating in his orbit.
He wore a simple black tee that stretched across broad shoulders and defined biceps, paired with dark jeans that hung just right on his athletic frame. No flashy jewelry, no designer labels screaming for attention. Just him, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else but somehow owning the space completely.
Jamie crossed her legs, the slit in her dress revealing the smooth, milk chocolate skin of her thigh. She caught his eye as he turned, and for a moment, the room fell silent. His gaze was unhurried, like he was memorizing every detail of her face before deciding whether to approach.
When he finally made his way over, each step seemed purposeful. He moved with the grace of an athlete, all controlled power and restrained energy.
"Jamie Newberry," she said, standing to extend her hand. "Thank you for making time for me tonight."
"Trevante Rhodes," he replied, his voice deeper than she'd expected, a low rumble that vibrated through her hand as he shook it. His grip was firm but not crushing, lingering just a second too long. "The pleasure's all mine."
He settled into the armchair opposite her, sprawling with an ease that made the expensive furniture look like it had been designed specifically for him. The dim lighting cast shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the fullness of his lips.
Jamie clicked her pen, ready to dive in. "I appreciate you sitting down with me, especially during Fashion Week. I know your schedule must be packed."
Trevante leaned forward, elbows on his knees, bringing them closer. "Fashion Week's just noise. This"—he gestured between them—"is more interesting."
She felt a flush creeping up her neck. "Well, let's talk about your new film then. You play a character who's quite different from your previous roles. What drew you to this part?"
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes roamed over her face, down to where her pen hovered above her notebook, then back up. "You always this nervous before you ask someone to undress for you?"
She laughed, a little too brightly. "I'm not nervous, just professional. And I wasn't aware I was asking you to undress."
"Weren't you?" His lips curved into a slow smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Every question's an invitation to strip something away. The persona, the performance, the armor." He paused, letting the words hang between them. "You're just trying to see what's underneath."
She swallowed hard, her pulse thumping in her throat. "I suppose that's one way to look at it. So what's underneath Trevante Rhodes?"
"Same thing that's underneath everybody." He leaned back, stretching an arm across the back of the chair. "Just trying to figure out how to be seen without being exposed."
Jamie scribbled notes, though her hands were suddenly unsteady. "That's poetic. Is that why you chose this role? For the vulnerability?"
"Maybe." He watched her pen move across the page. "Or maybe I just wanted to work with a director who understands that silence can be louder than dialogue."
"Speaking of dialogue," she said, trying to regain control of the interview, "your character has some powerful monologues. How do you prepare for those emotionally demanding scenes?"
Trevante shifted, bringing one leg up to rest on the opposite knee. The movement drew her attention to the powerful muscles of his thighs, visible even through the denim. "You prepare by living. By paying attention. By letting things in." His eyes met hers again, intense and unwavering. "You let yourself feel what most people run from."
Jamie cleared her throat. "That sounds intense."
"It is." He leaned forward again, closing the distance between them. The scent of his cologne—something woodsy with a hint of citrus—wrapped around her. "But you know about that, don't you? Asking questions that make people uncomfortable. Pushing until you get to something real."
"That's my job."
"Is it?" His voice dropped lower, intimate despite the public setting. "Or is it who you are?"
Jamie crossed her legs tighter, the fabric of her dress whispering against her skin. "I'd say they're intertwined."
"So what question are you really here to ask me?" His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there. "What do you want to know that's not on your list?"
Her mind went blank. Every prepared question suddenly felt superficial, inadequate. "I want to know..." she started, then stopped. "I want to know what keeps you grounded when everything around you is chaos."
A smile spread across Trevante’s face, easing the hard lines of his features and drawing faint creases around his eyes. "Now that's a real question." He considered for a moment. "Discipline. And knowing when to say no to things that don't serve me."
"Like Fashion Week events?"
"Like interviews that are just rehearsed soundbites." He leaned closer still, until she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "But this isn't one of those, is it?"
Her heart fluttered before taking off at a sprint. "I try to make my interviews authentic."
“Authentic.” He rolled the word slowly across his tongue. His gaze dropped to the notebook in her hands before returning to her face. “You know what’s authentic? The way you’re holding that thing like it can keep me out. The way your breath catches when I look at you. The way you want to ask me something personal but you’re afraid of what the answer might mean.”
She couldn’t deny it. He was reading her like she was an open book, and the worst part was that he seemed to be getting every page right.
“And what do you think I want to ask?”
"You want to know if I'm as intense in private as I seem on screen. You want to know if the control I project is real or just performance." He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You want to know what it would feel like to be the one person I don't have to perform for."
Jamie's fingers tightened on her pen. "Those are some assumptions."
“Do you really believe that?” He traced the line of her jaw, his touch sending a spark through her. “Or am I just saying what we both know is true?”
She should have pulled away. Should have reminded him this was a professional interview. But she didn't. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for just a second.
"You're right," she whispered, opening her eyes to meet his. "I do want to know those things."
Trevante's smile returned. "Good. Because I want to show you."
The air between them crackled with possibility, with unspoken desires. Jamie knew she was standing at a precipice, and one step would take her into territory she'd only written about but never experienced.
"Let's finish this somewhere more private," he said, his voice certain.
She nodded, gathering her things with trembling fingers. When they stood to leave, Trevante’s hand settled at the small of her back, warm and reassuring. The touch sent a thrill through her, carrying with it the quiet promise of more time alone together.
They moved through the dwindling crowd, his presence beside her both a shield and a declaration. Jamie could feel eyes on them, whispers following in their wake, but all she could focus on was the warmth of his hand on her skin and the knowledge that this interview was about to become something entirely different.
As they stepped out into the cool New York night, Trevante guided her toward a waiting car, his body close enough that she could feel the rhythm of his breathing.
"You still nervous?" he asked, his lips close to her ear.
Jamie turned to face him, the city lights glittering behind him like a constellation. "No," she said, surprised by the steadiness in her own voice. "I'm exactly where I need to be."
Trevante's eyes gleamed with approval. "Good girl," he murmured, and the words settled deep inside her, a claim she hadn't known she wanted to make.
The car door opened, and he helped her in, his hand lingering on her thigh just a moment too long. As he slid in beside her, Jamie knew that this night would change everything. The interview was over, but the real story was just beginning.
The elevator ride to the rooftop lounge was silent, but charged with an energy that made the fine hairs on Jamie's arms stand at attention. Trevante stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed with the sway of the car. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, and the smell of his cologne made her mouth water.
When the doors opened, they stepped into a space that felt suspended between the city and the stars. The rooftop lounge was semi-private, with low-slung velvet couches, fire pits casting dancing shadows, and a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline that glittered like a field of fallen diamonds. A few patrons dotted the space, but it was quiet enough to feel intimate.
Trevante guided her toward a secluded corner, his hand never leaving the small of her back.
"Is this private enough for you?" he asked, his voice low as they settled onto a curved velvet sofa.
Jamie smoothed her dress, suddenly self-conscious under his intense gaze. "It's perfect. I have a few more questions about your film and your thoughts on fashion."
“Right. The interview.” He settled back into the sofa, one arm draped behind her while his legs opened into a relaxed, expansive stance. The movement was casual. The effect on her was anything but. “Ask away.”
She cleared her throat, trying to regain her professional footing. "Your character in the film deals with identity and belonging. How much of that resonates with your own experience as a Black man in Hollywood?"
Trevante didn't answer immediately. Instead, he watched her. "What do you think happens when a man spends his whole life being told he's not enough, then suddenly the world can't get enough of him?"
Jamie blinked, momentarily thrown. "I imagine it would be... disorienting."
"Disorienting." He rolled the word around his mouth like he was tasting it. "That's a good word. But it's not the whole story." He leaned closer. "It's also liberating. Realizing you don't have to perform for anyone anymore. That you can just... be."
She swallowed hard, her pulse thrumming in her throat. "Is that what you're doing now? Just being?"
"What do you think?" His eyes dropped to her mouth. "Or am I still performing for you?"
Jamie's fingers tightened on her notebook. "I'd like to talk about Fashion Week. You've attended several shows this week. What's your take on the industry's attempts at diversity?"
“Diversity. Yeah.” Trevante’s mouth curved faintly. “They’re just now figuring out what we’ve always known.” His gaze moved over her face, thoughtful and unhurried. “Beauty doesn’t have one look. One shade. One shape. One texture.” His fingers traced the line of her cheek. “It looks like you.”
She managed a small smile. “That’s not very journalistic of you, Mr. Rhodes.”
"Call me Trevante." His thumb brushed her bottom lip. "And since when is journalism about ignoring the truth that's right in front of you?"
Her breath faltered beneath the weight of his attention. "I have a responsibility to my readers."
"And what about your responsibility to yourself?" His hand moved from her face to her knee, warm and heavy through the fabric of her dress. "To acknowledge when something feels right?"
She should have stopped him. Should have reminded him of boundaries, of professionalism. But her body betrayed her, leaning into his touch instead of away.
"Trevante," she whispered.
"Jamie," he whispered back.
The sound of her name in his voice did something to her. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and more alive than she had in years.
"What do you know about Jamie?" she challenged, her voice softer than she intended.
"I know she works too hard. I know she's tired of asking questions that don't matter." His hand slid higher up her thigh, his touch light. "I know she wants to be asked questions for once."
"Like what?"
"Like what makes her pulse race. Like what she thinks about when she's alone at night." His eyes held hers, unwavering. "Like what it would take to make her forget all about her responsibilities and just... feel."
Jamie felt warmth gather beneath her skin, her body reacting before she could stop it. “You’re very confident.”
"Confidence comes from knowing what you want." His fingers traced her inner thigh, dangerously close to the heat between her legs. "And I know what I want right now."
She took a deep breath. "Which is?"
"To finish this interview somewhere even more private." He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "To find out if this sweet little pussy tastes as good as I imagine. To spread you open and taste every inch until you're shaking."
Her eyes grew wide as a soft gasp escaped her lips. "We shouldn't."
"Shouldn't we?" His teeth nipped her earlobe, sending sparks through her. "Or is that just what you tell yourself to keep from getting what you really want?"
Jamie's mind raced, torn between the professional she was supposed to be and the woman she secretly was. "I don't even know you."
"Don't you?" His hand moved higher, and with his other hand, he hooked it around the back of her knee, tugging it and laying it on top of his knee. Her leg yielded easily, opening wider for him. The cool night air from the rooftop ghosted over the heated skin of her inner thighs, making her shiver.
The slit of her dress, once a tasteful accent, was now a frame for his exploration, falling open to reveal how high his hand had traveled, how his dark fingers pressed against the delicate, damp fabric of her panties. They were in their own corner, yes, but the lounge was not empty. A group of women laughed softly by the fire pit, their backs to them, but it would only take one turned head, one curious glance, to see everything. To see the powerful Trevante Rhodes with his hand buried deep under the hem of her dress.
The thought sent fear and excitement through her. "I think you know me better than most people," he continued, his thumb pressing harder, rubbing slow circles over her clit through the soaked cotton. "I think you see past the interviews, past the performances." His gaze was locked on hers. "I think you see the man who's been waiting for a woman like you to stop asking questions and start feeling answers."
She couldn't deny it. There was something about him that felt familiar, like recognizing a part of herself she'd kept hidden away.
"Tell me what you want, Jamie," he whispered, his voice a caress. "No scripts, no performance. Just truth."
Her throat was dry. "I want..." She started, then stopped, the words catching in her throat.
"Yes? Tell me."
"I want to know what it's like," she finally managed, her voice barely audible. "To not be in control every day."
Trevante's expression softened, a look that made him look vulnerable. "Then let me show you."
His fingers slipped deeper beneath the hem of her dress, causing her body to arch into his touch despite herself.
"Right here?" she whispered, her eyes darting around the rooftop.
"Here." His voice was firm, commanding. "Now."
She hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Good girl."
His fingers found the edge of her panties, toying with the lace before slipping beneath. Jamie's breath caught as he explored her inner softness, his touch knowing and confident.
"You're dripping for me," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. He leaned in closer, his chest pressing against her shoulder as his fingers explored the slick heat between her thighs. "This little pussy is soaked. You can pretend this is just an interview, but your body knows the truth. It's begging for me, isn't it? Begging to be touched, to be tasted. To be fucked right here on this couch where anyone could see us."
She could only nod, words beyond her now as he stroked her clit with practiced ease.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
Jamie's eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze. The intensity there stole her breath, made her feel seen in a way she never had before.
"I want you to cum for me," he whispered, his fingers working her clit in tight circles. "Right here. Right now."
Her body locked around the sensation, tension building until she could barely stand it. The low murmur of conversation from across the rooftop, the clinking of glasses, the distant wail of a siren, it all sharpened into clarity. Anyone could turn their head. Anyone could see her dress bunched around her hips as Trevante's fingers worked her swollen clit.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a hypnotic rasp right against her ear. His eyes never left her face, watching her with focus as she came undone. "Let go. Let me feel you squeeze my fingers. Let everyone hear how good this pussy is."
The permission was a match to gasoline. Jamie came apart all at once, the sensation bursting through her in a powerful rush that left her gasping. Her back arched off the velvet couch, a silent scream caught in her throat as she bit down hard on her lip, the coppery taste of blood mingling with the overwhelming pleasure. Her inner walls clamped down around his fingers, a rhythmic clenching that pulsed through her entire body, a wet grip he could feel from the inside out. She was shaking, trembling uncontrollably, her vision blurring into a kaleidoscope of city lights and shadows, all while his gaze held her captive, a silent witness to her unravelling.
As the waves of pleasure subsided, Trevante gathered her into his arms, holding her close as she struggled to catch her breath. The city lights blurred around them, the sounds of the rooftop fading into a distant hum.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice gentle now.
Jamie nodded against his chest, inhaling his scent, his warmth. "More than okay."
He chuckled softly, the vibration rumbling through his chest. He stood, extending a hand to help her up.
Jamie took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. Her legs felt shaky, but his grip was steady, reassuring.
"Where are we going?" she asked as he led her toward the elevator.
"Somewhere we won't be interrupted," he said, "Somewhere I can take my time with you."
As they descended in the elevator, Jamie knew there was no turning back.
The elevator doors slid open onto the main floor, and for a moment, the cacophony of the lobby, clinking glasses, distant laughter, the murmur of conversations, felt like a bucket of ice water on Jamie's overheated skin. The reality of what had just happened on that rooftop crashed into her. Her legs still trembled, the phantom pulse of her orgasm a lingering echo. She was a journalist. A professional. And she had just come undone in public for a man she was supposed to be interviewing.
She pulled away slightly, trying to reclaim her space, her composure. "I—" she started, but her voice was a hoarse whisper, unfamiliar to her own ears. She cleared her throat. "I should probably get going. It's late."
Trevante didn't stop. He just tightened his grip on her hand, his stride unwavering as he led her not toward the main exit, but down a dimly lit corridor branching off the lobby. The air grew thicker, quieter, the sounds of the party fading into a muffled hum. The hallway was narrow, lined with dark wood paneling and illuminated only by recessed lights in the floor, casting long, dancing shadows.
"Going?" he asked. He stopped, turning to face her, and the size of him in the confined space stole her breath. He wasn't touching her yet, but his presence had pinned her against the wall. "We're not done with your interview, Jamie."
She tried to stand taller, to summon the sharp, no-nonsense reporter who had walked into The Plaza an hour ago. "I think we covered the important points."
A smile spread across his face. He leaned one hand against the wall beside her head, caging her in. He didn't touch her, but she could feel the heat from his body. "Baby, you think you're in control here?" he asked as his eyes swept over her face, her body, like he was assessing his property.
"I'm not trying to be in control," she lied, her voice barely audible. "I'm trying to be professional."
"Professional?" He chuckled. "Love, you came all over my fingers five minutes ago where anyone could have seen you. You passed professional about two floors ago." He leaned in closer, his lips just a breath from her ear. "Now you're just a woman who's about to do what she's told."
A shiver drizzled down to her dipping center. Her professional armor was already cracked and shattered. She couldn't find a single word to say.
"That's what I thought," he whispered. He finally touched her. His thumb brushed her bottom lip, which was still tender from where she'd bitten it. "You're a smart woman, Jamie. You know when to stop fighting it. When to let a real man take the lead."
His hand moved down, tracing the column of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, until it rested on the dip of her hip. His other hand came up to her throat, gripping it slightly. "Let me show you what an exclusive interview really feels like."
He didn't wait for an answer. He simply dropped his hand from her hip to her shoulders, his grip firm as he guided her down. The plush carpet of the hallway cushioned her knees as she sank to the floor before him. This was insane. They were in a public hallway. But looking up at him, at the hunger in his eyes, she knew there was no fighting it. She didn't want to.
He kept his eyes locked on hers as he unfastened his jeans, the sound of his zipper loud in the quiet corridor. He freed himself, like a sculpted piece of dark wood, his dick curved prominently, its chocolate-colored thickness demanding both hands to appreciate its full weight. He didn't stroke himself. He just held it, presenting it to her like an offering.
"Open your mouth," he commanded. It wasn't a request. It was an order, delivered in the same low, hypnotic voice that had unraveled her on the rooftop.
Jamie's lips parted instantly, a reflex she couldn't have stopped if she'd tried.
"Good girl." He stepped forward, guiding the head of his dick to her lips. He didn't thrust into her. He made her come to him, made her lean forward and take him in. The taste of him flooded her senses.
He threaded his fingers through her hair, his grip tightening at the base of her skull. "Now," he said, his voice dropping even lower, a gravelly command that vibrated straight to her core. "You're going to show me how sorry you are for trying to leave. You're going to suck this dick like it's the last thing you'll ever taste. And if you do a good job, I might let you feel it inside that pretty little pussy. Do you understand me?"
She could only manage a muffled sound of agreement around his thickness.
"Answer me properly," he insisted, giving her hair a gentle but firm tug. "Yes, what?"
Jamie pulled back just enough to speak, her lips brushing against his tip. "Yes, Sir," she whispered.
"Thatta girl," he groaned, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his entire body. He pushed his hips forward, the curve of his dick forcing her jaw open wider as he slid deeper. The blunt head nudged the back of her throat, and she gagged, a messy, wet sound that echoed in the narrow hallway. Saliva flooded her mouth, dripping from the corners of her lips and down her chin in thick, viscous ropes.
He pulled back just enough for her to gasp a breath before doing it again, harder this time. The wet, choking sounds grew louder as he established a rhythm. Gag. Gasp. Gag. Gasp. Each time he hit the back of her throat, she felt a surge of pride, of purpose. This was her place now. On her knees in a dimly lit hallway, worshipping this man with her mouth.
With his free hand, he hooked his thumb under the hem of his shirt and lifted it, exposing the hard planes of his stomach and the dark trail of hair that disappeared down to where his body was joined with hers. Her eyes, tearing up from the throat-fucking, flickered to the ornate mirror hanging on the wall behind him. In the reflection, she saw it all—her own ruined face, her lips stretched thin and swollen around the thick, dark shaft pumping between them.
She saw him, his head thrown back; she saw the powerful muscles of his ass clench and release with every forward motion, driving that heavy, curved dick deeper into her mouth. The mirror showed the beauty of his hand tangled in her hair, holding her in place for his pleasure. It was filthy, nasty, and the sight of their reflection made her pussy clench. The wet sounds of her mouth being fucked filled the hall, a symphony that was just for them.
He looked down at her. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "So fucking pretty with my dick in your mouth. Pretty sure I like you better this way."
She moaned around him, the sound vibrating along his length, earning a sharp intake of breath from him. He picked up the pace slightly, his thrusts becoming deeper, more forceful. The hallway, the possibility of being caught—it all faded away. There was only him, his voice, his commands, his dick filling her mouth, his taste, his smell. Her world had narrowed to this one perfect, shameful, glorious act of submission.
"Take it all," he commanded, his hips pistoning faster now. "Show me you can handle it."
She relaxed her throat, taking him as deep as she could, tears pricking the corners of her eyes from the effort. She could feel him swelling, pulsing.
"Fuck," he growled, his grip on her hair tightening painfully. "You're gonna make me nut. You want that? Want me to cum down your throat?"
She hummed her consent, eager for it, desperate for his release.
"Then say it," he demanded, his voice strained. "Beg for it."
She pulled back, gasping for air. "Please, Sir," she begged, looking up at him with wide, desperate eyes. "Come in my mouth. Please let me taste you."
That was all it took. Trevante thrust deep one last time. The curved length of his dick forced past her gag reflex, burying itself in her throat. His heavy balls tightened against her chin, and he held her there, his hand fisted in her hair, preventing even the slightest retreat.
Then he was coming. His body went stiff, a deep shudder running through him as his dick pulsed against her tongue. She felt the first hot, thick spurt coat the back of her throat, followed by another, and another. He wasn't just cumming; he was pouring himself into her, his release a relentless flood that filled her mouth and spilled from the corners of her lips. Her eyes watered, tears streaming down her cheeks as she fought to breathe through it, to take everything he was giving her.
Her hands, which had been resting on his thighs, flew to his ass. Her fingers dug into the firm muscle, pulling him impossibly closer, holding him right where he was. She wanted it all. She wanted to feel him lose control. She swallowed around him, her throat working to milk him dry, her tongue pressing against the sensitive underside of his shaft as he continued to pulse and empty himself into her.
When the tremors finally subsided, he remained buried in her mouth for a moment longer before slowly pulling back. She didn't let him go far. Her tongue worked feverishly, cleaning every inch of his softening dick, lapping up the mingled taste of his release and her own saliva. She was determined to draw out every last bit of his pleasure, to worship him until there was nothing left.
He slowly withdrew, tucking himself back into his jeans. He looked down at her, still on her knees, her lips swollen and glistening, and a satisfied smile spread across his face.
He reached down, helping her to her feet. "Now," he said, his voice back to that low, controlled rumble. "Are you ready to finish that interview?"
He didn't give her time to think. With a firm grip on her hand, he pulled her down the hallway, away from the faint light and distant noise of the party. The corridor grew darker, narrower, until they stopped at a plain, unmarked door.
The door swung open to reveal a janitor's closet. The air was thick with the clean, sharp scent of bleach and cleaning fluid, a stark contrast to the expensive perfume and champagne of the lounge. A single bare bulb cast a yellow, unforgiving light over a utility sink, shelves stacked with supplies, and a mop leaning against the far wall. It was cramped, dirty, and perfect.
Trevante stepped in first, pulling her behind him before locking the door.
He turned to her, and the man who had just fucked her mouth in the hallway was gone. In his place was someone calmer.
"You did so good out there," he said, his voice a low caress. "Took everything I gave you."
Jamie looked up at him. "Sir," she whispered.
A confident smile spread across his face. "That's my girl." He leaned down, his lips finding hers in a kiss. This was slow, deep, exploratory. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting the remnants of his own release on her tongue. It was nasty, and it made her knees weak.
His hands moved to the zipper of her dress and slid the dress down her body. The dress pooled at her feet, leaving her standing in just her heels and the soaked panties he'd ruined earlier.
He stepped back, his eyes roaming over her naked body with an appreciation that was almost tangible.
He reached behind her, unhooking her bra and tossing it aside. Her breasts spilled free, the nipples already hard. He cupped them in his hands, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks, drawing a soft moan from her lips.
"Turn around," he commanded softly.
She obeyed instantly, turning to face the utility sink. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties, slowly peeling them down her legs. The fabric was still slick with her arousal, and he brought them to his face, inhaling deeply before shoving them into his pocket.
"Hands on the sink," he ordered.
Jamie placed her palms on the cool, worn porcelain of the sink, her body trembling with anticipation. She heard the rustle of his clothes, the sound of his zipper being lowered, and then the delicious, weighty heat of him pressing against her bare ass.
He didn't enter her right away. Instead, he ran the head of his dick along her slit, coating himself in her wetness. She pushed back against him, a plea for more, but he just chuckled.
"Not yet," he murmured. "First, it's my turn to conduct the interview."
He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his lips brushing her ear. "So," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "We're here today to talk to this pretty little pussy." He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, making her jump. "She's been very vocal tonight. Very responsive. But I want to hear from her directly."
Jamie’s breath stuttered, a wave of humiliation and excitement washing over her.
"You think you're ready for this?" he asked, his fingers still working her clit in circles. "You think you can handle what I do?"
He pushed her over the sink and positioned himself at her entrance, the thick head of his dick pressing against her opening. "I have a few questions for you," he continued, his voice a low rumble. "First question: how does it feel to be this wet for me? To be this desperate to be filled?"
He pushed forward slightly, just enough to stretch her, to make her feel the size of him. A soft whimper escaped her lips.
"Answer me," he commanded, his voice firm. "Or I'll stop right now."
"It feels... good," she managed to gasp out. "It feels right."
"Good answer," he praised. "Second question: what do you want? Be specific."
"I want you," she breathed. "I want you deeper inside me. Please, Sir."
"Please, Sir," he repeated, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I like that. I like that a lot."
With one smooth, powerful thrust, he buried himself deeper. Jamie cried out, her hands slipping on the sink as he filled her, stretched her. He was big, and the sensation of being so full was overwhelming.
He gave her a moment to adjust, his hands gripping her hips, holding her steady. Then he started to move.
His strokes were slow at first, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, each thrust deeper than before. The sounds of their bodies coming together—the wet, rhythmic slap of his skin against hers, his low grunts of exertion, her soft whimpers of pleasure—filled the small space.
Her breasts swung with every thrust, the heavy globes slapping against each other, a lewd, percussive beat that matched the rhythm of his fucking. He reached around, cupping them in his hands, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he drove into her harder, faster.
"Look at this little pussy," he snarled, his voice ragged. He drove into her, grinding his hips to make her feel every inch. "Clamping down on me like you're trying to keep me inside. This pussy was molded to my shape, wasn't it? Made to be ruined and fucked open."
She could only moan in response, her mind a haze.
"Answer me," he demanded, his hand coming down on her ass in a sharp, stinging slap. "Was this pussy made for me?"
"Yes," she cried out. "Yes, Sir. It was made for you."
"Thatta girl," he praised, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more erratic. He was chasing his own release now, and the thought of him coming inside her pushed her closer to the edge.
"Tell me what you want," he commanded, his voice a harsh rasp against her ear, the smell of sweat and bleach filling the cramped janitor's closet. "Tell me you want me to cum in this pussy. Tell me you want to be mine."
"I want it," she sobbed, her body trembling against the cold porcelain of the sink. "I want you to cum in me. Please, Sir. I want to be yours."
With a savage grunt, he hammered home, his heavy balls slapping wetly against her sensitive clit. A deep groan tore from deep in his stomach as his dick kicked deep inside her, the first powerful pulse signaling he was about to lose all control. But just as the first hot spurt of his release painted her insides, he yanked his dick out with a curse. "Fuck!" His hand fisted around his dick, and he aimed it down, his cum spurting in thick, milky ropes all over her pussy lips and her already swollen clit. The hot, wet mess coated her, running down the inside of her thighs.
Before she could even process it, he was ramming back into her, his dick slick with his own cum. The lewd, wet squelch of him re-entering her cum-soaked pussy was the nastiest sound she'd ever heard. He used his own release as lubricant, fucking her with sloppy strokes. The feeling of his still-hard dick pushing his cum deeper inside her, coating every inch of her walls, was what sent her over the edge. Her own orgasm ripped through her, a clenching wave that made her knees buckle. Her pussy spasmed around him, milking him for every last drop as she collapsed against the sink, a shaking, whimpering mess.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight pinning her to the sink, his ragged breaths mingling with her own. For a long moment, they just stayed like that, their bodies still joined.
Finally, he pushed himself up, slowly withdrawing from her. He turned her around, his hands framing her face as he looked into her eyes.
"You wanted an exclusive?" he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "You got it. Now say it. Say it again."
Jamie looked up at him. "I'm yours," she whispered.
@blyffe @transparentphantomface @daddysmoke @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675 @bestleowoman2exist
You so nasty omgggggggg but this was beautiful. I’m scared to do anything In public but big daddy tre makes me wanna try it 😩😩😩😩😩👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽😮💨😮💨😮💨😮💨😮💨😮💨👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽🩷
