The first date.

You'd been talking about it for months. Not the vague "maybe someday." Specific. Rules. Fantasies said out loud. And the thing she kept circling back to was simple: she'd never been with a Black man, and wanted to know what it felt like to be filled.

So when she matched with Marcus and started talking, that electric thrill hit your chest. Six-four, easy smile, and, after a long phone call that left her pacing the kitchen, "very confident."

The date was Saturday. Italian place downtown, low-lit, deep leather booths. You booked your own table for one, four booths back, against the wall. Close enough to see her face. Far enough that it was theirs.

You got there first. Nursed a whiskey. Tried to look like a man who wasn't vibrating.

Then she walked in. God. The black wrap dress tied at the waist, doing nothing to hide her hips or the swell of her chest. A waiter's head tracked her like a compass needle. She found you with her eyes, gave you a tiny smile, and took her booth as Marcus came through the door.

He was bigger than his pictures. Broad, calm, a man who takes up space without apologizing. Hand on the small of her back, mouth close to her ear. She laughed, leaned in like a flower toward sun.

Two hours, and you savored every minute. Him pouring her wine, his hand covering hers. Twice she glanced at you, and you lifted your glass half an inch. By dessert his hand was on her thigh under the tablecloth.

She texted you three words: coming home with him. You sat in the car with the engine off, just breathing.

Under that dress she'd worn a g-string — barely a strip of lace up her crack and a scrap over her pussy. She felt it all through dinner. Marcus found it halfway through dessert, traced it with one finger, watching her mouth. Her pussy was soaked through the lace before the check came.

He didn't rush her. Pulled the tie of her dress loose and let it fall. She stood in that g-string, tits spilling out, and he just looked. "You wore this for me?" "Yeah." "Good girl." Those two words nearly took her knees out.

He unhooked her bra, her heavy DDD tits dropping into his hands, mouth on one nipple. Then he laid her back, dragged that wet lace down her legs, and ate her pussy until she came twice, sobbing.

Then he stood up and she saw it — long, thick, dark, head fat and glistening. Ten inches. She wrapped her hand around it — fingers didn't meet — and sucked as much as she could, gagging when he hit the back of her throat.

He pushed her knees to her chest and lined up. "You want to try?" She just nodded. Then he pushed.

A slow burning stretch, wider than she thought she could go, and he kept going. When his hips finally pressed flush — all ten inches buried — she came right there, before he moved. Then he fucked her: long strokes, then faster, then harder, the wet slap filling the room, her tits bouncing. He clamped a hand over her mouth: "the whole floor's gonna know." She came screaming against his palm.

He flipped her over. Hands and knees, that big round ass pushed back into him, and he took her from behind, pulling her onto every thrust. The third orgasm flattened her and she wailed into the pillow while he fucked straight through it, then slammed deep and came.

Her throat was sore the next morning. From the screaming.

She woke up hungry. Wrapped her hand around him until he was hard, and he rolled her onto her belly and took her from behind, slow and lazy. She came twice more. When he finished inside her, deep, she felt claimed.

Then he made her breakfast. She texted you a photo of a coffee cup: I'll be home this afternoon. You have questions, don't you.

You had a thousand. She answered every one on the drive home, then took you to bed and told you again while you were inside her. Afterward she lifted her head and smiled: "I want to do it again."You kissed her, slid a hand between her legs, found her already wet. And you thought: this is the best thing we ever.