I’m staring at her, my heart pounding as she sits there, legs spread just enough to tease. Her red dress is hiked up, showing off those smooth thighs and the black thong that barely covers her pussy. The pink bow on her thong is a cruel joke, a reminder of how she likes to play with me. Her eyes, they’re on me, a smirk playing on her lips as she asks, ‘What kind of man do you want me to flirt with?’ I can feel the heat rising in my face, the humiliation of knowing she’s going to use me, again. Her ass, one cheek exposed, is a taunt, a promise of what’s to come. She’s the one in control, always has been, and she knows it. I’m just her cuck, her plaything, ready to watch her get what she wants. The thought of her with another man, his hands on her body, his cock inside her—it’s a knife twisting in my gut. But I’ll take it, because that’s what she wants. That’s what she always wants.
I want you to flirt with a black guy and you can go all the way with him.