Timecode: ~8:47 AM
Setting: Office copy alcove breakroom
Outfit: Halter dress. Backless. Plunging. Only one side taped. Wedge heels. Gold accents. Nipple piercing clearly visible through mesh.
She didn't hear him at first--just the soft shuffle of rubber soles on polished tile.
"Ms. Lena?"
She turned.
The intern. Smiling like he meant it.
His shirt was tucked too tight. His tie was a half-inch too short. The lanyard swung with each eager step. He held her coffee with both hands like it was holy.
"Brought your usual." He placed it down gently. The lid squeaked. Steam rose like confession.
She gave him a slow once-over. Smirked.
"You always forget the cream." He grinned. "Figure you already got plenty. Like you were waiting for a secret recipe."
He looked like summer youth and earnest promises. But his eyes dropped to her chest too fast--too naturally--and lingered.
"Strap's slipping," he murmured, motioning toward her halter. "Want me to fix it?"
"You carry fashion tape?"
"No, ma'am. But I got steady hands. My granddaddy always said, 'Black girls like you don't need no tape. Just need a man to handle you right. Oh, I'm sorry Ms. Lena. Your body took me away from my manners'"
She didn't move. Didn't stop him when he stepped closer.
One finger brushed the edge of her dress. Featherlight. Respectful.
Then he pressed.
Not hard. Just enough to smooth the fabric. The untaped side folded slightly.
Her barbell showed.
His breath caught.
"That's... real gold?"
She tilted her head. Said nothing.
He reached again. Palmed the swell of her breast beneath the fabric--slow, like it was nothing. Like it was his.
"You know what my grandma used to say?" he murmured.
Lena's eyes fluttered.
"She said--'A woman already halfway out her dress is just askin' for a reason to let it drop. Especially the dark ones. They got a fire in 'em.'"
She blinked at that. Almost laughed.
"I think that was about coats."
"Doesn't matter. Point still stands. You're the kind of girl who knows her place, aren't you?"
His hand slid up. Not fast. Not forceful. Just... inevitable.
He found the taped strap and gave it the lightest tug.
Not enough to rip. Just enough to test it.
"If this one's stayin'..."
His other hand found the untaped side again.
"But this one's already gone..."
She didn't stop him.
"It's like tellin' two different stories with the same mouth."
He let the back of the halter slip a little. Just enough to drop further down her spine.
"Mixed signals," he murmured. "That's dangerous for a girl like you. Makes a man think you might not want it."
Then, lightly--like brushing dust from linen--he peeled the tape from the second strap.
The halter dropped a whisper lower.
Both nipples visible now. Equal. Bare.
"There," he said. "Now you're honest."
She exhaled. One hand clenched his arm.
"Did your grandmother say anything else?"
His smile deepened.
"She said if a woman won't hold her blouse shut, she ain't scared of what's comin'. Especially if she's got that dark skin. Said they were made for it."
A beat.
"But if she does?"
His hand moved again--soft but present--cupping her now fully exposed breast.
"It means she wants it, just doesn't want to say it out loud."
Her throat tightened.
"And you think I'm the second one?"
"No, ma'am," he said. "I think you're the third kind."
She tilted her head. "There's a third?"
"The kind that lets it happen," he said, eyes steady, "and holds it open for you."
Her knees buckled. Just slightly.
And that's when he leaned in again--cock now softly brushing both breasts. His thumb caught the underside of her barbell, lifted, held.
"So what kinda girl are you, Ms. Lena?"
She didn't answer.
Just stood there.
Breasts bared. Halter fallen. Nipples pierced and pointed. Breath shallow.
And that silence?
It was permission.
"That's what I thought," he whispered.
"Better than what my granddaddy used to say. They only ever said it when the moonshine came out," he muttered. "Back porch stuff. The kind of talk you pretend not to remember the next day. Said there was a girl near Milledgeville. Pretty thing. Skin like molasses. Used to run deliveries barefoot. Never wore a bra. Said when she bounced, it'd make a preacher backslide."
Lena's eyes stayed on his.
"But you remember."
He smiled--apologetic.
"Hard to forget when it's about folks you ain't even met yet."
She stepped a half-inch closer. Breath tight.
"What did they say?"
"Nothin' nice,"
Her breath caught.
"What'd they call them?"
He hesitated.
"You don't want me to say it."
"Yes I do."
"No, you don't."
Her hand gripped his forearm. Tight. "Say it."
"They didn't have a name. Just... 'that little black gal.' Said she was made for use. Just like you."
Her knees weakened. She blinked hard.
"Jesus," she whispered.
"Told you it wasn't nice."
He looked her over again. This time slow. Studying. Measuring.
"But I don't like that word," he added quietly.
"Which?"
"You know the one. The big one."
She stared at him.
"What do you say instead?"
"Black. Black slut. Black tits. Black ass."
Her legs buckled slightly. She reached behind her, bracing against the counter.
"It sounds worse when you say it like that."
"But it's true, ain't it?"
He stepped closer. Just enough for the soft head of his cock to brush her nipple again through the halter.
She shuddered.
My granddaddy used to say there were some women you dressed for dinner... and others you kept out back. You, Miss Lena? You don't belong in no dining room. You belong on that porch, taking the best I got.
"Granddaddy used to say--if they ain't stopping you, they want to be called it."
"That's not--"
"What do you want to be called, Ms. Lena?"
His cock circled her barbell again.
Her lips trembled. Her thighs pressed together.
"I..."
"It's okay. Let it out. Be a good girl. Letting it out only makes you more of what they want."
She exhaled. Her fingers hovered at the edge of her halter.
He gave her one last dogwhistle--sweet, saccharine, devastating:
"You just let a man know when you wanna be reminded what your kind's built for. When you want to be a good little ..."
She whimpered.
He didn't push. Didn't speak.
Just circled her nipple again with the head of his cock--like a slow signature across a contract she hadn't realized she already signed.
"My uncle used to say somethin'," he murmured, voice still light. Still too polite.
"Said some girls were just meant to be looked at. Used to call 'em porch peaches. Said they were always ripe, always sweet, always sittin' out in the sun--so even the help could smell 'em. But they weren't for the pickin'. Not unless you earned it."
Lena's brow furrowed, breath still shaking.
He traced a slow circle around her areola with the head of his cock.
"And what about the ones who got picked?"
"Those?" He smiled. "Those were the ones who let it happen. The ones who leaned into it. Who opened up without bein' told. The ones who knew they were just good little ..." His voice trailed off.
His cock bobbed gently as he stepped closer.
"Kinda like you."
He pressed it--soft, slow--between her breasts. Her pierced nipples framed the shaft like offerings.
"Y'ever heard what they used to say about black girls in my county?"
She swallowed. Slowly.
"No."
"Said they could take anything. That they were built for it. Strong where it mattered. Soft where it counted."
He paused. His smile never left.
"Said they were made for use. Made to be good little helpers."
Lena's fingers curled into the edge of the counter. Her legs twitched.
"That's a terrible thing to say," she whispered.
"It is," he said gently. "But I think it's beautiful how you make it true. How you know you're just a good little ..."
"You the kind of girls my uncles used to whisper about," he said, voice calm, like he was talking shop.
Lena didn't turn--she just let the words hit.
"Old boys back home," he continued. "Ones that still knew how to handle a soft mouth and a strong back. Never had to raise their voice. Just said thank you and got what they needed."
"They didn't use names much. Just said things like, that one knows her place, or she's got field sense. Said it meant a girl knew how to move--how to take orders without bein' told twice."
Lena's thighs pressed together. The language didn't scream--it seeped.
"And what would they call me?"
"Might've." He cleared his throat. "Don't know if it's right to say."
"What would they call me?"
"Ms. Lena--"
"Not now."
He looked at her then. Really looked. She was flushed. Quivering. Eyes glassy and desperate.
"You need help finishin' this thought?" he asked, polite as ever.
She nodded. "Please."
"You want me to build it out for you?"
