Unwillingly Taken By My Black Boss

The following is a work of fiction and is in no way meant to represent real people or events. It is completely written and owned by me, OfStarsAndDreams.

>>>> My erotic stories are generally written on behalf of others and do not necessarily reflect my own interests, fetishes, or personal history. <<<<

>>>This story deals with interracial black dominance imagery. If this offends you, go read something else!<<

Contents (includes possible spoilers): M/m, non-con, rape, blackmail, forced cuckold, manipulation, being put on display, racism, punishment, office sex, oral (m on M), painful oral, throat fucking, verbal and physical humiliation, dirty talk, concept of black superiority, degradation and denigration, anal (M on m), anal creampie, bondage (mild), pain, gagging, whipping, blood (implied), being watched, human sex toy, being overpowered and fucked

Let's begin!

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It all started when I ran into my ex-girlfriend for the first time since we dated in college, back when she decided she'd rather get her pussy forcefully stuffed by a series of random black men with massive cocks than be in a relationship with me. No... that's not quite true, it really started before then. No, not before she got her insides rearranged by some BBC, I mean before I met her at the coffee shop. It started when I lost my job at my old brokerage. I'd made some mistakes on some paperwork and it ended up losing the firm a massive amount of money. I might have kept my position if I hadn't told my boss exactly where he could shove it when he started chewing me out in the middle of the office. But it's an issue of pride at that point, you know? I wasn't about to let someone demean me like that in front of all my coworkers. I wouldn't have had a leg left to stand on if I'd continued working there, I'd have been the damn whipping boy of the whole office. A joke.

My telling him off had the predictable consequences though, ones I really should have thought through. I had been rendered essentially unemployable. None of the local firms would touch me with a ten foot pole. I was scraping the bottom of my savings and my wife was having to pick up gig work just to pay for groceries. She could barely even look at me anymore, let alone share even a drop of intimacy with me. I was in a position where if I didn't do something soon I might lose the house, my marriage... everything. I was drowning.

Which is when I ran into my ex. She was the last person I'd ever wanted to see, especially then when I was at my lowest, and just laying eyes on her made my skin crawl. All I could think about was how she'd turned me into a cuckold, made me wait up nights while she took load after load of cum from groups of random men, even going so far as to crawl back and force herself onto me, riding my face and making me lap up every drop that spilled out of her. I also hated that, even through my seething disgust with her, I couldn't help but be painfully aware of how much more gracefully she'd aged than my wife. Her petite body was still tight and firm, her tits still perked, and the legs under her short skirt were still incredible.

I tried to ignore her. I just wanted to pick up a cheap coffee with the money I didn't really have to spare and get out as fast as possible, before she saw me. But I didn't have such luck. She caught me while I was waiting in line, her voice immediately clear over the chatter in the coffeehouse.

"Joel? Is that really you?"

I tried to brush it off, but she came forward, pulling at my arm, forcing me to look at her.

"Oh my god, it really is. I can't believe it's you. I never thought I'd see you again. Here, let me buy you a coffee, it's the least I can do."

I was immediately confused. None of her reactions made sense based on the woman I'd known, the one who'd enjoyed sadistically crushing my soul under her thighs. So, sure, part of me was curious as to where it would go, and it's not like I couldn't leave if things got weird.

Besides, I was broke, and free coffee is free coffee.

So I ended up sitting down with her and... she apologized. She actually apologized. She admitted she'd been a horrible person to me, had done vile, inexcusable things to me without my consent. I felt like a weight had been lifted from my chest. It was incredible, liberating, vindicating. I'd never thought in a million years I'd hear those words from her.

And furthermore, once she heard about my situation she told me she knew where I could get a job. A firm in the neighboring city had a position for an agent open. It was a bit of a drive, but fuck if I was about to turn it down for something like that. I felt like things were finally turning around for me.

I rode that joy for some time - all through the interview process, getting hired, orientation -- up until about the time I met my new boss, a broker named David. David was good at his job, had the respect of all of his employees, was firm but reliable and would defend his people when the going got tough. All things that sound great on paper, right? Yet something about him made me bristle. I kept getting this feeling like he was constantly looking down on me. Like I was beneath him, or worse an annoyance or an inconvenience. Sometimes I'd catch these glimpses of an expression from him, one that told me he was looking at something dirty, like I was a worm spoiling his otherwise perfect office.

Which was made all the worse by the fact that he was black. Because of course he was -- the position had been recommended by my ex after all, a known miscegenationist. On the other hand, I'd been raised by strong-willed, true American folk who'd been plenty vocal about the place of black men in our society, and I couldn't stand the feeling that this man, this black man, was looking down on me, like I was less of a man than he was. And the more perfect David seemed to be, the more it sat unwell in my gut, a building boiling resentment that gnawed away at me more each day.

David never made mistakes. His paperwork was flawless. He never lost his temper. He would work out in the office gym before his shifts, and sometimes I'd catch glimpses of his perfected body in a tank top and gym shorts as he finished his sets, charcoal dark skin glistening with sweat while he headed for the showers. The women in the office -- of which there were plenty, realty work being what it is -- would show up early just to see it. Sometimes I'd even see him leaving with one. I can admit now, in hindsight, that I was jealous, and that I hated the way it made me feel about my own less than rock hard arms and the flabbiness in my sides, and I redirected that self loathing toward him. I convinced myself that it was his fault I felt this way, and I hated him for it.

Which is why I started complaining about him to my friends in the group chat. Started sending pictures of monkeys in suits and watermelon memes, denigrating thugs and hip-hop. Cursed him out every time he scolded me for making some trivial, inconsequential mistake.

It was stupid. So incredibly stupid.

The story really tells itself after that. I left my desk to go grab some papers from the printer and got caught up in a conversation with another agent. When I got back to my desk I found David, sitting on the edge of it, spinning my phone in his hands. He held it out to me, his face unmoved.

"You should really learn to lock your phone," he said, standing and dusting himself off. "I came by to pick up the Walton accounts folder. I'll need to see you in my office now. Don't bother trying to erase the evidence. I've already sent copies to myself at multiple locations. Don't make a fuss."

My heart sank. How could I have been so dumb? How did I forget my phone on my desk? I needed this job. I hadn't even begun to recover. We still had debts to pay off. My mind was racing and I felt like my limbs would collapse out from underneath me as I made my way to David's office. My legs were jelly.

"Close the door and shut the blinds, then have a seat," he said, coolly, as I finally found the muscles to enter his office.

He stared me up and down, gaze hard. "So obviously we're having a bit of a problem."

I started to shake my head, to somehow reject the concept, but his glare made me freeze in place.

"Now, your work has been fine. Not great, but fine. I can see you being a valuable asset in the future. And you haven't caused any problems for our company. In fact, I'd say our professional relationship has been relatively satisfactory, wouldn't you say?"

I nodded rapidly. "Yes, sir, in fact..."

"So then, what I found on your phone would fall into the realm of our personal relationship, and outside the scope of our workplace?"

My eyes widened. Was he... letting it go?

"Just to be clear, I could absolutely still fire you and make sure you never got to work in this industry ever again. Or perhaps anywhere. And that is definitely where my thoughts first go with this. In fact I'm still fairly inclined to just ruin your racist shithead life. I am not that forgiving. Let me be clear -- I'm proud of myself and my race. I am proud of being a strong black man and I have fought hard for my position in this firm. I do not take your insults towards me, and the black people, lightly."

Any relief I felt immediately vanished, replaced with the sense that my insides were being crushed with a vice.

"There is one other option though," he said, standing and moving closer. "You see, my wife has a... few certain things she likes. One of them being the fact that I've never been that picky about gender. In short, she absolutely loves watching other men sucking my cock. Especially pathetic little entitled white men like you." He was looming over me now, standing in front of me as I sat in the chair.

At this point I froze completely. Did he really just say all that? Was he actually suggesting I suck him off to keep my job? "You can't actually mean..." I started.

"I can absolutely mean that," he said simply, already unzipping his pants and pulling out his already stiffening cock, working it over with one hand as his other hand firmly gripped my shoulder, equal parts horrified and disgusted. "And obviously I won't force myself on you, but I will make this very clear: There is no way you will leave this room and keep your job unless you walk out with a fresh deposit of my cum sitting in your stomach." I could feel his fingers squeezing down into my shoulder, so tight that it hurt.

My insides lurched at the thought. I couldn't. There was no way. I was a straight man, I had a wife. I couldn't do it. The very thought made me want to puke.

But I needed this job. I needed the money. If I refused and he spread those texts around I might not ever find work again, even if I moved across the country. At best I'd be slinging burgers or ringing people up at a gas station. And it was only the one time, right? I could do it this once, get it over with, and try to forget it ever happened.

I must have nodded, or given him some sign of acquiescing, because I felt his grip move from my shoulder to my head, his fingers tightening in my hair and yanking my head painfully backwards. He was already bringing his cock to my lips, now swollen and massive, rubbing the head of it over them teasingly, notably deriving pleasure from my distressed reactions. And when I say massive I mean massive -- the kind of thing I didn't believe existed outside of a porn set, the kind of dick people think of when you say hung like a horse. I felt like he was trying to push an entire can of energy drink into my mouth and, to be completely honest, I was feeling concerned it wouldn't fit.

I was also feeling... well.... extremely inadequate by comparison. It wasn't even rock hard and it was already thicker and longer than what I had on offer, which was, if I were being completely honest, maybe average at best. A small voice in the back of my head piped up, unbidden, saying, no wonder my ex left me for a black cock.

I resisted opening my mouth, clamping my mouth shut against the feeling of his piece against my skin. I couldn't help it. Whatever intentions I may or may not have had couldn't compete with the primal animal instincts to fight back, to refuse. Fuck, I could feel the heat radiating it, smell the animal musk, could even feel the weight of it as it fell across my face. My vision was filled with his glistening black skin, and the idea of taking it into my mouth made my stomach roll.

Unperturbed, David forced his thumb into the space of my jaw, painfully prying my mouth open as he pushed his hips forward, pressing his cock inside my mouth. The girth of his cock did the rest, my mouth achingly forced open wide by the sheer size of it as the weight of his body pressed it down into me and he grunted, breathing out with the feel of it sliding into me, overcoming the physical resistance bit by insistent bit.

That drawn out sequence of moments, when he pushed his cock inside for the first time, felt like eternity. I could feel it on my tongue, slick and smooth, could feel my jaw scream to be forced open for it, could feel it pushing, further, further... and then it was at the back of my throat, yet somehow still going, deeper, deeper, even as I felt my throat constricting down onto it, my gag reflex trying and failing to force it out. I could feel it sliding down into my neck as his hips met my lips, my mouth forced against his shaved, black skin like a deranged lover's kiss, my lower lips pushing into his balls. I continued to gag but his firm grip, his fingers tightly wound in my hair, forced me to stay pressed down onto him, causing my throat to instead clench tight around his cock.

I could hear him moan. "Fuck, I love that feeling, it's like when a girl is getting off while I'm plowing her. Do you like that, babe?"

I didn't have time to think about his words, or I would have been more concerned. Instead my mind was completely preoccupied by him starting to buck his hips. Each motion pulling him out of me, leaving me a brief moment to scramble for air before he shoved it back down my throat, choking and gagging. I could actually feel my throat bulging, tight and sore, each time it fully entered me, and my mouth was beginning to drip with spit.

He paused for just long enough to smear the collecting spit and oozing precum all over my face, smooshing his soaked cock across my features, laughing as I panted and dripped with my own saliva, using my facial features to stimulate his frenum. "This is really all you fucking white boys are good for, you know. You should just give up and leave it all for us better men. Do you think you've ever been able to do this kind of thing to a woman? Do you think that pathetic piece of shriveled meat between your legs could ever hope to completely fill every inch of them like mine can? Stop trying and failing to please your women when all they want is a real cock inside them, filling their pussy with cock and their wombs with strong, black genes. Do you know how many women I've donated my sperm to by now? How I've helped improve the genetic foot print of humanity?"

As he continued speaking he forced his cock back into me again, fast, hard, all in one motion filling my mouth, my throat, overwhelming me with his body as his hand forced my head forward into him to take more, more, more. Again and again. "And do you know how many of them had pathetic little white husbands like you? You're married right? You think your wife would like to know about what you're doing right now?"

I couldn't reply. My mouth was filled with his cock.

"Or maybe you're worried she'd be jealous? Maybe she'd rather be the one sitting there, taking it from a strong, virile man. How long do you think it would be before she offered me up her other hole?"

He kept at it for some time longer, pounding my face while I took it limply, long since having stopped trying to struggle. I could barely breathe, let alone resist him, and all the while he kept using my mouth like a fleshlight, treating my body like some sort of ragdoll, jerking me around at his choosing. I have no idea how long it was until finally I felt his cock start to pulse inside me, twitching and somehow growing even harder, filling my mouth impossibly more than it already had been. His thighs trembled as he moaned and gasped again, his hand tightening in my hair, painfully forcing me to stay still as he shot his load directly into the back of my throat. I could feel the heat pour out of him as he came, grunting and bucking his hips and leaving threads of hot sticky cum to coat my tongue and, as he pulled out, still shooting, across my still wet face, my lips, even my eyes and hair. He laughed to see it, rubbing his cock over my mouth, forcing me to taste it on him, lick it clean, forcing my mouth open so he could run the head of his cock over my tongue like a rag.

It was only then that I realized why he'd only been using one hand to hold my hair. The other was holding his cell phone, pointed directly at me. Those words from before hadn't been meant for me, of course they weren't, I wasn't his fucking babe.

He'd been recording the whole fucking time.

"You have to delete that," I gasped, still trying to catch my breath, my tone giving away my complete desperation.

David actually had the audacity to look surprised at my words. "You're in no position to make demands, crackerjack. I already explained, that's for my wife. She's not exactly here, is she? How else is supposed to enjoy it, you fucking idiot."

He pocketed the phone and started delicately cleaning his cock off with a handkerchief. "Now get cleaned and go back to work before I write you up."

And, to my great shame, I did, grabbing some Kleenex from his desk and skulking away like a beaten dog. I couldn't even look him in the eyes.

When I went to the bathroom to wash my face more properly I couldn't even look myself in the eyes.

I bought a drink from the vending machine but it felt like nothing I did could wash the taste of him out of my mouth, or shake the feeling of him, pushing inside me, again and again and again. My throat and jaw still ached from taking so much in. It was still haunting me when I went to bed that night, laying next to my wife (who had long ago fallen asleep without saying goodnight). All I had to hold myself together was the knowledge that it was over. What was done was done, but now I could move on with my life.

Even so my blood ran cold like ice when David stepped into my office the next day.

"I need the changes I've marked made and everything finalized by the end of the day," he said, dropping a hefty stack of folders on my desk. I barely heard the words. All I could think about was his cock. I had to actively stop myself from staring at his hips. I hated knowing how they felt pressed against my mouth. I hated myself for allowing it. I'm a man, I should have stood up for myself. I should have said no. The job wasn't worth this. I could find other work. Surely working as a fry cook couldn't be worse than that.

I managed to look at the pile he'd dumped on my desk. "I don't think I'll be able to finish this by the end of the day..." I said, uncertainly.

He tsked his tongue and shook his head. "I guess you'll be working overtime then. Bring them by my office when you're finished. I'll still be here." David then leaned in closer, his lips hovering right by my ear, and spoke low, "better get started, crackerjack." He then clapped a hand on my back and walked out with a laugh.

But what could I do? I did the work. It did everything I could to finish up at a reasonable time, but I quickly realized it was a futile effort. I kept at it even as closing time slid past, the office lights dimmed, and all my coworkers went home for the night. It was an hour after I'd normally have been home (my wife never called) when I finally finished up.