There’s this one night that still gets my heart racing every time I think about it. It was a wild Saturday at this packed club downtown, the kind of place where the music’s so loud it pulses through your bones, and everyone’s just a little reckless. I was 24, single, and riding a high from dancing and a couple of tequila shots. That’s when I met him—a tall, gorgeous Black guy with a smile that could melt you and a body that screamed trouble in the best way.
We’d been eyeing each other on the dance floor, grinding close, his hands on my hips, my ass pressed against him. He was bold, whispering in my ear about how sexy I looked in my tight red dress, and I was eating it up. His name was Tyrone, and the way he moved, all confidence and heat, had me hooked. After a while, he leaned in and asked if I wanted to “get outta here for a minute.” I knew what he meant, and fuck, I was game.
We slipped into the club’s bathroom, one of those grimy single-stall ones with a flickering light and a lock that barely worked. The second the door clicked shut, he pulled me against him, kissing me hard, his lips full and hungry. My hands were all over him, feeling the hard lines of his chest through his shirt, then lower, where I could tell he was packing something serious. I dropped to my knees, the tile cold against my skin, and unzipped his jeans. When I pulled him out, I gasped—his dick was big, thick, and already hard, the kind of cock that makes you want to worship it.
I looked up at him, his dark eyes locked on me, and I went for it. I wrapped my lips around the tip, swirling my tongue, tasting him, and he let out this low groan that made my pussy throb. I took him deeper, my mouth stretching to fit, sucking him slow at first, then faster, my head bobbing as I worked his shaft. My hands gripped his thighs, feeling the muscle tense under my fingers, and I used one hand to stroke what I couldn’t fit in my mouth. He was so fucking big, it was a challenge, but I loved it—loved the way he filled my mouth, the way his hand tangled in my hair, guiding me without pushing too hard.
“Fuck, you’re good,” he muttered, his voice rough, and that just spurred me on. I moaned around his cock, letting the vibrations hit him, and started playing with his balls, rolling them gently while I sucked harder. Spit was dripping down my chin, my lipstick probably a mess, but I didn’t care. I was lost in it, in the heat of his skin, the salty taste, the way he started thrusting just a little, like he couldn’t help himself. I kept my eyes on him, watching his jaw clench, his abs tighten, and when he warned me he was close, I didn’t pull back. I wanted it all. He came hard, hot and thick in my mouth, and I swallowed every drop, licking him clean while he caught his breath.
We didn’t stay long after that. He helped me up, kissed me again, softer this time, and said, “You’re fucking incredible.” I just grinned, fixed my dress, and we slipped back into the club like nothing happened. We didn’t exchange numbers—it was one of those moments that didn’t need a sequel. But that night, blowing that big Black dick in that dingy bathroom, feeling so naughty and powerful? It’s a memory I’ll never shake, one that still makes me wet when I replay it.
