Moses
The first blush of dawn painted the corners of his high ceiling apartment window, but Moses was already awake, a familiar erection pressing against his silk boxers. It was a solid, undeniable presence, a testament to a year of celibacy and a morning ritual that always began with a hard-on and an even harder workout. At twenty-four, Moses was a sculpture of dark golden brass, 6’2 of toned muscle and graceful power, honed by years of dedication. His dick, thick and uncut, a nine-inch marvel, thrummed with a life of its own. He hadn't touched anyone in so long, the craving a low hum beneath his skin, a hunger specifically for older white men with chiseled muscles and fat, juicy butts, a fantasy he’d nursed for years but never indulged.
He moved into his living room, the wood floor cool beneath his bare feet, and began his routine. Push-ups, pull-ups, squats – each movement a release, a channeling of that raw morning energy. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickling down his chest, highlighting the taut lines of his abs. His mind, however, was already drifting, conjuring images as he pushed through the burn. He saw strong, grizzled hands, broad shoulders, a hint of silver in the hair, a firm, muscular ass. The unknown, the forbidden, pulsed with a thrilling intensity.
After a quick, protein-rich breakfast, he stepped into the shower, the hot water a comforting cascade over his skin. As steam filled the cubicle, he closed his eyes, conjuring an image that had lately consumed his fantasies: an older white man, not frail or soft, but stout and muscular, with a thick beard and calloused hands. He imagined the man’s skin, pale against his own, the rich contrast a dangerous thrill. He pictured a heavy, hairy chest, a wide back, and a truly magnificent, round ass – an anchor for his own powerful thrusts. He was obsessed with the idea, the forbidden fruit of it, the delicious power dynamic. He’d never been with one, but today, something felt like it was shifting. Today was the interview.
As he got ready his thoughts sharpened, focusing on the interview ahead. It was for an intern position, but Moses had a resume that could land him a senior role anywhere. He was educated, brilliant, and possessed a quiet confidence that bordered on arrogance when he wanted it to. But this morning, a different kind of confidence brewed. He imagined the man who would interview him, an older white male, and a shiver ran down his spine. Would he be like the men in his fantasies? Would there be a spark, a recognition of the desire he usually kept locked away? He let his hand drift into his boxers momentarily, his mind a swirl of anticipation and illicit yearning.
He dressed meticulously: a sharp charcoal suit tailored to perfection, a crisp white shirt, a silk tie the color of midnight. He looked every inch the educated professional he was, despite his hood beginnings. As he drove through the city, the concrete jungle gradually giving way to manicured lawns and corporate glass towers, he rehearsed his answers, his mind a steel trap of facts and figures. But beneath it all, the carnal hum persisted, a subtle throb in his groin, a whisper of the older white man he yearned for. He needed this job, yes, but he also needed an experience, a release he craved with an almost primal hunger.
Pierre
The morning air in the suburban cul-de-sac felt stifling, even for an early spring day. Pierre sighed, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. His wife, Christine, had just slammed the bathroom door, leaving him with an echoing silence that only amplified his shame. He’d woken with a flicker of desire, a desperate hope, but the Viagra bottle was empty, and his pathetic, small limp dick had refused to cooperate. Her frustration, a cold wall of resentment, was palpable. Another morning, another failure, another reminder of the creeping boredom and emptiness that hollowed out his days.
At fifty, Pierre was a man built for comfort, if not for sex with his wife. His 5’10 frame was still muscular, a legacy of his younger, more active years, but now it was softened by a layer of middle-aged padding. His chest, arms, and legs were thick with black hair, a primal contrast to the carefully cultivated image of the respectable businessman. And his ass… his bubble butt, as Christine sometimes cruelly called it, was a source of both secret pride and constant discomfort, always straining against his trousers. But it was his tight, pink hole, the one he’d never allowed himself to explore with anyone, that truly throbbed with unfulfilled potential. He’d always thought he was straight, happily married, yet the insidious, tantalizing images of powerful Black men had invaded his mind years ago, growing stronger with each passing day.
He helped send the kids off to school, the forced cheerfulness grating on his nerves, then retreated to his room to dress. As he knotted his tie, his reflection stared back, a man on the brink of something, though he didn't know what. The hungry white slut bubbling at the surface of his personality, usually suppressed by a lifetime of decorum and societal expectations, was clawing to get out.
The drive to work was a familiar blur of suburban streets, but today, his eyes were sharper, more predatory. He found himself scanning the sidewalks, the other cars, searching. Every time he saw a Black man, his dick, usually a slumbering beast, would stir, growing firm beneath his trousers. He’d clench his jaw, fighting the involuntary fantasies, the forbidden images that flashed through his mind – dark skin, powerful bodies, the sheer masculine force. He passed a sharp, dark-skinned man in a tailored suit driving a sleek sedan, and a jolt, an almost physical current, shot through him. The man’s profile, his strong jawline, the hint of an athletic build beneath the fabric – it was an overwhelming sensation, a raw, primal lust he’d never felt quite so intensely. He didn't know him, didn't recognize him, but in that fleeting moment, Pierre felt a connection, a desperate yearning for something he couldn't name.
He pulled into his parking spot, still buzzing from the encounter, and headed upstairs. His first interview of the day was with a young man named Moses. He glanced at the resume, impressed by the accolades, but his mind was still on that fleeting vision on the road, that undeniable pull.
The Interview
Moses walked into the office, his heart beating a steady rhythm against his ribs. Pierre rose to greet him, a polite smile on his face, but Moses felt the immediate shift in the air. The man was exactly what he’d pictured, and more. Pierre was older, muscular, with that distinguished salt and pepper hair and facial hair. His suit, though professional, couldn't entirely mask the underlying bulk of his body, the hint of a formidable ass. Moses saw the dark hair peeking from his shirt collar, the thick arms, and felt a quiet thrill. This is it, he thought, a sense of destiny settling over him.
Pierre extended a hand, firmly shaking Moses’s. "Moses, a pleasure to meet you. I'm Pierre." His voice was deep, a little gravelly, and Moses felt a jolt pass through him at the contact. He tried to remain composed, but his gaze lingered for a fraction too long, sensing something in Pierre’s own eyes, a flicker he couldn’t quite decipher.
"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Laurent," Moses replied, his voice smooth and confident. He sat opposite Pierre, maintaining eye contact.
As the interview progressed, Pierre found himself increasingly captivated. Moses's resume was, indeed, exceptional – a litany of academic achievements and extracurricular leadership. He answered every question with intelligent insight and articulate thought. But it wasn't just his qualifications that held Pierre's attention. Moses possessed an undeniable magnetism, a quiet power that hummed beneath the surface. Pierre kept trying to focus on the words, on the job, but his eyes kept drifting. The way Moses's suit stretched across his broad shoulders, the subtle bulge of his biceps, the flawless, deep golden skin. He’s the man from the road, Pierre realized with a jolt, the one who made my dick ache. A wave of heat washed over him, a mixture of desire and self-recrimination. He was a married man, for God's sake, but the hungry white slut was now practically roaring inside him. He found himself imagining Moses's hands, strong and long-fingered, on his hairy chest, exploring the curve of his ass.
Moses, for his part, was acutely aware of Pierre's lingering glances. He could feel the unsaid words, the unspoken desires. Pierre's initial reserve was slowly melting, replaced by a charged intensity. He saw the way Pierre's eyes would dart from his face to his shoulders, then back again, a subtle tracing of his form. This was it. This was his chance. He finished answering a question about team leadership, a polite smile on his face.
"Well, Moses, your qualifications are certainly outstanding," Pierre said, trying to regain his professional composure. "I think that's all the questions I have for you." He stood up, signaling the end of the interview.
Moses rose, mirroring Pierre's movement. He held out his hand again. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Laurent. I’m very much looking forward to hearing from you."
As their hands clasped again, Moses felt a surge of courage, a daring impulse. He leaned in, just slightly, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive murmur that was only for Pierre’s ears. "I assure you, Mr. Laurent, I excel at filling… challenging positions. And I come particularly well-equipped for the task." He held Pierre’s gaze, a knowing glint in his dark eyes, a subtle nod to the magnificent package he carried.
Pierre froze, his hand still gripping Moses's. The innuendo landed like a thunderbolt, explicit yet veiled. He felt a blush creep up his neck, a combination of shock and intoxicating thrill. His dick, which had been steadily growing throughout the interview, now felt like a rock-hard monument in his trousers. He couldn't speak, could only stare, the image of Moses's 'equipment' flashing vividly in his mind. The boldness, the sheer audacity of it, was utterly intoxicating. He pulled back his hand finally, his brain reeling. He knows. He knows what I want. This wasn't just an intern. This was an answer, a dangerous, thrilling escape.
"Thank you, Moses," Pierre managed, his voice a little hoarse. "We'll be in touch."
Moses gave a confident, almost playful smile, and walked out, leaving Pierre standing there, heart pounding, blood roaring in his ears. He was shaking. He looked at the empty chair where Moses had sat, the air still thick with his scent, and made his decision.
Later that afternoon, Moses’s phone buzzed. He saw the unknown number, a smile already forming on his lips. He answered. "Hello?"
"Moses? This is Pierre Laurent. I'm calling to offer you the internship. We’d be delighted to have you join us."
A thrill shot through Moses. "That's wonderful news, Mr. Laurent! Thank you, I gladly accept." He hung up, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. The game had just begun.
