BBC Security
She asked for more; he made sure she got all she could handle
⚠️ Content warning: Explicit sexual themes and strong language.
Cassandra started noticing Xavier on the days she didn’t want to—when the morning was too loud, when the office lights felt like interrogation lamps. He was the steady thing in a building that kept reinventing its emergencies: a late courier; a badge that wouldn’t scan; a VP who didn’t know how to hold a door.
Xavier held doors. He did it without the flourish of a “ladies first,” without the theatrics of a bow. Just a palm, a nod, and that little pull of his mouth that lived somewhere between smile and secret.
They’d been friendly. A few shared coffees, a handful of jokes about the elevator that stuck every third Thursday. Once, when she spilled a latte across her blouse, he keyed open the executive washroom so she could rinse off and breathe for a minute. “Remember this when you’re running this place one day,” he said. She laughed then. She remembered it now.
That was before she went down the rabbit hole.
A week ago, one glass of Tempranillo turned into two, a boring documentary on Africa turned into “related searches,” and then, somehow, a string of videos she would not be bringing up at brunch. They felt like discovery and dare in equal measure. The algorithm kept handing her the same idea in different bodies. She clicked, then clicked again. Heat collected in her, slow and ridiculous, like the flush from too much sun.
She woke the next morning with the stale-sweet taste of midnight curiosity and a very clear question she’d never asked herself out loud: What would it be like? Not the cartoonish angles of those videos, not the performance—but the weight of it, the stretch, the surrender. The particular appetite in her locked onto a particular person: Xavier, with his careful hands and hurricane-proof calm. Speculation turned into focus. Focus turned into plan.
By Wednesday, she’d convinced herself that the invitation had been there all along, hovering under their banter. She didn’t doubt his interest. She did wonder about the line between fantasy and foolishness, and which side of it she intended to stand on.
“Late night?” he asked, that evening, as she swiped out at 8:47 p.m. The lobby was mostly glass and ghosted reflections, the winter sky pressing its face against the windows.
“Deadline,” she said. “You?”
“Double shift. Someone called out. I’m here until the witching hour.”
“Witching hour is three a.m.,” she said, and he tilted his head, amused. He wore the kind of smile that felt like a private joke you could earn if you asked right.
“The biggest challenge is not falling asleep,” he said.
The building hummed—a low, electric purr that rose from the elevators and settled in the vents. Cassandra looked at him the way she’d practiced in her bathroom mirror: level, intent, a little playful. She watched the way he did something similar back—how his attention moved over her like a hand without touching.
“Can I ask you something dangerously direct?” she said.
“You can,” he said, without a beat. “I reserve the right to laugh or say no.”
“Fair. And maybe this will give you something to think about to help keep you awake,” she said.
She stepped closer—not enough to be obvious to the cameras, but close enough to smell the clean, peppery pull of his aftershave. “I’ve been thinking about you,” she said, her voice going softer than she planned. “More than is normal for someone who checks my badge.”
“That’s flattering or concerning,” he said, mouth hitching. “I’ll take flattering.”
She took a breath, felt the heat chase itself up her chest. “And… I’ve been curious.” She let the word hang. “About you. About… what it would be like.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw—not tension, exactly. Awareness.
“Cassandra,” he said, her name a slow press of syllables. “Curious is a big neighborhood. Where exactly are you trying to move?”
She appreciated the care in that: not coy, not crude. An invitation to be clear.
She kept her eyes on his. “I’m not here for a boyfriend. I’m not here to play reckless. I am—” She laughed under her breath, embarrassed and bold at once. “I am here because I want to feel something I haven’t felt before. And yeah, I’ve been watching things that put ideas in my head.” She gave him the truth of it. “I’m wondering if the ideas are better in practice.”
Silence, but not empty. The air between them tightened like a drawn curtain.
He didn’t step back. He didn’t step in. His gaze dipped, briefly, to her mouth, then returned to her eyes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough to feel private in the cavernous lobby.
“I can appreciate a woman who—one—is willing to try new things, and—two—is brave enough to go for it,” he said. “I like clear. I also like the respectful way you asked. This is your workplace, and it’s mine. If we’re talking about anything, it happens off the clock, on equal footing, and only if we both feel good about it in the light of day.”
She nodded, relief loosening something in her.
“And,” he added, humor flickering, “since you didn’t quite ask—yes. I represent my race very well. I’m not a video—that’s performance. I’m a person. If you want the experience, understand this: I lead, you follow. Consent stays clear and present; I’m not here for buyer’s remorse after the fact. You came to me because you want this—all of it.”
“Yes,” she said, too fast. Then, steadier: “I want the full experience.”
He studied her for a beat, like he was checking the edges of his own interest. “Then here’s my counter: finish your work week. If, on Friday, you still feel the same, we get a drink—somewhere not here. We talk. And if the vibe is right, we find a place close by, and we take our time.”
Cassandra hadn’t realized her shoulders were tense until they loosened. The plan felt like a clean line drawn on a map.
“Friday,” she said.
“Friday,” he echoed.
She turned to go, then hesitated. “One more dangerously direct thing?”
He arched a brow.
She took out her phone and slid it across the desk. “Let me have your number just in case I chicken out.”
He glanced at the screen, tapped in his number, then called his own so he’d catch hers. When he handed it back, Cassandra saw the contact name he’d typed: BBC Security. She looked up—secret-smile. “I’ll text you the bar,” he said. “You can chicken out if you want. No hard feelings.”
She wanted to say I’m not a chicken-out kind of woman. But then she remembered the videos that started her down this path. If Xavier was telling the truth, maybe she should think twice about biting off more than she could chew. The admission sat in her mouth like a dare.
“See you Friday,” she said, and left before she could overthink the echo of her footsteps or the way her skin felt too tight.
—
Friday arrived with two meetings that should’ve been emails and one email that should’ve been a hug. By five, the building had that end-of-week looseness—people laughing too loudly, the break room smelling like burnt popcorn and relief. She changed in the downstairs restroom: a black slip dress that behaved in daylight, heels that would behave until midnight. Brick-red lipstick that said she’d thought about it and then pretended she hadn’t. A light mist of jasmine at her throat, something warmer—amber and skin—at her wrists.
Xavier waited at the bar he’d texted—a quiet place with booths deep enough to keep secrets, bass-forward neo‑soul rolling low under the clink of ice and the hush of conversation. Citrus oils flashed when the bartender peeled a rind; rosemary brushed a glass and let the room smell expensive. He stood as she approached. He wore a dark bomber over a slate henley, easy on his shoulders, watch face catching the light; charcoal chinos and clean black boots grounded it. Up close he smelled like clean soap, black pepper, and cedar. His eyes did that flicker again: noticing without lingering. She caught the quick inhale when the jasmine on her skin reached him. He made room.
They talked. It was easier than she’d expected, and slower. The booth leather creaked when they shifted; the song changed to something with a lazy snare and a patient bassline. He ordered bourbon neat; she returned to Tempranillo, the same grape that had started her trouble. They split lemon‑pepper wings and a bowl of shoestring fries that came hot and reckless with salt. He asked what she did when she wasn’t working and listened like he actually wanted to know. She learned he ran on early mornings and spent Sundays trying to perfect his favorite surf‑and‑turf dish; he swore by cast‑iron and too much butter. He made her laugh. She made him laugh. The thing under the conversation kept its steady drumbeat.
When she finally circled back to why they were there, her voice didn’t wobble.
“I want to feel stretched,” she said, flushing but holding his gaze. “Full. Overwhelmed. I want to know what it’s like to take more than I think I can—and keep taking it. Can you do that for me, Xavier?”
“I can work with that,” he said, gentle. “You know what they say—once you go black.”
“Is that what they say?” she murmured leaning into the stereotyped comment, sliding her hand over his. “Show me.”
Her pulse quieted instead of spiking—a clean, surprising calm. The decision felt like the click of a seat belt: snug, inevitable. You asked for this, she told herself. Time to live it.
He settled the check. Outside, the city felt like a held breath. The air had that new‑winter bite that made everything sharper. He didn’t reach for her. She didn’t reach for him. They walked side by side to the car stand, sleeves brushing just enough to make heat shiver through her. Choosing felt different than being chosen; the old habit of shrinking flickered—and went dark.
The ride was quick. The hotel lobby greeted them with polished stone, low lamps, and the hush of money. He nodded to the desk like he still belonged and booked a room without fuss. Elevator mirrors caught their reflections—two people looking calmer than they felt.
On the twelfth floor, the hallway was quiet carpet and soft light. At the door, he paused. “Last chance to chicken out, Cassandra.”
She took a quick inventory—call a second car, ask for dumplings and a dumb movie, go home alone. The options steadied her. Want won.
“Not a chance,” she said, low and sure. “I’m all yours.”
The keycard clicked green. Inside, the room was cool and clean: a wide bed dressed in stark white, an ebony headboard, and teal‑gray curtains breathing over a floor‑to‑ceiling window. Night pressed at the glass; the city’s blue‑neon and sodium‑gold glow leaked through, laying soft bands across the sheets. A chair in the corner, a narrow bench at the foot of the bed, smoked‑glass lamps throwing low pools of light. She set her bag on the bench and turned to him.
She smoothed her palm across the white duvet—cool, hotel‑laundered cotton, the fabric catching faint blue from the window. “Where do you want me?” she asked.
Xavier didn’t respond at first; he just stood there, the same smile on his face. “Okay. Remember—you asked for this.” his hands were moving to his belt. The rasp of leather sliding through metal was obscenely loud in the quiet. He undid the button of his chinos, lowered the zipper, one tooth at a time. The sound was a slow, deliberate promise.
Her mouth went dry.
He pushed the fabric down his hips. The first shock was the sheer weight of him, even soft. A heavy, thick presence that made her breath catch. Then, as he freed himself completely, the second shock—the scale. It wasn’t just long, though God, it was, a serious, imposing length. The base was thick, a dense root of muscle and vein that made her fingers itch to measure the girth. The shaft was a smooth column of deep, rich brown skin, like dark honey in the low light, traced with a map of subtle veins. It tapered only slightly, ending in a broad, mushroom-shaped head that was a shade darker, almost plum. It was a beautiful, intimidating piece of anatomy. A weapon of pure pleasure.
She looked up. “Can we go slow?” she said.
“Of course,” he answered.
Cassandra sank to her knees on the carpet, the hotel’s plush pile soft against her skin. She reached out, her fingers trembling only a little as they made contact. The skin was warm, so warm, and velvet-smooth over the unyielding hardness beneath. She wrapped her hand around the base. Her fingers didn’t touch. A thrill, sharp and electric, shot through her. This is real.
She began to move her hand, a slow, tentative stroke. She used the slickness of his pre-cum, a clear bead already gathered at the slit, to ease the way. Her other hand cradled his balls, heavy and full in her palm. She looked up at him. His expression was concentrated, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on where her small, pale hand worked his dark cock.
“Tell me,” she breathed. “Tell me how you like it.”
“Faster,” he instructed, voice gravel-rough. “Tighter grip at the base. Use your thumb on that vein underneath.”
She obeyed, adjusting her hold, finding a rhythm that made his thighs tense. The scent of him—clean skin, musk, something uniquely male—filled her head. She leaned forward, her lips parting, wanting to taste.
The blunt, broad head nudged her mouth. She opened wider, letting her tongue dart out to lap at the salty-sweet drop gathered there. The taste was clean, musky, him. She tried to take him in, but her jaw protested immediately, a dull ache forming at the hinges. The width was simply too much.
A soft, frustrated sound escaped her.
“Just the tip, Cassandra,” he murmured, his hand coming to rest gently on the back of her head, not pushing, just guiding. “Use your tongue. Get it nice and wet for me.”
She focused, her tongue swirling around the broad crown, licking along the sensitive ridge underneath, painting the entire plum-dark head with her saliva. She worked until it glistened, until her jaw ached with the stretch of accommodating just that much. With a careful, slow push, she managed to fit the swollen head past her lips. The stretch was immense, filling her mouth completely, pressing against the roof. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked, her tongue flattening against the underside.
A deep, gratified groan tore from Xavier’s chest. “Yeah. Just like that. Damn, your mouth feels good.”
She sucked and licked, her hand working the shaft in tandem, a messy, wet rhythm. Her own cunt was throbbing, a hot, empty ache growing between her legs. She was drowning in the sensation of him—the taste, the weight on her tongue, the sound of his pleasure above her.
After a few minutes, his hand tightened slightly in her hair, pulling her back. A string of saliva connected her lips to his slick cock. “Enough,” he said, his breathing ragged. “My turn. On the bed. On your back.”
She climbed onto the mattress, the cool sheets a shock against her heated skin. She lay back, watching as he shed the rest of his clothes. His body was a sculpture of lean muscle and dark skin. He came over her, kneeling between her spread legs. He hooked his fingers in the sides of her panties and pulled them down, tossing them aside. He didn’t remove her dress, just pushed the hem up to her waist, exposing her completely to the city’s ghost-light.
He looked at her, his gaze hot and possessive. “You’re soaked already.”
“For you,” she said, the words a bare whisper.
He reached down, stroking himself, using the slick from her mouth and his own arousal. He positioned the broad head at her entrance, nudging against her wet folds. The pressure was immense, a blunt, impossible promise.
“Slow,” she reminded him, a plea.
“I remember,” he said, his voice tight with control.
He pressed in, slow and certain, and her lungs forgot their job. Her body resisted, clenching tight around the intrusion, but he was relentless, a steady, inexorable force. Inch by impossible inch, he filled her. She could feel every ridge, every vein, the overwhelming girth spreading her open in a way that bordered on pain before tipping gloriously into pleasure. A choked cry tore from her throat—part shock, part triumph.
“Jesus,” she breathed, the words catching on a laugh she couldn’t quite control. “You’re… a lot. You feel unreal.”
He paused, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust. Her inner muscles fluttered wildly around him, trying to comprehend the invasion. She was stuffed, impossibly full, a sensation so profound it blurred the line between pleasure and overwhelm.
“Okay?” he gritted out, sweat beading on his temple.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Fuck, yes. More. Move.”
He began to move, pulling back almost all the way before sinking in again with that same slow, devastating control. He made patience feel like pressure. The friction was exquisite, a hot drag that sparked lights behind her eyelids. Her heels dug into the mattress, her back arching.
“Xavier… fuck…”
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his pace gradually increasing. Their breathing synced to a low, percussive rhythm. “You’re taking all of it. You wanted to feel stretched? You feel that? You feel how fucking deep I am?”
“Yes! God, yes!”
He shifted his angle, and on the next thrust, he struck something inside her that made her vision whiten. A sharp, electric cry ripped from her throat. He found his flowstate, a deep, punishing pace that hammered against that spot with every plunge. The bedframe started a soft, rhythmic complaint against the wall. Her hands scrambled, finding his forearms, her nails digging into his skin. Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, a spring wound to its breaking point.
A thought flashed through her—not performance, practice; not chaos, control—as the city’s blue glow strobed across the bedsheets like a slow siren. Just as she felt herself teetering on the edge, he pulled out completely, leaving her empty and clenching around nothing, a sob of protest on her lips.
“Turn over,” he commanded, his voice dark with intent. “On your hands and knees. Now.”
Shaking, she obeyed, rolling onto her stomach and pushing herself up. The position felt vulnerable, exposed. He moved behind her, one hand spreading her ass cheek, the other guiding his cock back to her dripping, stretched entrance.
This time, there was no slow preamble. He seated himself with one hard, deep thrust that drove the air from her lungs in a whoosh. She cried out, the sound muffled by the duvet.
“Now that’s tight,” he snarled, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks.
And then he fucked her. Really fucked her. His thrusts became powerful, relentless pistons, slamming into her with a force that shook her entire body. The sound was obscene—wet, meaty slaps, their combined panting, the creak of the bed. Each impact sent a jolt through her, pushing her face into the sheets. The stretch was even more intense from this angle, his cock spearing a new, deeper path inside her.
“This what you wanted?” he growled, his rhythm brutal, perfect. “This fucking wrecking? You feel how I’m splitting you open?”
She couldn’t form words, could only moan, a continuous stream of sound torn from her throat with every driving plunge. The coil inside her snapped, and her climax detonated, a violent, seismic wave that ripped through her cunt and radiated out to her fingertips. She screamed, her body clamping down on him in fierce, rhythmic pulses.
He didn’t stop. He rode through her contractions, his pace turning frantic, animalistic. “Stay with me—right there,” he grunted, voice frayed, control slipping. “Don’t move.”
“Don’t stop,” she pleaded, voice shredded. “I feel you everywhere—finish in me.”
His final thrusts were short, hard, desperate. He buried himself to the root, his whole body going rigid against her back. A low, raw sound broke from him, and she felt the hot, liquid pulse of his release flooding her insides, and a fresh tremor ran through her.
She slid forward off him, un-implaing herself off his thick shaft, and slinked to the floor beside the bed. The carpet was soft, a cool relief against overheated skin. He braced on his forearms, then leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to the curve of her ass. They were both slick with sweat, lungs still chasing the beat they’d set.
“So,” he panted, the word vibrating through her. “Was it everything you thought it was going to be?”
She didn’t answer right away. She reached back, fingertips skimming the tender heat, mapping the afterglow he’d left behind. The new architecture of her pussy’s shape.
She let out a small, breathy laugh and glanced over her shoulder. “Security Officer Xavier, I do believe you left something wide open on your last round.”
He shifted beside her, hooking a hand under her knee and lifting her leg gently out of the way.
“Well,” he said, voice low, “let’s see if we can seal that breach.”
“Oh God,” Cassandra exhaled, bracing herself.
She realized the bravest part hadn’t been wanting—it was choosing. And now that the door was open, she wasn’t in a hurry to close it.
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A bold ask meets a calm yes on a winter night off the clock.
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"The new architecture of her pussy's shape."
Your well constructed story hit my Gee! spot.