Author's Note…

 

This story deals with a taboo genre of erotica dubbed raceplay. It's not for everyone and it's certainly an acquired taste. That said, I think you'll find this particular story to be fairly tame, given those standards. There is some racial language, which is worthy of this trigger warning I'm giving it; but all in all, this tale is a harmless one.

 

The other kink this story deals with is cuckolding. In that aspect, Black Coffee, White Milk serves as a spiritual-succesour to An Invitation to Dinner. If you liked that story and you aren't turned-off by the idea of 'raceplay', then I hope you'll enjoy this one, too.

 

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"Black Coffee, White Milk #1"

 

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So, last Wednesday night, I get a call from Tony Marshall — yes, that Tony Marshall: the one who got fired for the cluster-fuck he made outta the McGreggory account back in the 70’s.

 

…Yeah, him. Cost the company a pretty penny, if you remember that far back. A few Christmas bonuses, too; people took that real personal. Now, speaking strictly for myself here, I thought the guy was set up to fail from the word go. That seemed clear enough to me, but — well, never in my twenty years here has the office rejoiced to watch an exec booted out those rotating-doors. It was a real spectacle, you had to be there.

 

Shit, wait. Before I get carried away, when’s this fucking meeting happening?

 

…Ahuh, okay. Good. We’ve got time, then. Coffee?

 

…You do the honours, then. Make mine black. No sugar.

 

Now, he calls me. Right out of the blue. It’s eleven o’clock at night and I don’t even recognize his voice. Almost hung up for a second. I just kept saying: “when?” And: “what?” Then, finally: ”Tony who?” And just like that, holy shit, it clicks for me: Tony Marshall, the Tony Marshall. African-American bloke, bit of a strange accent. Don't know where from. Haiti, maybe? Lord knows.

 

But, it’s funny: that way old memories sometimes need to be dusted off before you can use ‘em again. Like polaroids kept in a dusty attic.

 

…Right. So, there was some talk going around the office, few years ago, claiming Tony’d been working for a competing agency. Chuckler and Co., I think they said. Forgot. It wasn’t true anyway, so it doesn’t matter much. Other water-cooler sources said he’d drowned himself in gin months back and had subsequently abandoned his marriage to Nyomi. There was partial truth to that, I came to find out, but a lot of hearsay, too. No one really knew what happened. Tony wasn’t the kind of guy you felt compelled to keep professional tabs on. By the end of his time here at the company, most regarded him as bad luck, plain and simple.

 

So, Tony calls me, right, and I’m thinking: what a fucking blast from the past. But… I’m sorry, this story needs a bit of a flashback before I can go any further with it. It’ll be short, I promise. Besides, it’ll give this coffee some time to cool down.

 

Did you ever meet Nyomi? — Tony's wife?

 

…Yeah, her. The secretary: tall, with skin as black as midnight. Hard to forget. She left here not long after Tony did, though on considerably better terms. You remember that going away party the girls had for her? That was something. I don’t recall if you were there or not.

 

…Yeah, right, anyway — a decade ago, just after my first big promotion here, HR turned on the music and told us executives it was time to do the secretary shuffle; that special dance we did about once a year, when the greenest exec on the team fucked the wrong typist. Back before that was a fireable offence, merely getting your dick wet in the company ink.

 

Well, Nyomi danced with three of us executives, before HR found everyone a 'suitable' place to work. First go ‘round, they paired Nyomi up with Bradley Edwards, from accounting. Anyone could have told them that it was terrible idea, but I guess HR never thought to ask. And lord knows, it was. Disastrous.

 

Three days in, Nyomi forgets to put cream in Edwards's coffee by mistake. He throws a folder at the poor girl, then proclaims a distaste for all things black: coffee, as-well as secretaries. And the next morning, HR was forced to turn on that ol' familiar tune.

 

The next go 'round of musical executives, Nyomi shuffles into my office. On our first morning together, she comes in holding a paper cup of coffee, which she must have got from the Greek across the street, and wearing this beautiful, dutiful smile. Hell of a good first impression, I tell you. The coffee had cream in it, but since we'd only just introduced ourselves and there hadn't been time for Nyomi to learn my prefaces, I thought it wasn't worth mentioning. I thanked the girl and she went to work, as did I.

 

…Oh, damn. Thank God we finally ponied up for a decent coffee-maker. This smells fucking great. Still a little hot, though, give it a second longer.

 

So, after something like minutes, Nyomi notices I haven’t drank any of my coffee and asks me about it. Good secretary like that, very attentive. She noticed details. Anyway, you know me: I told Nyomi that I preferred my coffee black, at which point she confided to me the reason why HR had made us execs do a second round. It didn’t surprise me, either. Bradley was an ass, then and now.

 

That same afternoon, I'm preparing for a presentation when Nyomi brings me another cup of coffee. With cream. I assumed the poor thing was simply rattled form her time with Edwards, so I didn't scold her for it. In every other way, Nyomi was the ideal secretary, so I held my tongue for the time-being. How important is coffee, really?

 

…Well, yeah, fair enough. Truth was, regardless of her lapses of memory regarding the coffee, I wanted to keep her. Nyomi was the best secretary I'd ever had, period, end of discussion.

 

So, next morning, it's the same schtick. Milky white coffee. But this time, Naomi's got a shy smile on her face, like she know she's provoking me. Well, I scold her. I was loud, too, no doubt about it, but this was no repeat of the Edwards incident, I swear. I had some restraint. When I was finished, instead of reaching for the mug to promptly make me another coffee, Nyomi bends herself over my office-desk and spreads her legs apart. “Punishment is all I'll understand”, she tells me, is this half-serious whimper. Something just like that: Punishment is all I'll understand. I got shivers… That might have been where my first grey hairs came from, hearing those words come out of her mouth…

 

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(TO BE CONTINUED…)

 

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/3ymuhk/black_coffee_white_milk_1_mfm_cuck