#**|** *Author’s Note*
This story deals with a taboo genre of erotica dubbed *raceplay*. It’s not for everyone and it is 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 involved, 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. Again, an acquired taste, but a far more common one. And as always, all feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated.
#**|** *Black Coffee*
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 have I seen the office rejoice 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. Make mine black. A little sugar.
Now, so, 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, though on considerably better terms. You remember that going away party the girls threw 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 fucks the wrong typist. Back before that was a fireable offence; *merely getting your dick wet in the company ink, I mean.*
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 anyone who knew better. *And lord knows,* it was. *Disastrous.*
Three days in, Nyomi forgets to put cream in Edwards’s coffee. Just a mistake. And he throws a folder at the poor girl, then proclaims a distaste for all things black: *coffee, as-well as secretaries.* The next morning, HR was forced to turn on that ol’ familiar tune.
The next round of musical executives, Nyomi shuffles into my office. On our first morning together, she comes in holding a blue paper cup full 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 a few 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. Again, with cream. I assumed the poor thing was simply rattled form her time with Edwards, all shook up, 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 brew more coffee, Nyomi bends herself over my office-desk and spreads her legs apart. “Punishment I understand”, she tells me, is this half-serious whimper. Something just like that: “Punishment I understand”, or maybe “I only understand punishment”.
[…]
No, it was the first one: “Punishment I understand.” Anyway, *I got shivers…* That might have been where my first grey hairs came from, hearing those words come out of her mouth…
It’s far too early in the morning for me go into any unnecessary details here, but the whole ordeal rattled me. I never knew a negro’s ass could glow so red. I marvelled at how silently she took blow after blow. Nyomi had a mean sweat breaking out of her forehead by the time I was done with her.
For the next couple days, the girl was inscrutable. Everything I asked, she did with a smile. *Dotted her i’s and crossed those t’s.* And Nyomi said nothing about the scolding she had received and there was also no more cream in my coffee, either. I was starting to wonder if she hadn’t tried to pull this same shtick of her’s on Edwards, with far less successful results. It appeared all that Nyomi had really wanted was to be put in her place. A *simple* spanking.
A few days have passed, then Nyomi brings me another cup of weak, milky coffee. And she’s grinning at me, knowingly. I look down into the cup and smirk. I get this game now, right. We’re both on the same page.
Just as the little nigger’s ass is glowing bright red again, she starts to mutter to herself about “black coffee”, like she’s making a mental note or something. Then, Nyomi turns her head and asks me if I also prefer my “black holes with or without cream and sugar?” Those *exact* words.
So, now my whole beard has turned grey. When Nyomi steps into my office to say goodnight that afternoon, I’m saw traces of my dry cum, just below the brim of her skirt. I didn’t point it out to her. I saw no ring on her finger, so I didn’t think it’d be an issue for the girl.
There was roughly another two weeks of bliss, then HR turned on the music for the last time. I was sad to see Nyomi go, *I really fucking was.* Now, I had my way with her again, sure; during Nyomi’s going away party. The one the other office girls threw for her. She was dating Tony at the time, but I never thought it’d become anything serious. Nyomi was going places; Tony, sadly, wasn’t. *That’s just the truth,* sorry.
[…]
…Shit, that coffee really is as good as it smells. *Christ.*
Now, I know what you’re thinking — what you have been thinking, this whole time: *what the fuck would ol’ Tony ‘clusterfuck’ Marshall want calling you at an hour like that? After, what —* phsst *— twelve years?* And I’ll tell you, but before I do, let me clarify something…
Right around my promotion to executive, Tony Marshall rose to the same rank. He was on a streak back then, believe it or not. The office was his oyster-shell.
And, of course, being a man of colour at the time, it only seemed fair that he should take some additional pride in his accomplishments. He really earned them, that much was self-evident. His first months working here, I remember seeing Tony show up dressed in his father’s old, tattered suit. That was some sincere *American Dream shit*.
So, I’m on the phone. It’s late as all fuck. Tony tells me all about his marriage to Nyomi. They’re still together, which surprised me, and they’ve got two kids. One’s in university, the other is about to leave high-school. Then I ask him why he’s calling me and I swear to God, there is a long silence, then he invites me to dinner. *“A dinner party?”* I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“No”, he tells me. “Just me, my wife and yourself.” I’m not really feeling sleepy any more, right about now. I feel kinda on edge, honestly, like I’m being set-up somehow, you know? I make a joke about Tony’s kids being too old to eat with their folks, just to have something to say, then Tony drops the mother fucking *A-bomb* on me: “No, the kids will be at Nyomi’s sister’s place. We — Uhm, we — Well, there is something Nyomi and I wanted to discuss— Or, I guess, ask of you. This is hard, I don’t know how to say it. I know it’s been a long time.”
What I heard in Tony’s voice wasn’t threatening like I expected it to be, but instead, it was pleading. It caught me off guard. *Really, it did.* “You need money, Tony? Have you been drinking?” That’s what I asked him. Then he says: “No”. After a long, long silence, he says: “my wife wants another child.” Before I can say anything back, Tony finishes: “another one of your children.”
And *BOOM*, the A-bomb goes off… My mind has never done math faster in my life. I’m seeing all the years add up, right there in front of my eyes. The first child was from the secretary shuffle, the second was from the Naomi’s going away party. Then I realize: *Tony must have known about the Christmas party, all along.* Do you believe that shit?
[…]
…Yeah, I’ve heard of poor saps raising some nob-head who isn’t their kid, but this just blew my mind. *Who does it on purpose, y’know?*
And yeah, I accepted. I accepted Tony’s invitation to dinner. I’m not sure exactly where it’s meant to lead, but, well… Come Monday morning, you make the coffee and I’ll tell you *all about it…*
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/48qfhc/black_coffee_mf_raceplay_office