Stiletto heels clacking, hugging a tablet computer to conceal the jiggle of her D-cup breasts, Brandee Coleman hurried down the hallway toward her office. She could feel the pale skin of her face and neck flushing with arousal. She was agitated and craved privacy.
Once safely behind her office door, she stripped off her lab coat, tossed the iPad on her desk and sighed with relief. She had made it from the locker room without seeing anyone important, anyone who might take note of her excitement, or worse, its embarrassing and inappropriate cause.
The 41-year-old registered nurse looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. The physical signs were as bad as she had feared. Her blue eyes were glassy, the pupils widely dilated. In contrast to the porcelain whiteness of the rest of her body, her upper chest and throat glowed a delicate shade of pink, a sign of sexual stimulation in Caucasian women. Oversized, blood-engorged areolas and nipples poking through her white blouse, another brazen signifier of lust. No bra material was thick enough to conceal those nipples when she was turned on.
Closing her eyes, Brandee gave them both a long hard pinch, causing such an intense jolt of pleasure to run through her body that she almost lost her balance.
Trembling, she slumped into her desk chair, propped up her legs and hiked her skirt. Her fingers pressed against her clit, swollen and firm behind her panties, which were sopping up moisture from her overwrought pussy.
Once comfortable, she permitted herself to concentrate fully on the events of the morning that had put her in such a state:
When she had walked into the locker room at 10 am, arrayed before her was the entire university football team, stripped down to their jockstraps, milling around waiting there to be medically examined by her. Although she had been looking forward to this task for weeks, the actual reality of it was overwhelming, the dizzying buffet of masculinity caused the blonde nurse to catch her breath. Just being in the presence of so many physically superior young men was enough to cause arousal in a woman like Brandee. As the faculty nurse, it was her job to touch and feel and fondle every one of them while assessing their blood pressure, heart rate and lung function. And on top of that—and this really pushed her libido over the edge—each boy had to undergo a check for a hernia.
"Turn your head and cough, please."
One after another, a parade of college-aged athletes lowered their jockstraps, revealing to Brandee's lascivious gaze each fresh young set of genitalia.
She could appraise variations in size, shape and skin tone, and ogle each physique up close, even appreciate distinctions in masculine pheromones. Reflecting the demographics of the student body, almost all the players were African American, with a smattering of whites and Hispanics. In terms of penis size, only a handful of the cocks fell below average, and several students were off-the-charts well endowed.
As she recalled the exams, Brandee rubbed her clit furiously, replaying her favorite ones in her fevered memory.
The first really well-hung boy, Byron Morris, was on the short side, at 5'7", only about an inch taller than Brandee. His skin was dark ebony and his body tight and compact. He had a pock-marked, sulky face and a thin goatee. When he lowered his jockstrap, Brandee couldn’t restrain an audible gasp. At least seven inches long, the obscenely thick cock that flopped out hung so far leftward that the prominent ridge of its head could be seen in profile. Even soft, the dark flesh tube looked absurdly oversized in proportion to the boy's lithe body. She wondered how much bigger it would get when aroused. During the hernia check, Bryon showed no response to her gently probing fingers and seemed slightly annoyed at having to be there at all. The young man's remoteness bruised Brandee's ego, while somehow at the same time provoking her interest.
Her self-esteem recovered somewhat under the wolfish gaze of the next endowed player, Fletcher Cox, who blatantly appraised her from head to toe before hopping on the foldable exam table she had set up in the coaches’ office. Well over six feet tall, Fletcher was broad and muscular with mocha colored skin and a tightly trimmed beard. He looked somewhat like a young Lenny Kravitz, she thought. He seemed downright eager to reveal his cock, his hips thrust arrogantly forward, a knowing smile on his handsome face.
The source of his pride had a wide head and tapered to a thinner base. The ball sack, darker colored than the rest of his body, sat up high and was packed with two very large balls, the size of hen's eggs. To grant access to his oversize testicles, Fletcher dutifully lifted his shaft. Normally Brandee just used her fingertips, but for this exceptional boy she hefted and rolled the whole scrotum in her dainty white hand as if trying to guess the weight of the masculine orbs inside.
As always, she found the black-to-white skin contrast spellbinding, but she was also equally drawn to the boy's appealing scent. The nurse had to fight the urge to bury her face in those balls and inhale deeply. Perhaps sensing her attraction, Fletcher tightened his fist around his cock, causing the head to swell, and the pee-slit to wink open slightly. Aware the audacious stud was about to start jerking off for her viewing pleasure, Brandee snapped out of her erotic trance, and quickly finished the exam.
Then came Bokhari something or other—an African last name she couldn't remember—who seemed built more for basketball than football. He had obsidian black skin and his polite, well-spoken answers to the medical history questions were conveyed in heavily accented English. His long thin cock, with its slight inward curve, struck Brandee as elegant. Totally hairless, the skin of his cock and balls had a glossy shine. The ball sack felt silky smooth to the touch.
The biggest package of all belonged to Cedric Evans, a huge mountain of a man. The only penis she'd ever seen to rival Cedric's belonged to the porn star Shane Diesel (Brandee was a fan). Thick as a beer can, heavily veined, with a large prominently ridged head, the mammoth, milk-chocolate appendage hung straight down over testicles more fit for a rhinoceros than a 20-year-old college student. They must be the size of tennis balls! How much cum would balls like that manufacture? Enough to impregnate a dozen women, for sure.
She pictured thick, ropey ribbons of hot white cum shooting from that colossal cock, enough to drench a woman's face, breasts, and hair. She visualized herself kneeling reverently before this boy and worshiping his colossal penis with her mouth and hands until he erupted all over her face—an image, as she sat in her office recalling it, that nearly triggered her orgasm.
But then she stopped herself. There was one more player to add to her alpha-male fantasy roster.
E.J. Barbadora—scary looking but oddly sexy. Tall and lanky and covered in tattoos, his face projected a boyish innocence: large brown eyes and prominent front teeth with a slight overbite. But this innocence contrasted with his spiky hairdo, two earrings, and a piercing through the septum of his broad nose. His cock was incredibly wide at the base, tapering along the eight-inch stalk and then flaring out again at the bulbous head. E.J. had one of those two-tone cocks: a pink head but a nut-brown shaft. The base was so thick, Brandee had trouble getting around it to examine his testicles.
As she savored these lewd memories, Brandee took notice, not for the first time, of how the nature of her fantasies had changed as she grew older. Her younger self would have selected one of these players to be the focal point of her lust and then achieved orgasm thinking of him and only him. But lately, it seemed only thoughts of group encounters could stimulate her erotic imagination: Groups of men with her—and just her, no other female rivals—at the center of attention.
In the current fantasy, she pictured herself on her knees before these five players, who would form a circle around her. All would be naked from the waist down, except for shoulder pads and team jerseys. Unlike the medical exams, where she was in charge, in this scenario the boys would control her. Completely at their mercy, they would force her to take turns sucking each mouth-watering cock, all the while coaxing her on with lewd comments that became increasingly more and more degrading.
Leaning back in her office chair, she danced on the end of her finger, imagining their hands stoking those magnificent cocks, their bodies stiffening, and then, oh God, here it comes, great spurts of cum arching through the air, splattering on her face, her hair, her breasts, drenching her with all that hot young sperm.
On the verge of climax, she needed just one more element to push her over the edge. She knew what would work. It was a fantasy she often used to trigger an orgasm.
As the young athlete's sperm cascaded all over her, she imagined looking across the room at a naked figure, gagged and bound to a chair. This was her ex-husband, tied up and forced to watch his former wife gang banged by a squadron of black college students. She could see his watchful gaze, the muscles under his pale white skin straining against the bonds. She could see his average-sized white phallus, fully erect, poking up from between his thighs, helpless...
That did it. She was cumming…
Just then there was a knock on her door, jolting her out of the fantasy.
"Brandee, are you in there?"
It was the voice of her boss, Karen Naylor. Brandee nearly tumbled backward out of her chair.
"Ah. Oh. Yes, I'm…I'm here," she stammered, sitting upright. "The door is locked. I'm just finishing something..." She adjusted her skirt, rustled papers on her desk, gasped for air.
"Sorry to bother you, Brandee," she said through the door. "But could you come to my office when you get a minute? There's something we need to discuss in person."
"Yes, Karen. Be right there. Just give me a minute."
While she caught her breath, Brandee rested her head on the desk. She had been so close to cumming, but now her concentration was ruined. She promised herself a good masturbatory session with her collection of large black dildos later that night. Or better yet, maybe her current boyfriend would be available for a last-minute booty call.
When her heart stopped pounding, she stood up, stripped off the soaking wet panties and tossed them in the trash. Unlocking a desk drawer, she selected a fresh pair and stepped into them. She always kept clean panties handy, for just these occasions.
