White box needs black tool

It is true what they say.

Once you go black, you never go back.

That’s what my girlfriend says. Well, she is my ex-girlfriend now.

It all started as a harmless prank I did on her, but I didn’t plan it like that at all. I thought it would be funny to “sell” a small white box on eBay. I would carefully upload pictures of a real small box to outsmart their AI and my offer not getting rejected and add one photo of Anastasiya, my new girlfriend.

In the offer I would write all kinds of things box-related but add a couple of insinuating things, such as her real dimensions, including bra size. I would add somewhere at the bottom that only big tools are allowed; send a photo first to the below phone number in order to obtain the boxes´ address. I bought a cheap mobile with its own phone number so I could get rid of it after the eBay offer expired.

This was my flash sale text:

White box needs black tool

1. This durable white, tight little box without a lid but with a small lace V-string is perfect for storing everything you want to dump inside. From seasonal grains to sports equipment. The transparent string reveals the little slit so you can easily find the opening you are looking for.
2. Put an end to searching for a hole you need anyway—the moist box reveals what you need to do. You might have to push a little in the beginning, but the little box can stretch if needed.
3. You can place your contents inside the box through three different openings, guaranteeing a good storage for all your dumps. If filled well, it may drip, since it is not air-tight. That way you can easily see where you stored your dump and which openings are still to be done.
4. The built-in lock function keeps her legs around your back when you fill the box.
5. The black V-string, if in place, protects the two openings from dirt and dust and makes the box more attractive. Feel free to rip it away if resistance is found.
6. Suitable for storing seasonal grains, big equipment, tools, or fertilizing black seed.
7. Only big black tools need to apply.

Dimensions

• 89-61-86 cm (35-24-34 in) S-XS-S
• Upper size: 75 B (34A), Natural
• Height: 163 cm (5.4 ft)
• Weight: 49 kg (108 lb)

Additional information

• View: Green
• Locks: Brown
• Production date: 22 years
• Country of origin: Ukraine

Material

• Young, perky, warm tissue.

Care

• Wipe clean with a soft cloth dampened in water and a mild washing-up detergent or soap, if necessary. The box has a tendency to drip.

How to order

• Send proof of the tool to the below phone number to obtain the address. At the door we will verify your photo. If the tool matches the photo, the box will be found upstairs. If it doesn’t open easily, feel free to use strength and pressure to insert the tool.

...

The moment I started the auction, ten minutes later, I already had ten messages on my new phone, each one with a photo attachment—all Big Black Cocks.

Ten minutes. Ten messages. Ten photos.

I sat on the edge of the bed with the cheap burner in my hand, thumb scrolling, and actually laughing out loud at my own luck. The box hadn't even been up a quarter of an hour; already there were ten black cocks staring back at me from a little screen, each one photographed against a thigh, a bedsheet, a bathroom mirror, or a gym towel. Most were being held. A few were just lying there, heavy, half-hard, with a hand in frame for scale that didn't flatter anything but the tool.

I narrowed it down to the way you'd pick fruit. Not the longest necessarily—the heaviest. The ones that looked like they had weight, like they'd pull a man forward when he walked. Three made the cut. One was so thick through the shaft the photo had to be taken from above and still ran off both edges of the frame.

I typed the same message three times, changing only the date.

7:00 PM. Address below. She will be upstairs. Bring it on.

The first replied inside a minute—a "Ready," a photo of his balls hanging low, full, swollen enough that the light caught the veins, two dark, heavy things that made the whole proposition suddenly very real. "Ready," he wrote. The second did the same without any words, just a picture of his sack resting on his thigh like a promise. The third sent a shot of his cock laid across them, thick as my wrist.

Deals sealed. Phone face-down hidden in the nightstand. I showered, changed, and tried to look like a man who wasn't about to hand his girlfriend to strangers.

He rang the bell at seven exactly.

I opened the door and had to tilt my head up. Jerome filled the whole frame—six-four, six-five, shoulders like a doorway themselves, dark brown skin still carrying the sheen of a workout, a soft mouth, and calm, unhurried eyes that told me he'd done this plenty of times. Pro athlete. The email had said so; I hadn't believed it, but here it was in the flesh, in a fitted grey tee and joggers loose enough to hide nothing. God, he was outlined. A thick, soft column running down his right thigh, swinging a half-second behind him when he shifted his weight, was absurdly visible through cotton.

He shook my hand. His palm swallowed mine.

"You must be the husband."

"Boyfriend. Well—" I shrugged. "Doesn't matter. She's upstairs, in the bedroom, second door on the right. She's in there now. I'll put some music on, you know, so it doesn't carry."

He nodded once, easy. "Good."

"You just go, grab her. Don't knock."

Something crossed his face then, a small pleased smile; he stepped past me into the hall and started up.

The stairs creaked like they'd never carried anything that heavy. The third step, the fifth, and the eighth each tread groaning, flexing under him. I crossed to the living room, turned the stereo up loud—something with bass, something that would swallow a voice whole—stood there with my heart going like a hammer, my ear cocked.

She screamed. Not even a minute.

Her first scream cut straight through the bass line, a bright little oh!, then the thump of a body being put down on the mattress, then his voice, low, level, warm through the floorboards: "I've brought you something Black. It's ready for you."

"Wait—wait, WHO ARE YOU? Stop!" Her voice was thin, rising.

“Jerome.” He replied, laughing.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I turned the volume up two more notches and took the stairs two at a time. The marital bedroom door was open by about an inch, so I put my eye to it.

He came around the foot of the bed and reached for her.

She moved before he got there, getting up on her knees and scrambling away as the silk bathrobe slid off her shoulder and hung open down her front. She grabbed at it and bolted. It was not a ladylike retreat. It was a genuine scramble: off the mattress on the far side, feet hitting the floor, one hand out to steady herself on the wall. She was gone, making for the landing with the robe flapping behind her.

She made it to four steps.

He didn't hurry. He turned and reached across the bed to close his hand around her wrist. She came up short with a jolt, like a dog on a lead.

'Aah!'—high, startled, more temper than fear. She pulled. He leaned her whole weight back into it, pulling, twisting and yanking her arm, but his arm didn't so much as straighten.

'Let go! Let—"

She raised her other hand and pried at his fingers one by one, digging her nails into the back of his hand hard enough to make them turn white. He let her work at it. He watched her with a faint, patient interest, as though he were watching a child trying to open a jar.

Then he pulled back.

She lost her footing. Just like that — a stumble, a shriek — she was easily dragged back against the side of the bed. When she braced her hands on the mattress to push away, he took her by the waist with both hands and lifted her.

'Nooo!'

Her slippers left the floor. Her bare legs kicked in the air, her toes curling. One of them caught him in the shin, but it did nothing. He raised her a hand's width above the carpet with no apparent effort, holding her there like a suitcase. She flailed and clawed at his forearms. The silk robe slid completely off her shoulders and dropped in a puddle on the floor.

'Put me down! Put me down, you—ahh!"

He put her down. On the bed, dropped flat on her back with a soft bounce, before she could roll, he planted one hand on her sternum and pressed, and she was pinned like a moth.

She tried to sit up anyway. Got her shoulders an inch off the mattress against his palm, strained there, neck corded, then her arms came up, shoved at his chest, two-handed, palms flat, shoved again, and he let her; it made no difference at all.

So she started hitting him.

Both fists, small, white-knuckled, drumming at his chest—a quick thud—every one after another, thud, thud, thud—every one of them landing on that broad slab of muscle, dying there without a flicker. His chest didn't give. Didn't even seem to absorb it, her little hands just bounced off. She hit him harder. Hit him with the heel of her hand, with her knuckles, once with a flat slap across the pec that must have stung her more than him. He looked down at her working away at him with the same mild calm as before; she did not move.

"Get off me—"

He was undoing his joggers one-handed. The waistband went, the elastic snapped down, and his Black cock came out, swung free, and fully erect, pointing towards her; she stopped talking for a full two seconds to stare at it.

Then she started again, faster, the hammering redoubling. "No. No, no, no—look at that. Look at that. That doesn't go in there; that's a whole different sport. That's not—"

She shoved at him again with both hands, squirmed sideways, and got maybe three inches before he hooked an arm under her lower back and hauled her down the bed like a sack of flour.

"Eeeh!"—sliding along the sheet, her hair dragging.

Her shoe came off. She kicked the other one away herself in the panic; it hit the skirting board and bounced. He removed the rest of his clothes and dropped it on the floor with the shoes.

She got her knees under her and tried to crawl up the bed toward the pillows. He followed her up, one hand closing around her hip, and dragged her back down onto her back again.

"Nnno—no!"

Then the fists came back, both of them, frantic now, hammering at his chest, his shoulders, and anywhere she could reach, a wild tattoo of blows that couldn't have moved a man half his size. He took it all without a word. She hit him in the ribs; he breathed in normally. She hit him in the sternum; he didn't blink. She got one in on the corner of his jaw and shook her hand out afterwards, hissing through her teeth, because it hurt her.

"Please," she cried, still hitting, weaker, every word punched out between blows. "Please, please, no"

She was flat on her back, dark hair fanned out over the pillow, naked, pale, and small under his brown body, both her wrists caught up in one of his huge hands, pinned above her head—one hand, easily, like holding a scarf down in the wind. Between his legs, freed, hard, with real mass, a cock that looked carved rather than grown.

Long, yes, but it was the diameter that made my stomach drop. It stood out from a dense black nest at an angle, thick as a bottle neck through the middle, the shaft mapped all over with raised veins running up it like roots, one thick trunk of a vein curving under the head, disappearing. The head itself was a wide, blunt mushroom, dusky and glossy already, flaring out so far past the shaft it looked like it had its own gravity.

He is going to split her in two.

"Let go of my hands," she cried. "Let go—let go—" she bucked, twisted, and got nowhere. When that failed, she did the only thing left: spat a stream of no's at him, quick, climbing, half of them not even words.

His palm spread flat on her belly. Her hands came up as far as they could against his grip, and her hips bucked to throw him off, but none of it worked. He was on his elbows over her, close enough that his chest hair brushed her nipples, the bulk of him between her legs a wall she couldn't close against.

He brought the head of it down between her thighs.

She felt it; her scream—a body jolted, and she screamed—a real one this time, thin, raw. "Oh no. Oh no. No no no no—"

He slid the head along her slit, through the wet, and found the opening. She was soaked, her body betraying her, ready to breed. I could see the shine along her inner lips, the little string of it clinging to his glans when he drew back an inch to look at her—wet enough to glisten, wet enough that the mushroom ran through her without any help at all, her voice cracking straight down the middle of a word.

She looked down at her own body; at it, her face came apart. "It won't fit," she said, gone reedy and small. "It won't fit, look at it, it won't—please don't—"

He set the tip against her and pressed.

She shrieked, her hands flew down, and she grabbed his wrist, both of them trying to hold him back. Her heels skidded on the sheet, and her hips jerked sideways. He followed her, tracking her, keeping the head against the ring of her, pushing steadily. She was still crying, "no no no," when the lips began to whiten and stretch.

"No—no—ohh—"

The first give of her was visible—the lips drawing into a ring, whitening, pulling wide around him, still nowhere near the widest part of the head. She made a strangled sound; her heels scrabbled. He held steady, a hand flat on her belly, pushed with the kind of slow force that doesn't care about arguing.

The head went through.

She threw her head back and wailed at the ceiling; her nails dug into his wrist hard enough to leave marks. He stopped there, just the head, and held it. She sobbed once, her hips bucked, bucked again, and then her legs came open a little wider all by themselves.

She was still saying it. Weaker now. "Please don't," she whispered; "stop," and had stopped, meaning stop, and started, meaning something closer to careful.

He pushed deeper.

Ah—Ah—she moaned. Actually moaned, before he was a quarter of the way in, her grip slid from his wrist up to his forearm, just held on instead of fighting. The sound changed register, complaining of something low and warm. Her resistance was coming apart at the seams; she was still telling him no, her body had already stopped listening.

He sank in slow. Deliberate. An inch at a time—high, I'd see her belly working, the pale skin stretched around that impossible girth, giving, giving, her labia rolled in around the shaft like a sleeve. Her moaning came in rhythm with him—ah, ah, ah—high, helpless, her fingers curled into the sheet.

Halfway.

He wasn't even halfway; as her orgasm hit her.

Her eyes flew wide open. A half second where she looked almost frightened—the way people look when something is already happening to them, they've only just noticed—then her mouth opened, and the sound came out of her like it had been pulled from somewhere under her ribs.

She screamed. Not a wail this time, not a complaint. A full, raw, throat-stripping scream of pleasure, straight up at the ceiling, so loud it pushed through the bass, made the little framed print on the wall jump on its nail.

The scream broke into pieces. She couldn't sustain it—it chopped up into a chain of high sobbing cries, ah-ah-ah-ah, then the orgasm took her, and the cries stopped being separate sounds at all.

Her whole body shook.

It started in her hips. They came up off the bed in a hard jolt, juddered there, rattling, the juddering spread outward like something breaking loose—up into her belly, which clenched, released, and clenched in fast visible waves, into her chest, into her shoulders. Her head thrashed from side to side on the pillow, hair whipping across her face. Her arms flung out wide, her hands scrabbled at the sheet, dragged it into fists, and pulled it off the corners. One heel drummed the mattress in a rapid stutter; the other leg kicked out straight, stiff, and stayed there, toes curled so hard they cramped.

She was shaking so violently the whole mattress was shaking with her, the bedframe ticking against the skirting board in a fast rhythm, the noise she made gone thin, ragged, almost a keen, one long shuddering note that kept breaking, restarting, while her cunt clamped down around him so hard I could see the squeeze rippling along the visible part of the shaft—pulsing, drawing, gripping at him like it was trying to keep him.

He didn't move. Buried halfway, still, letting every wave of it break over her, she came, came; it wouldn't stop coming, the second wave worse than the first. Her back arched off the mattress, so far only her shoulders; her heels were touching, held there in a bow, trembling. She screamed again—a shorter one, almost a yelp, torn out of her by the sheer size of it—then her body collapsed back down in stages, hips first, then her spine, until she was flat, gasping, still shaking in long loose shudders that ran from her scalp to her feet.

The tremors took a long time to die. She lay there quivering, every muscle giving out, one hand still tangled in the pulled-off sheet, small hopeless noises with each breath, every one of them coming out wobbling.

She whimpered. Over-sensitive now, fluttering, twitching around him every time he breathed, each little tremor setting off a fresh shiver down her thighs. He stayed perfectly still; let it happen.

Halfway. Halfway, already deeper than I have ever been in my life. I looked at the wet shine of the shaft, the short remainder of it standing out between them, and the way the base of it hadn't even reached her yet. One thought arrived fully formed, unarguable:

What a perfect breeding tool. I thought

A minute passed. Her breathing evened, though her legs kept giving the odd little shiver. Her heels slid down and back up. Then he pushed.

"Oh," she panted, moaning. "Please, please, just—just wait a minute—just give me a minute—"

She grunted—by the thickness of it, deep, guttural—her knees fell open, wider, then wider still, until her thighs were flat, and her feet slid out to the edges of the mattress. Not to escape. To make room. Her body had taken over the negotiation, decided before she did.

Her hands came off the sheet and found his waist, both of them small against the taper of his hips; she guided him. Pulled. Held him in.

"Oh my God," she breathed. "Oh my God, oh my God, it's so—"

He sank deeper. Deeper, she was only moaning now, one long unbroken note, no words left, her heels hooking his calves, her hips tilting up to meet him, all of her opening, welcoming, knowing what she was getting.

Then he hit the end of her, his black balls a strong contrast on her white skin.

Her eyes flew open, her mouth came open with them, and the sound that came out was not a moan anymore. A shout—"Ohh—God!"—punched out of her whole chest, not the thin startled screaming from before, but something with a body behind it, loud, shameless, and surprised at itself.

"Oh God—oh God—ohh!"

His hips came flush. The last of the shaft disappeared; the wet slap of it carried clean over the music. She shouted again, louder, "Ahh!" a third time when he pressed in those last few inches, something deep inside her giving way around the head.

She was trembling. It started in her thighs and went through her like current, both legs shivering hard where they were splayed out flat, then her whole body was going with it—her shoulders shaking, her jaw shaking, her hands flying up off his waist, slapping back down again because they didn't know what to hold. Her heels skidded up the sheet, her knees started to close, fell open again, and the trembling got worse until she was rattling under him like something was wound too tight.

"I can't—I can't—ohh, ohh!"

Then another orgasm broke.

Her back bowed clear off the mattress, hips driving up into him, and she screamed—a full-throated, cracking scream that went up at the end and split apart into a sob. The tears came properly now, at the corners of both eyes, running sideways into her hair. Her hands scrabbled at his back, found nothing to hold, and dragged down his shoulder blades, then she shouted his name, "Jerome!"—wrecked", hoarse, like she'd been saying it for hours.

I stood at the door with my eye on the gap and watched her shake. Watched the tremors rack her from her scalp to her curling toes, watched her belly jump in fast spasms, her breasts quiver with every hard breath, her head thrash, and her mouth staid open between shouts. She looked completely gone—not fighting it, not negotiating, just being carried off by it while her body convulsed around his cock.

"Oh—ohh—please—" not please stop any more, please, in the pure begging sense, she came, came, kept coming, wave after wave, each one dragging another raw shout out of her, another violent shudder through her limbs.

Then her back came down, her legs gave out entirely, and she lay there gasping, wrecked, still trembling in long-dying ripples, her heels sliding weakly down the sheet, her hands still twitching where they'd fallen.

He held himself at the deepest point and didn't move at all. Let her white cunt stretch, settle, and learn the shape of him. Let her come down from it, her breath heaving, her whole-body shivering through the last of it. She was still twitching around him in little aftershocks, every one of them pulling a soft, broken moan out of her.

Then she came a third time, softer, just from the size of him sitting still inside her.

And he hadn't even started fucking her yet.

To be continued.