You stay at the closed door and listen!

Your feet felt heavy, it was kind of like they're rooted to the plush carpet. The muffled moans and the rhythmic creak of the bed, for some reason, pulled at you. You took a hesitant step closer, then another, until you were standing right in front of it. The wood was cool and smooth against your fingertips as you leaned in, your breath held tight in your chest, and pressed your ear gently against the panel. You completely forget, that you are still at a party and someone could catch you prying. But right now, that fact would not even cross your mind.

The sounds of whats going on inside instantly became clearer and definitely more intimate. The creaking was the bed frame, protesting a steady, rhythmic movement. But it was the voices that made your blood run hot.

“Fuck, yeah... just like that,” Dior’s deep, dominant voice rumbled through the wood, thick with pleasure. “Look at you Ty. Took all of it, didn’t you, pretty boy? Every. Single. Fucking, inch.”

There was a wet, **** sound, followed by a ****, guttural gasp for air that was clearly Taylor’s.

“Shhh, shhh, don’t fight it,” Dior soothed, his tone a mix of praise and command. “Breathe through your nose baby. Just like that, that’s it. Such a good white boy for me. You see? Your throat knows what it’s for. It was made to take Big Black Cock.”

You could hear Taylor whimper, a high, needy sound that was likely muffled by the flesh filling his mouth.

“Goddamn, your throat game is incredible,” Dior groaned, the deep sound vibrating right through the door and into your skull. “Better than any bitch I’ve ever had. You were born for this, weren’t you? Born to be on your knees, **** on my fat black cock. Say it for me. Let me hear you say it.”

There was another wet gag, and then a strangled, muffled attempt at speech.

“Can’t talk with your mouth full, huh?” Dior chuckled, a dark, arrogant sound. “That’s okay baby. I know the answer already. This is where you belong. This is your happy place. Right here, on your knees, servicing a black man. This is what you were always meant to be.”

The wet, rhythmic sounds grew faster, more frantic. Dior’s breathing became heavier, more ragged.

“Fuck, I’m gonna paint this pretty, tight throat of your whiter then it already is,” he growled. “You’re gonna take it all. Every single, damn drop. You’re gonna swallow my load like a good little snow bunny, aren’t you? And I know that you’re gonna thank me for it.”

The creaking of the bed sped up, becoming more of a sharp, violent pounding. Dior let out a long, guttural groan of pure ecstasy, a sound of primal satisfaction that seemed to go on forever. It was followed by a series of ****, wet, swallowing sounds from Taylor, and then a long, drawn-out whimper.

The room fell silent for a moment, save for their heavy breathing.

“Good boy,” Dior’s voice was softer now, almost gentle, but still laced with ownership. “So fucking good for me. Now get up here. Let me taste my cum on your lips.”

You stumbled back from the door as if you’d been burned, your face on fire, your own small cock painfully hard in your trunks. The world on the other side of the door seemed to fade away, replaced by the echo of Dior’s words and the sounds of Taylor’s complete and utter submission. You had to get away. You turned and almost fled down the hall, your heart pounding a frantic, terrified rhythm against your ribs.