Weekly Poll #6 - OC / Maxine Black {Story 12}
The Williamsburg Diner was a ghost town by the time the clock ticked toward closing. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like tired insects, casting a harsh glow over the empty booths and the scuffed linoleum floor. Max Black wiped down the counter with a rag that had seen better days, her black hair tied back in a messy ponytail, strands escaping to frame her face. She was exhausted—bone-deep tired from pulling a solo shift that felt like it had stretched into eternity. Oleg had bailed fifteen minutes early, muttering something about a family event that Max suspected involved more vodka than relatives. Earl, the ancient cashier with a voice like gravel, had called in sick after barely managing half the morning rush. And Caroline? Her perky blonde counterpart was off for the weekend, probably sipping cocktails at some fancy Hamptons getaway while Max sweated it out here in Brooklyn.
The diner was hers alone tonight, a kingdom of greasy spoons and half-eaten pie slices. Max glanced at the clock: 10:55 PM. Five minutes until she could flip the sign to "Closed" and drag her aching feet home. She was already dreaming of collapsing onto her couch with a beer and whatever crappy reality show was on. But then the bell above the door jingled, shattering her fantasy.
In walked a man who made the doorway look small. He was tall—ridiculously tall, at least 6'7"—with broad shoulders that strained against a simple black button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. His skin was a deep, rich brown, and his face held a quiet confidence, dark eyes scanning the room before landing on her. Myles Ochieng ducked slightly under the frame as he entered, his presence filling the space like he owned it. Max froze mid-wipe, her eyes widening. Holy shit, she thought. This guy could dunk without jumping. He moved with an easy grace, his build athletic and powerful, like he'd been carved from obsidian. She felt a flicker of something—curiosity? Attraction?—but it was quickly drowned out by irritation. Last customer. Of course.
Myles smiled faintly as he approached the counter, his voice deep and smooth with a hint of an accent she couldn't quite place—maybe East African? "Evening. Still open?"
Max plastered on her best sarcastic smile, the one that said "welcome" but meant "get out." "Barely. What'll it be, tall dark and hungry?"
He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through the air. "Burger, medium rare. Fries on the side. And a coffee, black."
She nodded, jotting it down on her pad even though she could've remembered it in her sleep. As she turned toward the kitchen, she caught him watching her—really watching. Myles's gaze lingered on her figure, the way her uniform hugged her curves. Max was no stranger to stares; with her massive tits straining against the buttons of her yellow diner shirt and an ass that could stop traffic, she was built like a pin-up girl from a bygone era. But there was something in his eyes, a hunger that went beyond casual appreciation. Ripe, he thought, the word popping unbidden into his mind. Ripe for... well, he pushed that thought aside for now. He was in Brooklyn for the week, setting up an art exhibit at a local gallery—sculptures inspired by his Kenyan roots, twisted metal and wood that told stories of migration and strength. This diner was a block away from his Airbnb. Maybe he'd make it a habit, especially if the view was this good.
Max disappeared into the kitchen, grumbling under her breath. "Great, now I gotta fire up the grill again because Mr. Giant decided to waltz in at the last second." She slapped the patty onto the heat, the sizzle echoing in the empty space. Her irritation built like steam—why couldn't he have come earlier? Or better yet, not at all? She flipped the burger with more force than necessary, her mind racing through the list of grievances: solo serving, solo cooking, solo cleaning. And now this guy, probably thinking he could charm his way into extra service.
When the food was ready, she carried it out, setting the plate down with a clatter. "Here you go. Enjoy."
Myles looked up from his phone, where he'd been checking exhibit details. "Thanks. Smells good." He paused, his eyes meeting hers. "Rough night? You look like you've been running this place single-handed."
Max snorted, leaning against the counter. "You have no idea. My cook bailed, cashier's out sick, and my partner's on vacay. So yeah, it's been a party."
He took a bite, nodding appreciatively. "You're handling it like a pro. Name's Myles, by the way."
"Max," she replied, not sure why she bothered. But there was something disarming about him— that height, that build. She shook it off. "So, what brings a guy like you to this dump?"
"Art exhibit in town. Staying for the week." He smiled again, a flash of white teeth. "Might have to come back here more often. Food's solid, and the service..." He trailed off, his gaze dipping just enough to make his intent clear.
Max felt her cheeks heat, but annoyance won out. Flirting? Now? After making her stay late? "Yeah, well, flattery won't get you free refills." She turned away, busying herself with wiping down already-clean surfaces. But the seed was planted. As she watched him eat from the corner of her eye, her mind wandered. He was hot, sure—towering, muscled, with that deep voice. But tonight? No way. She was too pissed.
Myles finished his meal slowly, savoring it. Every glance at Max confirmed his initial thought: she was a knockout, all curves and attitude. Those tits, begging to be freed from that uniform; that ass, swaying as she moved. He imagined bending her over, filling her up, breeding her right there in the diner. The thought stirred him, but he kept it cool. No rush. He had a week.
"Check, please," he called finally.
Max slapped it down, her voice clipped. "Cash or card?"
As he paid, he tried one more line. "You know, if you're off soon, maybe we could grab a drink? Unwind a bit."
She rolled her eyes. "Buddy, the only thing I'm unwinding with is my bed. Alone."
He laughed, holding up his hands. "Fair enough. Goodnight, Max."
The door jingled as he stepped out—or so she thought. But Myles had paused outside, realizing he'd left his phone on the counter. He pushed back in just as Max headed to the kitchen with his empty plate. Curious, he followed quietly, intending to grab it himself.
What he saw stopped him cold. Max, muttering curses, was hovering over the sink. In her hand was a small vial—a "gift," as she'd later call it—a laxative she'd swiped from the staff bathroom earlier, her petty revenge for the flirting and the late hour. She was about to dump it into a to-go cup, planning to offer it as a "complimentary coffee" if he lingered. But irritation had clouded her judgment; he wasn't even there for it anymore.
" What the hell are you doing?" Myles's voice boomed from the doorway.
Max jumped, the vial slipping from her fingers into the sink. She spun around, face paling. "Shit! I—uh—nothing! Just... cleaning up."
He stepped into the kitchen, towering over her, his expression darkening. "That didn't look like cleaning. Looked like you were about to spike something."
Max backed against the counter, her heart pounding. Busted. And by this giant of a man. "Okay, fine. I was pissed. You were the last customer, flirting like an ass, and I've had a shit day. It was just a laxative—nothing serious. Please, don't call the cops or anything. I'll owe you. Big time. Whatever you want, just... let it slide."
Myles stared at her, the air thick with tension. Then a slow grin spread across his face. Whatever he wanted? Oh, this was too perfect. He'd tasted her attitude; now he'd taste the rest. "Whatever I want, huh?"
Max swallowed, nodding. She saw the shift in his eyes—from anger to desire. And damn if it didn't send a thrill through her, despite everything.
He closed the distance in one long, deliberate stride—his height making the small kitchen feel even smaller, the fluorescent light carving sharp shadows across the sharp planes of his face. Max's back hit the edge of the stainless-steel prep counter with a soft metallic thunk, but she didn't have time to process the cool bite against her spine before Myles's hands were on her.
Large. Warm. Calloused in a way that spoke of real work, not gym mirrors. His palms settled low on her waist, fingers splaying wide enough that his thumbs nearly met at her navel and his pinkies hooked over the top of her hip bones. He didn't just touch her—he invaded the space she occupied, pulling her flush against the hard wall of his body in one smooth, inexorable tug.
Max sucked in a sharp breath.
Through the thin layers of her uniform shirt and his button-down, she could feel everything: the heat rolling off him, the solid ridges of abdominal muscle, and—lower—the unmistakable, intimidating length of him already straining against the front of his jeans. Thick. Heavy. Pressed right up against the soft give of her belly like he was branding her through fabric. Her thighs clenched on instinct, a traitorous flutter starting low in her core even as her brain screamed that this was insane, that she was supposed to be pissed, not panting.
Myles dipped his head, lips brushing the shell of her ear. His voice came out quieter now, almost conversational, but the gravel in it made her nipples tighten against her bra.
"Alright then," he murmured. "Let's start with this."
His fingers flexed, digging in just enough to dimple the soft flesh above her hips. Not painful—controlled. The kind of grip that said he knew exactly how much pressure a woman's body could take before it crossed from pleasure into something else. He pulled her tighter, grinding once, slow and deliberate, letting her feel every inch of what he was packing.
Max's exhale came out shaky. "Jesus…"
His hands began their ascent.
They slid up her sides in a slow, possessive sweep—past the dip of her waist, over the flare of her ribs—until his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts. Even through the polyester-cotton blend of her diner shirt and the thick padding of her bra, the contact sent a jolt straight to her clit. Myles didn't rush. He cupped her fully, palms curving around the heavy, overflowing weight of her tits like he was weighing something precious and obscene at the same time.
"Been eyeing these all night," he said, voice dropping into a register so low it vibrated against her skin. He squeezed—firm, unapologetic, thumbs dragging slow circles over the stiff peaks hidden beneath layers. "So full. So fucking perfect. Look at how they spill over my hands even with all this shit in the way."
Max's head tipped back against the cabinet behind her. A low, involuntary moan slipped past her lips before she could catch it. Her irritation—the legitimate, bone-deep annoyance she'd been nursing for the last forty-five minutes—cracked like thin ice under the heat of his touch. Her body didn't care that he'd made her stay late. It didn't care that she'd been ready to spike his coffee out of sheer spite. It only cared that this towering stranger was handling her like he'd been fantasizing about it since the second he walked through the door.
"Myles…" Her voice cracked on his name, half protest, half plea. "Wait—"
"No waiting."
The words were calm. Final.
In one fluid motion he spun her around. Her palms slapped down on the counter for balance; the metal was cold against her overheated skin. Myles kicked her feet wider with the toe of his boot—gentle but insistent—then pressed himself along her back. His chest blanketed her shoulders, his hips slotting perfectly against the generous curve of her ass. The hard ridge of his erection nestled right into the cleft, thick enough that she could feel the blunt head nudging high against the small of her back even through their clothes.
Max whimpered—couldn't help it. The sheer size of him dwarfed her, made her feel small and soft and dangerously exposed.
"You owe me, remember?" His mouth found the side of her neck, lips grazing the spot just below her ear before his teeth scraped lightly over the same skin. "And I'm collecting now."
One hand stayed braced on the counter beside hers—long fingers caging her in—while the other slid down her body in a slow, deliberate path. Past the dip of her waist. Over the swell of her hip. Then under the hem of her skirt.
He gathered the fabric in his fist and yanked it up in one rough motion, bunching it around her waist like it offended him. Cool air kissed the backs of her thighs, then higher. Black lace panties—simple bikini cut, already damp at the crotch—were all that remained between them.
Myles made a low, appreciative sound in his throat.
"Fuck." His free hand smoothed over the generous curve of her ass, palming one cheek, then the other, like he was memorizing the shape. "God, this ass… white and juicy. Been watching it sway every time you walked away from the table. Just begging to be spread open."
Before she could respond, his palm cracked down.
Light at first—just a sharp sting to test her reaction. Max yelped, hips jerking forward into the counter. The sound bounced off the tiled walls. But he didn't pull away. Instead he rubbed the spot in slow, soothing circles, letting the warmth bloom under his touch.
Then he did it again.
Harder.
The slap rang out louder this time, the impact rippling through soft flesh. Max's knees buckled for half a second before she caught herself. The sting bloomed into heat, then straight into a throbbing ache between her legs. She moaned—long and broken—before she could stop herself.
Myles groaned against her neck, the sound vibrating through her. "That's it. Let me hear you."
He delivered one more—crisp, deliberate—then slid both hands under the waistband of her panties and dragged them down her thighs in a single, ruthless tug. The lace caught briefly on the thickest part of her ass before sliding free, leaving her bare and glistening under the harsh kitchen lights.
Max felt the cool air hit her soaked folds and shivered. She was dripping—had been since he first put those huge hands on her waist—and she knew he could see it. Could probably smell it.
Behind her, she heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being lowered.
She glanced back over her shoulder—couldn't help it—and her breath caught in her throat.
Myles had freed himself.
His cock was… obscene.
Thick as her wrist, dark and veined, the head flushed a deep plum and already slick at the slit. It curved upward slightly, heavy enough that it bobbed when he gave it one slow, firm stroke. The sheer girth made her inner muscles flutter around nothing.
"Holy fuck," she breathed, "you're—"
"Big?" He stepped closer again, notching the fat head against her entrance without pushing in. Just resting there, letting her feel the heat, the weight, the slow drip of precum mixing with her own wetness. "Yeah."
He rubbed the length of himself along her slit—up, down, coating himself in her slick—teasing her swollen clit with every pass until her thighs shook.
"And you're soaked already," he said, voice thick with satisfaction. "Dirty fucking girl. Pissed at me five minutes ago and now your cunt's crying for it."
Max's forehead dropped to the cool metal of the counter. Her hips rocked back without permission, chasing the pressure.
"Shut up and fuck me," she rasped.
Myles chuckled—low, dark, dangerous.
"Oh, I will."
He pressed forward—just the head at first—stretching her open inch by brutal inch.
Max's mouth fell open on a silent scream.
With one brutal, deliberate thrust, Myles buried himself to the hilt.
The stretch was immediate and merciless. Max's walls had to yield around his impossible girth, fluttering and spasming as they tried—and failed—to accommodate him all at once. A sharp, high cry tore from her throat, raw and involuntary, echoing off the stainless steel and tile like a gunshot in the empty kitchen.
"Oh shit—Myles! You're splitting me open!"
Her voice cracked on the last word, half pain, half something darker and hungrier. She could feel every thick vein dragging along her inner walls, the blunt head kissing places no one had ever reached before. Her pussy clenched hard around the invasion, trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time. Slick heat coated him instantly, dripping down her thighs in obscene little rivulets.
Myles groaned low in his chest—a sound that vibrated through both their bodies where they were locked together. He held still for one long heartbeat, letting her feel the full, heavy weight of him seated deep inside, stretching her to the absolute limit. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above her ass.
Then he started to move.
Not gentle. Not tentative. Deep, relentless strokes that pulled almost all the way out—leaving her empty and aching—before slamming back in with enough force to make her whole body jolt forward against the counter. Each thrust bottomed out with a wet, meaty smack as his hips collided with the plush curves of her ass. The sound was filthy, unmistakable: skin slapping skin, slick suction every time he withdrew, the low squelch of her soaked cunt taking him again and again.
Max's massive tits, still trapped inside her half-unbuttoned shirt and shoved-down bra, swung heavily with every punishing drive. Pressed against the cold steel countertop, the sensitive undersides dragged across the chilled surface, nipples scraping roughly through fabric. The friction made her gasp louder, made her arch her back harder, offering more of herself without conscious thought. Her breasts bounced and swayed wildly—side to side, up and down—slapping softly against each other and the counter with wet little thuds whenever his rhythm faltered for even a second.
The kitchen filled with noise.
The rhythmic clap-clap-clap of his pelvis meeting her ass. The wet, obscene slurp of her pussy gripping him on every upstroke. Her sharp, broken moans that pitched higher with each thrust. His deep, guttural grunts every time he bottomed out. The faint metallic rattle of the counter legs shifting under the force of their bodies. Somewhere in the background, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, indifferent witnesses to the raw fucking unfolding beneath them.
"Take it, Max," Myles growled against the back of her neck, teeth grazing the sweat-slick skin. "Take this black dick like the slut you are."
She answered with her body first—hips shoving back to meet him, ass jiggling with the impact, cunt squeezing down like a vice. Then the words spilled out, filthy and desperate.
"Fuck yes—give it to me! Pound this white pussy—it's yours tonight, fuck, it's all yours!"
Her voice was wrecked already, hoarse from crying out, but she didn't care. The degradation poured out of her like it had been waiting for permission.
{Free Version is 3258 Word Count. 8725 Full Word Count. aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}