This one's kind of a silly one, but it's one that I tell my wife sometimes when we do role plays, and she and her Lilo ina seem to enjoy it, so here it is now for y'all:
My wife (who is a nurse) somehow gets identified and is mysteriously offered a one-night job working as a private nurse for a championship boxer at a Vegas prize fight. The money is good and she'll be flown out and put up in a suite, and she can bring a +1 (me, of course), so she takes the gig.
As we're flying out to Vegas (on a private jet!), my wife starts looking at YouTubes of some of this boxer's previous fights. He's huge and he's dominant. Never lost a fight. Barely ever even been touched, really. Clearly a confident dude. Sexy. And, of course, he's black. My wife-- who hasn't been with anyone but me since our wedding night-- knows that it's long been my fantasy that she take a lover... especially a black one. She's humored my role-plays sometimes. But it's never been something she's actually considered. But, hmm, with this guy...?
She quickly forces the thought from her mind. She's just going to Vegas to work a nursing job. That's all.
We're brought to the hotel in a limo just a couple of hours before the big fight, and upon checking in to the suite, my wife discovers that a wardrobe has been purchased for her use. There's a message that she's not to wear her nursing scrubs to the job. She's to report to the fight in "appropriate attire". Opening the wardrobe, she discovers that her mandated attire is a gold, backless club dress with a low-scooped front and a tight hemline that races up her thigh. A lacy red bra and panty set. Sexy spike heels, colored to match the lingerie. I huff a bit and ask just what kind of nursing job this is, and my wife asks herself a similar question, but truly the answer is becoming pretty clear. She is to be offered to this man. She has been ordered, like an item from a catalog. And at no small price.
My wife has a choice to make. We can just leave, if we want! But she decides: fuck it. YOLO. She takes the dress and the lingerie and the shoes and her makeup and everything else and she disappears into the bathroom of the suite, alone. She's gonna get ready to go do her "job". Once or twice I sneak in there to watch her prepare, horny as fuck at the sight of my wife tarting herself up like a high-end bottle girl for some other man. I even try to grab her and haul her over to the bed, but she elbows me away, and the message is clear. She's not mine tonight. She's already the rightful property of this big, wealthy, dominant black bull... a man whom neither of us have so much as met.
Ostensibly, my wife's only job is to report to the locker room after the match has concluded and give her boxer a physical inspection, administering whatever medical attention may be required. Before that, all we have to do is just watch the fight and enjoy, and so she and I go down to the arena and are ushered to our seats in the very front row. Her: looking like a supermodel *******. Me: looking like nothing. Scratch that, I actually *do* look like something... when the hapless challenger enters the arena and ducks into the ring, I discover that he and I happen to look almost exactly alike. He's a pasty white guy. Balding a bit. Little belly paunch. This dude-- my doppleganger-- is already sweating and twitching and anxious and his opponent hasn't even arrived yet.
But then he does. The gorgeous black god, my wife's employer, emerges from the opposite tunnel and makes his way toward the ring, and the whole way up the aisle he's staring directly at my wife. He pushes through the ropes while staring at my wife. He's receiving instructions from his corner while staring at my wife. Etc., etc. It's a look of possession. Ownership. I can see my wife flush and redden. I know for a fact that she's soaking wet right now in his gaze... a gaze that breaks only briefly, when the fight commences, and this dominant adonis summarily punishes my reedy white stand-in. It's like a man beating a boy. It's nothing. It's over in moments. My wife's new master stands over the broken body of this caucasian nil, and then gives my wife one last meaningful leer before disappearing back up the tunnel.
By this point I am practically non-existent in my wife's mind, as two ushers descend upon my wife and lead her up the tunnel, where her job awaits. She's shown into the locker room, where the boxer waits for her, alone, silent. He's sitting on an examination table, unwrapping the tape from his fists. My wife wordlessly begins to inspect this man's body, and of course there's not a mark on it. He hasn't broken a sweat. With her fingers she traces her way along his shoulders and pecs and abs, each individual muscle defined. Perfected. My wife all but swoons just to touch him. And so very little resistance is offered when this man gently (but insistently) pushes my wife to her knees before him.
Knowing what's wanted of her-- knowing what she herself wants-- my wife reaches up to the waistband of her bull's boxing trunks and slides them down, revealing the biggest black cock she's ever seen, and...
Well, from here on it's just sex, and this story has already gone on way too long, so I'll just stop here.
Anyway, that there's my unrealistic fantasy.