Tracer gets hooked on bbc

Tracer the bubbly, hyperactive poster girl for Overwatch had made a series of catastrophic, drunken choices. The guilt of cheating on Emily, her sweet and trusting girlfriend, was supposed to be a corrosive, self destructive shame. But that shame was losing the war against the sheer, addictive physical pull of the man she was with.

The man was tall, Black, and possessed a cock that was absolutely monstrous thick, vein mapped, and intimidatingly jumbo. For someone whose entire physiology was built on blink based twitch reflexes and rapid energy bursts, the solid, heavy, and unchanging presence of his cock was like the most potent drug imaginable.

The cheating started in a haze of cheap whiskey at a dimly lit club, far from the Overwatch base. Tracer had stumbled into the man's space, her movements clumsy and uncoordinated the "drunk blinks" making her appear like a glitching sprite, popping in and out of his personal bubble and she had practically thrown herself at his thighs. The thought that she was betraying Emily made her retch, but the sight of that massive cock straining against his pants made her mouth water so badly she nearly choked.

When he finally unfastened his belt, the reveal was overwhelming. His cock was thick enough for her small hands to barely wrap around, dark and glistening, with obvious veins that looked like something carved from something hard and delicious. The sheer scale of it the weight, the length, the solidity hit her brain like a system override.

She dropped to her knees on the sticky club floor, her legs feeling like jelly, forgetting every promise she had ever made to Emily. The traitorous part of her mind screamed "Bad girl!", but the addict in her was howling. She parted her lips, which were slightly chapped and wet from the alcohol, and aimed herself at the tip.

As she took the jumbo cock into her mouth, the thickness filled her oral cavity completely, stretching the corners of her lips. The girth was so filling, so obstructive, and so satisfying that it felt like her brain was short circuiting. Most things in her fast paced life were quick and fleeting the blink, the crossbow bolt, the comm shout but this was slow, heavy, and permanent. That solid mass filling her throat, hitting the back of her tongue with such hard pressure, was the most hooked she had felt in her entire hyperactive life.