Absolute, unbroken silence.
He stands there, staring at me, naked and spread open on the forest floor.
I wonder what he must be thinking. He can’t possibly see me as normal. Who the hell lies down bare-assed in the woods like this?
I notice his hands, hanging loosely at his sides as always, gloved in thick material, flexing slightly.
"Will you touch my nipples?" I ask softly. They jut into the air, hard and tight, begging for his touch: a pinch, a squeeze, a roll, a tug.
A slow, intended step.
Then he lowers himself, kneeling between my thighs. His knees shift slightly, nudging my legs apart, since they’d instinctively closed a little, but no, he won’t allow that. He spreads them wide again, a short, almost correcting motion.
Fuck. It’s like a shot of desire, a hit of some drug, his proximity always does this to me. Safety mixed with hunger, a hint of darkness. The perfect cocktail.
His gloved hand rises, moving unhurriedly along my neck. A finger hooks my silver chain, lifting the little tab before letting it drop back against my heated skin.
The proof that I still belong to him, no matter if he came as a ghost.
Then he traces the scar on my gland, the one left by the teenage Bay’s teeth. It’s a strange sensation, feeling his fingers there, lingering, almost as if he’s emphasizing his presence over it.
Interesting.
Then his hand drifts down to my collarbones, tracing their shape before his fingers finally reach where I want them most, he pinches my stiff nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
I let out a shameful little mewl as he rolls and tugs it, making me moan and arch my back.
I’m already so fucking turned on, my cock is shamelessly dripping pre-cum.
He leans in, hovering over me on all fours, his hands planted beside my shoulders.
For a moment, his mask hangs just above my face. And then…
For the first time, he does something new. He dips his head, resting it just below my collarbone, right above my nipple.
It’s a rare gesture, almost like he wants to nuzzle me, or maybe just drag his masked mouth over my nipple, even with the fabric in the way.
But it’s not enough. I need to be satisfied, deep, hard, fucking satisfaction.
"Fuck me," I whisper breathlessly, my fingers clawing at his sweater. I don’t need foreplay with him, not ever, and especially not in heat. My hole is swollen, aching, half the day spent stuffing myself with a dildo just to hold out until now.
I only want one thing: good, rough, animalistic fucking.
The condoms are already laid out beside us, where I left them.
What’s interesting is that he always turns away when he puts them on. And in those brief glimpses of his crotch, it’s always smooth, shaved bare, with no visible trace of the auburn-brown pubes Bay has. He opens a second condom, always doubling up to maintain an extra-thick barrier between us.
He lowers himself over me, his thighs under mine, lining up his thick cockhead with my open, pulsing hole.
With a smooth, gradual thrust, he slides inside, the move almost elegant, seamless, and I let out a creaking groan.
I love this feeling. Sometimes I wonder how I survive just with my dildos, when what I really crave is to be fucked, ridden, pounded.
His hard body moves over mine, pushing me, shoving me across the forest floor like I’m some animal.
He sinks in deep, to the edge of comfort, and I feel impaled on his thick length, like I’m skewered on a log.
But the wildness, the primal rawness of it all, fits perfectly, not just in this place, but in how I feel, thrillingly split down the middle…
