“Drew!”
I pick up the pace, finding that perfect angle that makes his thighs tremble against mine. His cock slaps against his stomach with each thrust, the head glistening and purple, a thin strand of precome connecting to the puddle forming in the hollow beneath his ribs. His breathing changes—shorter, sharper gasps punctuated by these little hitches that catch in his throat.
“Touch yourself,” I command, and he obeys immediately, wrapping a paint-stained hand around his cock.
The visual is almost too much—Jackson spread out beneath me, taking my cock perfectly while he strokes himself. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed.
“Not gonna last,” he warns, his hand already a blur on his dick. It’s almost laughable how he’s not putting on a show, he’s not trying to impress—he’s desperate. Lost in it.
I slow down my thrusts and watch how he masturbates, how he gives himself pleasure when no one else is around. His fist swallows the head of his cock each time, twisting slightly on the downstroke. He alternates the rhythm, sometimes fast and ruthless, occasionally slow and cruel, like he’s fighting to draw out the pleasure but failing spectacularly. I’ve never been more obsessed with a single human motion.
I’m leaking into the condom, but my heart is leaking all over the room. There’s something about Jackson getting himself off while I’m inside him that’s raw and animal. I thrust in harder, flexing my hips to hit his prostate dead-on, and he nearly doubles over, paint and sweat and lube turning the moment into a beautiful masterpiece.
My own orgasm teeters at the edge, but I force myself to hold off, ravenous for every second of this. “Want to watch you come on my cock. Want to see how tight you get.”
That finishes him. Jackson’s whole body seizes up, every muscle locking, and then he’s coming with a shout that rings in my ears. He jerks, half-lifting off the bed, and his abs contract into a hard plate.
The first pulse of his orgasm goes off like a loaded spring, launching white streaks up his own chest to his chin, splattering over the already-dried paint. But it’s the way his eyes go wide and find mine that does me in. He’s staring at me as though I’ve wired him directly into a mainline of pleasure, and he can’t fucking breathe. His mouth pops open, lips trembling, and he keeps coming in these drawn-out, shuddering waves.
Suddenly, something inside me snaps. The instant Jackson’s body locks up around my cock, the floodgates open, and every trace of self-control is torched. My animal brain takes the wheel as everything narrows to the rippling way he pulses around me and the urgent slap of my hips meeting his ass. I rut into him in a reckless, punishing rhythm.
Jackson’s head tips back, mouth wide and wordless, every vein in his neck standing out in furious relief. He’s not even stroking his cock for pleasure anymore, just grinding out the last dregs of release, a compulsion he can’t override.
I don’t bother holding back anymore. I fuck him fast and hard, chasing the desperate, gasping noises pouring out of him.Sweat and lube and the sharp tang of latex fill the air, turning it soupy with the proof of what we’re doing.
Jackson’s hands scramble for purchase on my arms, nails raking down my forearms, leaving stinging tracks. He drags me close, needing me on top of him, and I bow my whole body over his, pressing his knees to his chest to get the perfect angle. My cock slams into him, bottoming out every time, and his eyes roll back again. He’s gone from making soft noises to straight-up yelling, swearing, and babbling my name.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Jackson—” My voice is wrecked, raw and hoarse, but I can’t stop talking. “You feel so fucking good—can’t believe you’re letting me—fuck—oh, shit, I’m gonna blow.” The words dissolve into nothing as my balls draw up tight.
“Do it, Drew. Fill me up.” Jackson is delirious, alternating between grunts and filthy encouragements.
Suddenly, everything else drops away—my name, my major, my entire personality, as I am reduced to the singular point of where our bodies meet. Jackson’s ankles cross behind my neck, dragging me even deeper, and I swear to God, he’s trying to break me in half.
I’m reduced to nothing but “uh-uh-uh, ah-ah-ah,” and I’m not even embarrassed. My hands are everywhere—fisting his hair, raking down his sweaty chest, digging into the meat of his thighs—as I jackhammer into him. The sound of skin on skin is wet and relentless, echoing off the old plaster walls.
My climax sneaks up on me, and when I finally hit the edge, I roar, “Jackson!” and slam into him one last time.
The orgasm rips through me, intense to the point that I collapse forward, crushing Jackson beneath me and riding it out as I’m torn to pieces. Every part of my body surrenders control. My thighs spasm, my arms flail as my fingers claw at the headboard. My feet kick the bed, toes struggling to grab purchase on the bedsheets. Even my ass jiggles as my cockcontinues to pulse inside Jackson, filling the condom to its breaking point.
For a full thirty seconds, I can’t hear anything but my own pulse thundering in my ears. I blink, trying to clear my head, and realize Jackson is watching me with this dazed and tender expression that makes my heart stutter and my brain reboot. His eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen, and I get the distinct sense he’s memorizing every second of this, tucking it away for later. The funny thing is…I am too.
His ankles slip off my shoulders, and I catch them, lowering his legs gently to the bed.
Neither of us speaks because there are no words.
ICE QUEEN BLOG POST #6
They should hand out awards for what I witnessed tonight, because the students of Berkeley Shore University have redefined the meaning of “performance art.”
My fingers fly across the keyboard as I compose what might be my magnum opus. The Convention Hall cleared out an hour ago, but the images burned into my retinas will last a lifetime.
Sweet Dreams Are Made of This:A Comprehensive Review of the Most Sensual Art Performance Known to Mankind
Posted by The Ice Queen | March 20th | 1:05 AM
Hey there, puck bunnies! Ice Queen here, your go-to gal for the coolest takes on all things Barracudas.
Let me start by saying this: I’ve covered a lot of BSU events in my illustrious blogging career. I’ve seen naked pledges, bodyshot competitions that ended in the emergency room, and that infamous incident with the mechanical bull and the philosophy professor. But tonight was something else entirely.
