“I just felt like sucking cock, Z.” Her glance takes in the people meandering around us, close enough to see, but not hear. “If you’re not up for it, I’m sure someone else can—”
Possessiveness, pure and fierce takes over and I’m nothing but a beast, all rage and want.
I grasp her face, tighten my hold until her mouth pops open, and ease my cock inside.
She starts to fall and I grab her by the back of her head, my cock a good two inches in her mouth, and pause, so close to going against every rule I live by—consent, first and foremost. Safe, sane, consensual, dammit. Why do I keep forgetting that with her? “You know how to tap out if you can’t talk?”
She starts to shake her head, apparently recalls the rules, and nods.
“Show me.”
Her body finds its balance, she stretches up onto her knees and grasps my thighs, then taps them both, three times.
“Good. One hand’s enough. You can’t get to my thigh, touch me anywhere. Do anything three times and I’ll stop. You understand? Hell, you have my permission to knee me three times if that’s what it takes.” Her smile, stretched around my throbbing dick, is pure poetry. This whole exchange is surreal and perfect.
“Now,” I say, gathering up all that long, luscious hair and sliding slowly out until she’s got just the tip of me on her tongue. “You gonna be a good girl and take what I give you, Twy?”
She blinks, her eyes so dark behind the mask it’s hard to gauge just what she’s thinking. But, I’m a monster, and in this moment, I decide it doesn’t matter what she thinks. She’s given me permission, so we’re safe. Definitely consensual. Sane? Not so sure.
And I don’t fucking care. I push in, slowly, slowly, wanting this first feel of her mouth on my cock to last as long as it can. Bending my knees, I wind my right hand in her hair until it’s a rope in my fist, pull her head back enough to look at her face and bare her neck and slide my left hand on her throat.
I’d planned to take my time sinking deeper into her mouth, but Twyla—my eager little brat—impales herself on me.
* * *
Twyla
My eyes water. For a second, I want to reach up and wipe the tears, but then I let them go as I fuck my own face on his massive cock, practically choking myself.
Once I’ve started, I don’t for a second ask myself why I’m doing this. But once the idea’s there, I ask why it feels so good. Why?
Why is the discomfort so much better than any one too-intimate fumbling I’ve had in my life? The back of my throat’s not an erogenous zone, after all.
He grasps my hair, cutting off my train of thought, and watches me expectantly, as if waiting for a sign that I want him to stop. I don’t. I can’t. God, howcouldI when what starts as pain at my scalp shoots pure, unadulterated pleasure to my pussy?
The grind of dirt under my knees, the obscenely wide stretch of my mouth, the way he pulls, too hard, at my nipples. It’s all awful. Terrible. The exact opposite of pretty. The most painful thing I’ve chosen to do of my own accord, and yet, I’ve never wanted anything more.
With a grunt, he thrusts—hard.
I gag, lose my breath, my train of thought, a handful of brain cells.
“Fuck, look at you, taking my cock like a queen.”
Between my legs, I gush moisture. From the sound of his voice? The feel of him inside me? I’ve got no idea.
“You wet, baby? I want you wet and ready. Got to taste you again, get you all over me. I want to fuck every part of you, make you…” He groans the words out. A torrent of filth that sounds as out of control as he looks and it pushes me higher, twists me tighter. I want more of this—him, his body, his words.
Oh, god. Oh my god. How can I be this wild after that brain-destroying orgasm?
I’m moaning—a low, constant hum that sounds bestial in a way I’ve never seen myself. It’s notmynoise. Not of my choosing. It’s been wrung from me. Taken.
“That’s it. Take it. Take this cock. It’s yours. Fuck, look at you. Such a good girl. So fucking good.”
A shimmer of pleasure runs through me at those words.
Another thrust and I’m leaking fluids everywhere. My eyes are streaming, my mouth’s trailing saliva. My nose is probably dripping, too, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I don’t.
I don’t care about a fucking thing except this. And it’s glorious.
