I can feel it coming, a surge building in my core, molten and electric. He knows, somehow—he can feel it, too—and he brings his hand between us, thumb circling my clit, sloppy and perfect, and that’s all it takes. I cum so hard I see white, my whole body locking around him, clenched him. He fucks me through it, voice a ragged snarl, and then he’s coming, too, pulse after pulse shooting hot inside me. The sensation is obscene—how full I am, how I can feel his cock kicking and twitching inside my pussy, the liquid heat of him spilling out around the root, slicking my thighs, mixing with my own mess.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He collapses on top of me, chests heaving, his cock still buried inside, still twitching with aftershocks. He kisses my jaw, my eyelids, the sweat at my hairline. My body is shaking, sated and raw, every nerve singing.
He says something low and sweet against my ear, something about how he wants to ruin me again, how I was made for him. I shudder. He’s still hard inside me, fat and swollen, the thick ridge of his head catching on my clenching muscles every time he moves even a little. I can feel the drip of slick and semen leaking down my crack, pooling under my ass. The smell of us—hot, electric, almost metallic—fills the room.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and his eyes are blown wide, pupils drowning out the green. He palms my breast, thumb swiping over the oversensitive nipple, and his cock kicks inside me at the same time. I gasp. He laughs, low and mean, and starts to move again—tiny, shallow thrusts, just pushing the head of his cock in and out, teasing, the slow drag of his length a perfect torture.
“Still hungry?” he murmurs. There’s a thread of admiration in his voice, but also disbelief, like he can’t believe how desperate I am, how easy I am to break open. I nod, fists tangling in the sheets, and he gives me what I want: a full withdrawal, his cock dragging out of me slow and wet and obscene. I watch, shameless, as the head pops free, painted with my creamy slick, a smear of his come hanging from the slit. He’s so hard it looks painful, veins throbbing, flushed almost purple.
He leans back on his haunches, grabs my hips, and flips me in one effortless motion. My face hits the pillow but I arch my back, spreading for him, presenting. I’m dripping, thighs sticky, cunt gaping with need. He lines up and slams in, no warning, no hesitation, both of us grunting at the impact. He grabs a fistful of my hair, yanks my head back so I’m gasping, and fucks me like he owns me.
Every thrust is brutal, cock bottoming out against my cervix, the base grinding hard against my clit. I can’t tell where I end and he begins. My body’s a live wire, every nerve ending begging for more. He slaps my ass, hard enough to sting, and I feel myself clamp down on him, milking his cock, drawing another groan from his chest.
He pulls out, smears the head through my folds, shoves a slick thumb in my ass, and when I gasp, he laughs, filthy and delighted. “You like that, huh?” he says, pushing back inside, thumb and cock stretching me open together, double the fullness, double the sick, perfect ache.
I lose track of everything but sensation—the burn and stretch, the relentless pounding, the sharp edge of his teeth on my shoulder when he bends down to bite. I want to be ruined, and he’s ruining me, cock splitting me open, hands bruising my hips, voice in my ear telling me I’m his, I was made for this.
When I cum again it’s violent, a scream I can’t hold in, my whole body taut and shaking. He lets go of my hair, wraps an arm around and I can’t even process it, my brain is heat-fried and humming. He’s not soft yet, not even close, and I feel him shift his hips, still inside me, and my cunt spasms, greedy for more even as my whole body is jelly. His cock is still thick, hot, the skin tight with blood and the head flared. He’s so deep, I swear I can feel him against my fucking cervix, stuffing me so full it aches in this gorgeous, electric way.
I whimper as he starts to move again, slow but deliberate, like he knows exactly how sensitive I am now, every nerve ending flayed open and raw. Each withdrawal is a drag along my slick, battered walls, the ridge of his head scraping over my g-spot, the shaft pulling me hollow before he thrusts back in, all the way, so hard my body jolts up the bed. My pussy is so wet, the sound is obscene, a squelching slap with every movement, and it makes me even wetter, a flush of embarrassment mixing with giddy delight.
He’s watching my face now, and I can feel his cock throb with the pleasure of it, the heat of my cunt milking him on every stroke. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, and his voice is different now—wrecked, almost reverent. “You feel so fucking good.”
His hands are everywhere: cradling my head, skimming down my sides, spreading my legs wider so he can see himself disappear into my red, stretched hole. He pulls out almost all the way and then rams back in, and I yelp, a choked gasp that makes him smile, slow and wolfish, and he does it again, harder, like he’s trying to fuck his shape into me forever.
I claw at his back, my nails leaving streaks. I want him to mark me, ruin me. “Don’t stop,” I beg, and he doesn’t, he’s relentless, pounding into me now, every thrust brutal and perfect, his balls slapping against my ass. The base of his cock is so thick it wrenches me open, and I can feel every vein, every pulse, every throb.
He leans back, kneeling between my legs, grabbing my ankles and folding my knees to my chest. My pussy is bare and gaping, dripping, and his cock looks huge, angry, wet with a mix of both our come. He lines up and feeds it back in, slower now, but somehow even deeper, and I scream, the sound echoing in the room. He’s hitting something inside me that makes my vision blur, makes me convulse around him.
He fucks me like that, holding my legs up, watching himself slam in and out, watching my face. He spits on his thumb and circles my clit, hard and ruthless, and I come again, shaking and sobbing, the orgasm tearing through me so suddenly I almost black out. I feel my pussy clamp down, milking his cock, and he loses it, his whole body going taut, and then he’s pumping more come inside me, so much I can feel it pooling out of me around him, leaking between my legs and down onto the sheets. He stays like that, buried as deep as he’ll go, shivering through the aftershocks, eyes locked to mine, and in that moment it’s not just filthy, it’s sacred. I want to cry, and I do, tears streaking into my hair, and he wipes them gently with his thumb, whispering something soft and wordless into my neck.
He eases out of me and I whimper at the loss, already empty, already missing him. My legs are trembling, too weak to close, and he gathers me up, buries me in his arms. We are disgusting, sweaty and soaked, the sheets ruined, the air saturated with sex. I’m still gasping, lungs refusing to calm, and he just holds me, one hand tracing the curve of my hip with a kind of stunned wonder.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice tentative, edged with something like fear.
“No.” I shake my head, my face pressed to the hollow of his throat. “I liked it.” I realise it’s true, that I liked how rough he was, how he didn’t treat me like a glass doll.
He laughs, a broken, relieved sound. “Good. Because I can’t help it. I lose my mind with you.”
I tilt my chin, meet his eyes. There’s a smear of my lipstick at the corner of his mouth, and I wipe it away with my finger, sucking the pad clean. He smiles at me, gentle, like I’m something precious.
“There’s blood,” I murmur, and he glances down, sees the streaks of red mixed with white between my legs. He looks at me, waiting, and I see the war in his face: shame and desire, guilt and triumph.
“I don’t care,” I say. “I want you to ruin me.” It’s a dare and a promise.
He kisses my forehead, then my eyelids, then my mouth, slow and careful. “I already did,” he whispers. “And I want to keep doing it. Every day, for as long as you let me.”
My heart is a fist in my chest. I nod, because words are too soft for this, too fragile, and I’m not fragile at all. I’m blazing, obliterated, remade in the shape of his want.
He pulls me closer, and I can feel him hardening again, slippery with our mess. “You’re insatiable,” he says, half accusation, half prayer.
“So are you,” I murmur, and hook my ankle behind his thigh.
This time, he’s gentle, slow, like worship. He moves inside me like he’s learning a language, coaxing every reaction from my body, kissing every part of me he can reach. When I come again, it’s not an explosion but a tide—warm, inevitable, endless. He follows me, body shaking with it, and I hold him tight, like maybe I could keep him.
After, we lay tangled together, chest to chest, and he strokes my hair, humming tunelessly. I close my eyes, pretending for a moment that nothing outside this room exists out of me, so much I’m scared it will spill over the edges, leak out around the thick plug of him still wedged inside.
He collapses, but not on top of me—rolls us sideways so I’m on his chest, cheek pressed to his collarbone. I can feel his heartbeat through my skin, wild and uneven, matching the rhythm of my own. He’s still inside, and his hand is on the back of my head, holding me there like if he lets go I’ll disintegrate.
