I mewl pathetically in response.
He pulls back slowly, and I’m so gone that I’ve forgotten he needs to thrust in and out to be effective. The deepest, most inner part of me, of my biology, can’t stand the thought of him retreating, even if it’s only so he can gather momentum to fuck into me again. “No, no, nooooo!”
Lucky for me, the most inner part of Branson knows how to fuck. It knows how to thrust. He was built for it. Made for it, the way I was made to take it.
He pulls out until only his head is buried inside me, soothing me with soft, comforting sounds, and thrusts in. It’s a blinding thrust. An overwhelming, devastating thrust that activates pleasure centers all over my body. My asshole quivers, sending gentle ripples that pulse up and down Branson’s length, testing his girth and length and finding them perfect.
Perfectly thick. Perfectly long.
Exactly what I need. Exactly what I’ve craved for days.
I erupt without warning.
My orgasm slams into me violently. It’s nowhere one second, and then it’s all I know. It’s all that exists. It overwhelms me completely, riding the heat wave and amplifying it to something that defies comprehension. Something not of this world. Not of this place. Not of this body. Fuel poured onto an open flame. Pleasure on top of pleasure.
I shatter and quiver under the force of it, opening my mouth and shouting my release until my voice cracks.
Branson slows, seemingly unsurprised by how suddenly, or how hard, I’m erupting. He waits until the third or fourth surge of ecstasy has died down before starting to fuck me in earnest.
As soon as it happens, I recognize it. The rhythm. The pace. It’s ancient, a primal beat my body was made for. I accept what he’s giving me with gratitude. With appreciation. With no fear or concern whatsoever.
He holds my hips in place, his grip firm and inescapable, and fucks me thoroughly. Every thrust is deep. Purposeful and true. I alternate from near empty to as full as a man can possibly be at blistering speed. His pace is perfection, predictable enough that soon, I don’t mourn the slow, punishing drag of him retreating. I relish it because I know it will be followed by a mind-blowing rush of sensation.
For all his strength and power, he’s true to his word. He’s gentle with me. Considerate and careful. He doesn’t slam into me. He holds back, waiting until I push my ass back impatiently before fucking me harder.
I expect to become oversensitive after my orgasm because that’s what usually happens, but this is different. I’m different. Flames lap at my skin and heat swims through my veins. I don’t have an off switch anymore. There’s no such thing as too much. There’s only my body and Branson’s, and the sounds we’re making together.
He fucks me until my arms and legs give way, and the only thing holding me up are his hands on my hips. He bears my weight easily, pushing me away and dragging me down on his pole. Sliding my hole up and down his cock like it’s a sleeve. A hand. A toy made for him. He fucks my ass vigorously as I gurgle euphorically and beg for more.
Despite my orgasm, and despite the fact that I’m full of alpha cock, and being expertly fucked, I want something. Something more. I need something more.
My entire body breaks into goosebumps two seconds before I receive it, almost as though I was primed, ready and waiting for it. Branson stops moving, stops panting, stops everything. He grunts loudly as his dick swells and pulses inside me. His fingers dig into my hips and he thrusts once more. Deeply. As deep as he can.
Then he shoots.
The bottom half of my body turns to hot, molten liquid as he sprays rope after rope of semen inside me. My body recognizes it on a cellular level.That’s it.That’s what I want.That’swhat I need. His seed paints my insides and my body reacts. A chain reaction. A chemical process. A series of events caused by the last one. His orgasm triggers mine. It’s like the one I had before, devastating, earth-shattering. Except, it’s harder and stronger.
My thoughts fade and my mind goes blank. All that’s left is an infinite pleasure that rips through me like wildfire.
A long time later, a lifetime, maybe, I open my eyes and find that I’m alone in my body, on my back in my cozy nest, staring mindlessly at the ceiling. The lines of the beams above me swim and blur. Coming into focus and moving out of it again.
Branson lies beside me, a hot, solid slab of muscle. Of maleness. Of strength and power. He has one arm tucked under the back of his head. His free hand is between my legs, fingers moving lazily as he gently rubs his seed into my opening, pushing it back inside me when it spills out.
12
Branson
Lucienistheonlything I can smell.
The last of the clean-skin smell is gone now, replaced by a bone-deep richness. Bone-deep ripeness. Bone-deep rightness. He’s the only thing I can smell, see, or feel. And God, he feels good. He’s smooth and silky inside. Wet and warm. No, not warm, hot.
Scorching hot. Burning hot.
My dick has never been this happy.
I’ve had him three times so far, and my lust for him isn’t remotely sated. I’ve come harder than ever, yet even as it’s happening, I want him again. I want him so much that I don’t know what to do with myself.
I lie beside him, searching for signs of his next heat wave, and I can’t wait for it.
