I shift in the chair, my jeans suddenly too tight. My cock’s hard again, throbbing, like it’s got a personal vendetta against my self-control.
Fucking annoying.
I’m thirty-two, not some horny kid who can’t keep it together.
But it’s been a while—months, maybe a year—since I’ve even wanted a woman like this. Hookups are quick, mechanical, a means to an end. No names, no feelings, just bodies. I don’t linger, don’t obsess. I don’t fucking dream about them.
But Mary? She’s lodged in my head like a bullet I can’t dig out. Her taste—wine and recklessness—lingers on my tongue. I walked away, did the right thing, but my body doesn’t give a shit about right.
Itwants her.
Wants to pin her down, spread her thighs.
I grit my teeth, willing the hard-on to fuck off, but it’s not listening.
The numbers on the bed taunt me; bank transfers, shell companies, Igor’s missing millions. I need to focus, need to deliver, but my blood’s pounding south, and every thought circles back to her.
Fine. I’ll handle it. Get it out of my system. Quick and easy, so I can think straight again.
I stand, peeling off my jeans with a muttered curse. My cock springs free, hard and heavy, pulsing like it’s got its own heartbeat. The motel bathroom’s a shithole; cracked tiles, a mirror speckled with grime—but it’s got a door, and that’s enough. I lock it, more out of habit than need, and lean against the sink, the cold porcelain biting into my palms.
My reflection stares back, all sharp angles and shadows. Scars crisscross my chest, reminders of knives and bullets that didn’t finish the job. I don’t look like a man who gets soft for anyone. But she didn’t see the scars, didn’t see the killer. She saw me, orsome version of me she made up in her drunken haze, and that’s what’s fucking me up.
I wrap my hand around my cock, rough and deliberate. It’s thick, veins standing out, pre-cum already beading at the tip. I’m pissed at how much I want this; how much I wanther.
My grip tightens, and I stroke, slow at first, imagining her hand instead of mine. Her fingers, soft but bold, fumbling through my jeans last night, squeezing me like she owned me. I groan, low and guttural, the sound swallowed by the bathroom’s hum.
The fantasy takes over.
Mary sprawled on my bed, that stupid hoodie gone, her tits full and heavy, spilling out for my hands, my mouth. Nipples hard, pink, begging for my tongue. I’d suck them, bite them, make her gasp, her back arching off the mattress. Her thighs spread wide, pussy glistening, so wet it’s dripping, and that voice—fuck, that voice—whimpering, “Anton, please…”
I remember what she said, drunk and rambling, her cheeks flushed as she confessed she’d never come before. Never had a man make her shake, make her lose herself.
A fucking shame.
A crime.
But I’d fix that. I’d make her come so hard she’d forget everything but me.
I’d start slow, teasing, my fingers sliding through her slick folds, circling her clit until she’s trembling, begging.
I’d push one finger inside her, then two, curling them, finding that spot that makes her eyes widen, her breath hitch. I’d lick her clit, slow and deliberate, tasting her, feeling her thighs quake around my head as she clutches the sheets.
She’d be so tight, so responsive, her hips bucking against my mouth, and I’d keep going, sucking, licking, until she’s screaming, her pussy pulsing around my fingers, coming apart for the first time. But I wouldn’t stop. I’d make her come again, over and over, until she’s a writhing, sobbing mess, her body shaking with aftershocks, her voice hoarse from crying my name. Wanting more.
My hand moves faster, slick with pre-cum, my cock throbbing, hard as steel.
I imagine her under me, those full tits bouncing with every thrust, her pink nipples pinched between my fingers. I’d flick them, roll them, just to hear her gasp, her breath catching like she’s drowning in it. I’d grip her hips, hard enough to bruise, and sink into her, deep, relentless, her pussy clenching tight, pulling me in. She’d claw at my shoulders, moan “Anton” like a prayer, and I’d fuck her like I mean it, like she’s mine to ruin. Her legs would wrap around me, heels digging into my back, urging me deeper, and I’d give it to her—hard, brutal, watching her eyes roll back as she takes every inch. I’d make her come on my cock, feel her shatter beneath me, her body shaking as I push her over the edge again, because once isn’t enough. I want her addicted, begging for me every fucking night.
My breaths come short, ragged, my balls tightening as the pressure builds. I’m lost in it—her scent, her sounds, the way she’d look at me, wide-eyed and wanting, like I’m more than a killer. Like I’m hers. “Come for me,kiska,” I’d growl, and she would, screaming, her pussy milking me as she breaks, her tits bouncing, her nails tearing into my skin. I’d keep going, fucking her through it, making her come until she’s limp, spent, and still whispering my name.
The thought tips me over.Chert!
My cock pulses, and I come hard, ropes of cum hitting the bathroom wall, the sink, the fucking tiles. It’s a mess, a goddamn explosion, like I’ve been storing it up for months. My knees buckle, and I brace myself against the sink, chest heaving, a low growl in my throat.
Fuck. I haven’t come like that in… ever. Not from my own hand, not from anyone else. It’s like my body’s been waiting for her, hoarding every ounce of want until she stumbled into my life.
I catch my breath, staring at the mess. Cum’s dripping down the wall, pooling on the floor, a testament to how fucked I am. Quick and easy, my ass. Jerking off was supposed to clear my head, not make me want her more. But now all I can think about is her on her knees, licking her lips, taking me in her mouth until I’m painting her instead of this shithole bathroom.
