“But it feels so good, baby. I love feeling like your little cum whore. So fucking full of you that I—”
My hand has flown to her mouth without my command, but I keep it there, pressing onto her lips so she’ll stop her teasing. But that’s not enough, as she soon squeezes her walls around me, reminding me I can’t catch a fucking break with her.
“You really are insufferable,” I mutter.
She wins. But if I have to come embarrassingly fast, I’m taking her with me.
The deep, powerful thrust I give her makes her cry behind my palm. Her arms and legs hold on to me tighter, her pussy still snug around me like a vise.
My thrusts are implacable, determined, and ruthless. The moment is almost animalistic, so are my grunts and her muffled screams. It feels more like anger than love, but I think we both need it.
I only let go of her mouth to lower my hand between us. I strum her clit with the tips of my index and middle fingers, admiring her pleasure-distorted face. Nothing will ever compare to this, to reality, to her.
“Aah, wait,” she whimpers between two screams. “I—I think I’ll—”
The first spasms have arrived, the hints that her orgasm is mere seconds away. I don’t wait. I keep doing exactly what I was doing, knowing this might be my only chance to make her come before I do.
“Lex, I need to—” she tries again.
When it happens, I understand what she was trying to say, why she was trying to stop me. Her pleasure explodes, splashing between us, on my lower stomach, and my hand is still working her clit. Pride swells in my chest as I look down to see it happen. Her bunched-up dress is partially in the way, but I can still see what matters. I’m so entranced by the clear liquid gushing out of her, I barely think of her tight walls spasming around my cock. When I meet her eyes, we’re both equally surprised by the turn of events, unaware that she could also squirt like this—not just from finger fucking.
“What a good fucking girl,” I praise, still hammering into her.
As she shatters in my arms, I swallow her sobs and cries, supporting her in this moment of pure, unfathomable pleasure. My hips show no signs of clemency as more splashes of her cum drench us, the slushy sound of it resonating in the room. There’s so much of it, it’ll soak the sheets and her clothes beneath us.
Her nails claw at my back, and if there were any length to them, I know she’d draw blood. Her screams of utter pleasure, her beauty, her walls choking me with their pulses, the wet sounds between us… They all beckon my own release, and I don’t fight it. I can’t.
Shoving my forehead into the sweaty crook of her neck, I let my orgasm wreck me, balls tightening with each rope of cum that juts out, my whole body trembling at the intensity of the pleasure. Fuck, this must be what women feel when they orgasm. A full-body experience, from the swollen head of my cock to the prickling tips of my fingers and toes.
Months of repressed need spills into her, so much of it I sense it sip out from around me before I’m even done coming. Fucking hell, how could I ever think I could contain my desire for her by handling it myself? I could do it ten times a day, and it still wouldn’t be enough compared to this.
Nothing could ever be enough.
I don’t know how long I stay hunched on top of her, coming what feels like endless surges of cum, but by the time I’m done, we’re both sweaty and panting. I feel empty physically, but overflowing emotionally.
My arms are weak as I force myself up to look down at her, but the effort is worth it given the way she waits for me, her soft, brown gaze seeking mine. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes glistening with satisfaction. Prettiest woman I’ve ever seen…
With one last grunt, I pull myself up and out, then I roll to her side, spent. My cock has barely softened, but the cold air of the room on its wet surface will take care of that soon. Unless she wants to go at it again right now, which I’d probably be up for.
A fucking witch, she is.
We’re still struggling with our uneven breathing when she asks, “So… was this breakup sex or make-up sex?”
Fuck, I don’t even know. I need to break up with her, but I can’t bring myself to. Post-nut clarity is a term she’s used before, and I think that’s what I’m experiencing. I see both arguments so clearly, but neither outcome is good enough. What if I endanger her by staying with her? But what if there’s no such risks waiting for us, and I’ll lose her over nothing? There’s no good answer, is there?
“I guess it was breakup sex, then,” she mumbles after a while without an answer from me.
I don’t correct her because again, I’m not sure what the right answer is. But when my heart makes a decision my brain hasn’t processed yet, I don’t hold it back.
I’m over her, back into the cradle of her thighs before either of us can see it coming.
“What are you doing?” she questions with a frown.
“Make-up sex this time.”
Her eyes go wide when she turns to look at me, like a deer caught in the headlights. For a moment, she stares at me, wondering if I’m being genuine—as if I would make that kind of joke in such a moment. Her disbelief is amusing enough for a grin to bloom on my face.
It’s still stretching my lips when I lay a kiss on her cheek, then on her temple. I explore her whole face like that, dropping butterfly kisses on every flushed inch of it.
