I lightly scratched his back. It almost felt like he was stretching me. I felt full in the best way possible.
“Damn, Breeze,” he grunted as he bit my shoulder once he was inside of me. Q was fucking me slow and deep. The feel of himtrailing kisses over my body, licking and biting my neck, was probably making me wetter than him being buried deep inside of me.
He threw my leg across his shoulder and grabbed my neck. I met his strokes from beneath him.
“I love that shit, B. Fuck me back, baby.” He coached.
We were in that position for about three minutes, and he abruptly stopped. I know he wasn’t ready to cum.
“Turn over,” he said, slapped my ass, then licked the place that stung. I followed his instructions.
“Lie on your stomach.”
Q was laid back and quiet otherwise, but when it came to sex, that was a different story. It was like once the door closed, he was a completely different person.
I lay flat, and he entered me again.
“Shit,” I moaned.
Quentin was fucking me senseless. And he was never rough. His dick was so big that he didn’t have to be. He had gone from on his knees to having his feet planted in the mattress, holding me midair by my waist, giving me every inch he walked into the room with.
My mind was blown.
“Why you keep running from this dick?” He gritted. “You can’t take my dick, B?”
“No…” I whined.
He chuckled and let me go. Then trailed kisses down my spine as he leaned over me.
“You done?” He asked.
I should have said yes. I should have avoided challenging him. But my pride… it always had me writing checks my ass couldn’t cash.
“No.”
“Then what you crying for? Come here.”
Quentin had me on my stomach, one knee to my chest, and the other stretched out like an Olympian in the blocks. He had his leg resting across mine, so I was basically stuck in that position, unable to run with only the option of taking his dick as he had said.
“You done running?” He taunted me.
“Yes,” I whimpered, conceiting defeat.
He continued to fuck me, one hand holding my waist, one around my neck, and his mouth close to my neck. I could feel the slickness of his skin on my back. His sweat was a clear indication of the work he was putting in.
“You got the best pussy, B. You ready to cum for me?”
I didn’t answer him. Not because I wasn’t ready, but because I couldn’t form the words.
He went deeper; his hand pressed a bit firmer.
“Hm, bitch?” He demanded.
“Yes, Q!”
“Then give it to me, princess, cum on my dick.”
I know this may sound strange, but the fact that this man had just called me a bitch made me feel like the drum solo from Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight” was playing on my clit.
