Fucking doesn’t usually work by just ticking off your desires in order, like crossing items from your shopping list once you’ve put them in your basket. But talking about ideas in the downtime, or the afterglow of the previous shag, can help plant seeds for the future. We don’t have enough time together, me and this guy. Not nearly enough. And because we are acutely aware of this fact, it turns out that both of us have been making mental lists of possibilities. Lying on the bed after our first cunt-ruining fuck of this 24 hour hangout, he reveals that he’s even made notes on his phone. Scattered ideas from flash-frame images he’s wanked on since the last time we hung out.
Later we’ll compare our plans in detail, and gleefully high-five when we find ideas that match. For now, though, we talk about spunk. His last load is pooling in my cunt and I tell him that although that feeling’s my favourite, there’s another type of cum shot I’ve not been treated to lately.
I’m pretty sure he can guess which one without me having to tell him. But sometimes the joy comes from hearing it aloud. Making someone articulate the detail of what they want, in a way that makes them blush or tremble or gush with anticipatory lust.
“I want you to press the tip of your cock against the entrance of my ass,” I explain. “Not fully penetrating, just shoving it there so you can dump your cum inside me. Like it’s trash you want to dispose of. So it sprays against my skin and squirts out the sides.”
“Oh yes,” he says. “Top choice. Let’s see if we can make your dreams come true.”
He has this mirror, placed perfectly between two armchairs in the living room. The placement works for so many reasons. First because it’s roughly where I dance with him, watching his arms grip tightly around my waist and admiring the curve of his head as he bends to kiss my neck. Second, it’s good for checking my hair before we go out: ensuring the curls look tousled but not too frizzy. Hinting at, but never shouting about, how thoroughly I’ve recently been fucked. Finally and most importantly, this mirror placement is perfect because it shows how spectacular we look when he’s railing me from behind.
The armchairs are solid and unmoving. The mirror is floor-standing, tall and narrow. When we aren’t busy dancing, he can bend me over in front of it and pull down my knickers and jeans, as I rest both hands on the arms of the chairs for purchase.
Allowing him to absolutely brutalise my cunt.
This second shag is hurried. Frantic. The takeaway’s coming, so we don’t have very much time. If either of us possessed a single ounce of restraint we’d have waited till later. But hey, restraint’s overrated. When he leans in to kiss my neck it sends fluttery shivers to the pit of my stomach and I kiss him back with earnest longing, pressing my body against him until I can feel the telltale rigidity of his cock trapped inside his jeans.
Soft kisses turn to harder ones. Hands rummage beneath clothes. He strips off my shirt while I fumble with his belt, then briefly give up and grip his dick through the denim because I’m so impatient. That almost-but-not-quite-full-yet erection has such satisfying give, and I moan in a kind of gleeful anguish. Not hungry with desire – fucking starving.
When I’ve pulled it out – thick, heavy, twitching – I drop to my knees and start to suck. Wriggling out of my jeans and angling myself so he can pick and choose from two spectacular views. Straight ahead, to see my bum and thighs in the mirror, back arched to display it all nicely: pale skin, black thong, slut-look absolutely on point. Or straight down, at where I’m choking on the length of him. Spit pooling at the corners of my mouth, eyes wide and wet and open, gazing up with the confidence of someone who knows she’s a very good girl, but still really aches to hear him say it.
He grabs my hair and flicks his gaze from my eyes to the mirror and then back again. Over and over as he guides my mouth down his prick. Letting me choke just enough to feel like I’m working, but not so much that I gag and break focus.
The takeaway is coming, we both have this thought in the back of our minds. It doesn’t distract from the sex, but it gives it a sense of urgency. When he shifts position to check how long we’ve got I stand up, turn round and bend over. Gripping the armchairs in each hand, looking directly into that full-length mirror. Legs parted ever-so-slightly, knees bent a little, feet flat on the floor. Shirt open to display my tits crushed tight in a push-up bra. Flashing a wicked grin that invites him to do his worst.
So he does.
The words I want to use for this fuck would all feel alarming without context: brutal. Violent. Extreme. Harsh. I’m going to settle on ‘feral.’ We are feral. Rutting animals interested only in the sensations we can push our bodies towards, and the sight of ourselves doing it with such shocking speed and intensity.
Watching his face as he looks down at where he’s piercing my cunt, it strikes me that he looks angry. He’s fucking me like it’s punishment. Like I’m in trouble. Like he hates me. He feels none of those things, of course, but I’m sure when he looks into my face in return, my twisted-gurning pleasurable agony looks pretty angry too. Like I hate him for doing this but I’d hate him even more if he didn’t keep going.
As if to test this theory, he pauses for a very brief moment. Swaps from frantic, rapid pounding to a pace that’s more restrained. He murmurs:
“I don’t wanna come just yet…”
…and my eyes grow wide with sorrow.
Disappointment.
Perhaps a little rage in there as well. He registers my wanton need with a flash of satisfaction.
Then he plunges back in again, hard, right to the base. As if he wants to inject his cum direct to my stomach. He fucks his cock so deeply into me that I feel like I might start to gag.
Earlier that evening, when he’d reached for my throat, I had to give him a weak ‘no, sorry’. I’ve learned too much about choking now, so I try not to do it any more. I’m as gutted as the next person, believe me, but there are some safer alternatives. He reaches for a t-shirt and at the same exact time I grab his belt from where it’s been discarded on the floor: great minds think alike. He opts for the latter, to my utter perverted glee, and uses the leather belt to muzzle me: one end in each hand, middle clamped between my teeth like the bit gag on a pony. He pulls on it tightly to hold me in place then fucks in and in and in and in, each stroke knocking the next breath out of me until I’m light-headed and fuckdrunk and dazed. Dribbling as I bite down on the belt, moaning unngh with each fierce thrust as he rails me.
He starts pulling on the belt with rhythm now, and I give up on my own pathetic attempts to keep pace by fucking him back. Instead I go semi-limp, like a posable ragdoll. I let him haul my whole body down his cock like I’m a toy, and allow my legs to start trembling and my mind to focus on sensation, until eventually my eyes roll back and my cunt starts to clench and I whine at him through a mouthful of leather:
“Please don’t stop I’m gonna come please please…”
It comes out muffled, of course, because I’m gagged and drowning in pools of my own spit. A lesser man might just continue, because he sure as shit knew what I meant, but this man does even better: he makes me say it again.
“What was that?” he asks, punctuating each word with another vicious fuckstroke. “What. Did. You. Say.”
“Unnnghmmfedghj,” I reply, humiliated, as the first waves of my orgasm begin to crush his prick. I can see the reaction on his face as each of my involuntary spasms threatens to trigger one in him. He milks the satisfaction of it with pursed-lipped frowns and the occasional bite of his own lower lip, riding out that flutter of tight contractions as I wriggle and come round his cock.
I don’t normally describe sex in such visual terms, but this shag was very fucking visual. Looking directly into his dark eyes in the mirror as he ordered me to speak when he knew I couldn’t? So hot. Watching the tension in his arms as he yanked the belt, pulling my head back and dragging me deeper onto his dick? Incredible.
And the best visual moment of all: when he lifted the hem of his black t-shirt and pulled it over his head, securing it neatly behind his neck to keep it clean of my cum, in the process showing off his gorgeous stomach and chest, an expanse of flesh that I’m so desperate to lick and bite and bury my face in.
“I don’t want to come just yet,” he whispers again.
But he doesn’t mean it.
In response, I whimper and fuck back – just once or twice. Pleading with him bodily to let this run its course. Fuck me harder, make himself come. Dump his spunk inside me before the takeaway gets here and we have to abandon this powerful, hedonistic vibe. Right now, all I want is to see the look on his face as he unloads inside me, soothing the bruises on my cervix with hot, thick helpings of spunk.
He responds just as I knew he would: a switch flicks in his brain that sends a signal to his eyes, which grow even darker and narrower in that moment of decision.
Ah, fuck it, that look says. I’m gonna make myself come.
Instantly, the pace and intensity ratchets up to the highest point it can go. This man no longer cares about my pleasure, he’s focused entirely on him. I am ragdoll-limp again, just clinging to the armchairs for purchase and planting my feet firmly on the floor so as not to slip. Staring him down like it’s a challenge, voluntarily squeezing my cunt to help milk those precious shots of jizz from his powerful cock.
His mouth turns down at the side, his brow furrows in concentration, and I feel the swell of blood that makes him twitch slightly harder, showing he’s on the verge of letting go…
At which point, he pulls out and aims somewhere else: pressing the tip of his dick against the entrance to my ass, he lets out a guttural grunt.
And that’s where he comes.
Right in there. Not fully entering or penetrating, just pushing against it – opening the hole. Shoving his cum into me like I’m merely a handy place in which to dispose of it. Four, five, six plentiful squirts of spunk, warming me up inside and spilling out as I overflow, dripping down the crack of my arse and my thighs.
Sighing with satisfaction, he grips his wet dick in hand and plays it around the hole, smearing jizz all over me before wiping off the last few drops on my backside.
Panting, shaking, spent, I remain exactly in position as he breaks away, trembling right along with me. I collapse to my knees on the floor and start giggling. He leans against the wall and laughs as well. We grin at each other in the mirror because we both know this one was special.
We understood when we were having it that this fuck would go in the wank bank: the sight of ourselves going feral in the mirror; the belt-in-mouth viciousness of each brutal thrust; the way his cum sprayed hot against my skin. So many details to fix in our minds for the future. Not to mention the adrenaline and exhaustion that flooded the pair of us afterwards.
“You go clean up first, if you like, I can’t move.”
“Ha, sorry, I can’t go anywhere either.”
“That one was pretty awesome, right?”
“That one was fucking exceptional.”
There are 3 parts (obviously) to this trilogy. If you’re impatient for more, join my Patreon where I read part 3 (mouth) at 15:25 in this update.