Maggie #3
He thrusts his tongue inside me, fucking me with it, his nose bumping against my clit with every movement. It’s filthy and wet and so unlike my real life. My imaginary Alexei eats me like he’s starving, gripping my thighs so hard I know there will be bruises tomorrow.
I pump my fingers faster, the wet sounds of my arousal filling the room. I’m so close. The pressure is coiling tight in my belly, a spring ready to snap. I grind my palm against my clit, seeking that final friction.
In my mind, he rises, his face glistening with my juices. He crawls up my body, lining his hips up with mine. I can feel the hard, heavy length of his cock pressing against my entrance. He’s huge, thick, and veined, and I want him to ruin me.
“Please,” I beg, my voice breathless and thin. “Fuck me.”
He pushes forward in one long, relentless stroke.
I scream, feeling myself stretched to the limit, filled so completely it borders on pain.
He sets a punishing rhythm, withdrawing almost all the way before slamming back in, his hips slapping against mine.
The bed shakes, the headboard banging against the wall, but I don’t care.
I dig my nails into his back, tracing the lines of his tattoos, and holding on for dear life.
“Take it,” he grunts, sweat dripping from his forehead onto my chest. “Take all of it.”
The fantasy crashes over me. I see his face contorted in pleasure, feel the weight of him crushing me into the mattress, and smell the scent of sex and musk.
My body tenses, every muscle locking up as the orgasm tears through me.
I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, my hips jerking erratically against my hand.
My pussy clenches around my fingers, pulsing rhythmically as the waves of pleasure roll through me, starting deep in my core and radiating out to my fingertips and toes. I moan long and low, a sound of pure release, riding out the aftershocks as my hand slows its movements.
For a long moment, I lie still, my chest heaving, the room spinning slightly in the aftermath.
The air cools against my skin, causing a faint shiver as I pull my hand back and flatten it against the mattress beside me, grounding myself in something real.
The image of Alexei lingers longer than it should, not clear anymore, just a thought I haven’t quite let go of yet.
I turn onto my side, pull the blanket up close, and try to slow my breathing, hoping my body will follow. The quiet fills the room again, and I let myself sink into it, pushing everything else back just enough to rest.
Sleep takes its time, coming in slow waves instead of all at once, and when it finally pulls me under, he’s still there in the back of my mind.
Morning comes quicker than I’d like. The alarm goes off, and I slap at it without opening my eyes, groaning as I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, hoping the day might start without me if I wait long enough.
It doesn’t.
“Alright,” I mutter, dragging a hand over my face before pushing myself up. “Let’s get to it.”
I shuffle to the bathroom, brushing my teeth with one eye half open, my hair still messy from sleep. Once I pull it into a loose bun and throw on jeans and a soft, worn T-shirt, I start to feel more like myself and less like something dragged out of a ditch.
The drive to the shelter is easy, the windows cracked to let in the morning air.
Savannah in spring wakes up slow and sweet, everything fresh and green, like it’s still stretching into the day.
By the time I pull into the lot, I can already hear the dogs inside, their barking echoing through the walls like they know who just arrived.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” I call under my breath as I grab my bag and head in.
As soon as I open the door, the familiar scent hits me. The fans hum overhead, moving the air around, kennel doors clink, and nails tap against the concrete as a few dogs jump up to greet me.
“Good morning, y’all,” I say, already moving, reaching down to scratch behind ears as I pass.
“I saw a twelve-pound sausage with ambition this morning,” Jules says.
I don’t even look up. “If you’re about to talk about Elvis again, I’m not emotionally prepared.”
Jules leans against the doorframe with his iced coffee, looking way too put together for a place that smells like kibble and chaos. In the corner, a puppy tries to eat a mop like it’s his personal mission.
“Oh, I’m absolutely talking about Elvis,” he says, pushing off the frame and following me in. “He tried to take down a volunteer. Full attack and no remorse.”
“That volunteer waved a toy in his face and then got surprised when he jumped,” I say, grabbing a clipboard off the counter and flipping through it. “That’s on them.”
“Mm-hmm.” He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “So. Dog treat man.”
I freeze for half a second, then keep flipping the page as if nothing happened. “We’re not doin’ this before I’ve had caffeine.”
“We are absolutely doin’ this before you’ve had caffeine,” he says easily. “Because once you’ve had caffeine, you’ll be faster and harder to pin down.”
“There’s nothin’ to pin down.”
“You tried to feed him like he was a golden retriever.”
I keep my eyes on the clipboard, flipping the page like I didn’t hear him. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
I point the pen at him. “That is not how that went, hush.”