Take Me Off the App Virgin, Age Gap, Explicit #3
Tessa’s laugh came out wrecked and delighted. She was not a virgin anymore. The thought did not make her tender. It made her hungry.
She lifted both legs and set them on his shoulders, folding herself open under the lamp.
“Deeper,” she said. “I read this angle. I want it. Do not you dare cum yet.”
Grant looked down the line of her body, at his cock still hard inside her, at her legs trembling on his shoulders, and nodded once like a man accepting an order he wanted.
Grant folded her open and gave her the angle she asked for.
Tessa’s calves rested on his shoulders. The pillow still tipped her hips.
When he drove back in, the head of his cock dragged over a place that made her vision thin at the edges.
Deeper than the first stretch. Meaner, even though he was still holding back his finish.
She watched his stomach flex. She watched her own cunt swallow him to the root.
“That,” she said. “That is the one. Do not get polite now.”
He fucked her like that until her thighs shook against his ears.
The lamp made a slick mess of where they joined, her wetness foaming pale on his shaft.
The rug burned her shoulder blades. She did not care.
She grabbed two fistfuls of the throw and shoved herself onto him, 21 year old greed written through every muscle.
The position started to feel like a picture she had already used up. Tessa dropped one leg, then the other.
“Side. I want to feel you behind me and still have a hand on you.”
Grant pulled out. The empty throb made her hiss.
He turned her onto her left side, slotted in behind her, and hooked her right leg back over his thigh.
One thrust seated him again, a different occupancy, his chest hot along her spine, his mouth on the damp skin of her neck.
His hand splayed on her belly so he could feel himself moving inside her from the outside.
Tessa reached back and gripped his ass, pulling him in.
“Stay deep. Grind. I like that more than the long strokes right now.”
He ground. Short, heavy circles that kept her full and rubbed her clit against the air, against nothing, until she put her own fingers there.
The spooned shape of them on his living room floor looked almost tender.
It did not feel tender. It felt like being claimed at an angle that made her breath stutter.
His balls slapped wet against her. His stubble scraped her shoulder.
She smelled his soap and her own cunt and the wool rug going damp under her hip.
“I could cum like this,” she said.
“Then cum.”
“Not yet. I want you on my back when you finish. I want the weight.”
Grant made a sound that might have been a laugh if he had any air left.
He pulled out again, turned her facedown, and followed her onto the floor.
Prone. His cock found her on the first push because she was that wet, that open.
His weight settled over her, chest to shoulders, one hand braced by her head, the other sliding under her to keep her hips from flattening into the rug.
Tessa turned her face to the side. The lamp caught her mouth.
“Now you can stop being patient,” she said. “Fuck me and cum in my pussy. I want to feel it. I want to walk tomorrow knowing you left it in me.”
“Tessa—”
“I said it. Fill me up.”
He gave up the careful rhythm. The first real thrust knocked a noise out of her.
The next ones came stacked, deep, the wet slap of his hips on her ass filling the apartment.
She was mashed into the pillow. Her clit dragged the fabric.
His cock felt huge from behind, a thick piston using the slick she had already given him.
She came unexpectedly, a sharp clench that surprised her, pulsing around him with her mouth open on the throw.
Grant followed her down.
He buried himself to the base and came with a groan against her hair, cock kicking hard inside her, heat flooding a pussy that had not held a man before tonight.
Tessa felt every pulse. There was more of it than she had pictured.
It backed up around his shaft and leaked along her thigh even while he stayed in her, panting, 36 year old control finally spent.
They stayed stacked like that until his breathing slowed. When he eased out, his cum spilled in a warm slide she felt all the way down to her knee. She laughed into the pillow, wrecked and pleased.
“That is disgusting,” she said. “I love it.”
Grant rolled off her and immediately reached for her, not for sex, for the after.
He sat up against the couch, pulled her between his legs, and put a glass of water in her hand from the table she had refused an hour ago.
She drank. His shirt ended up over her head.
It smelled like him. His palm moved up and down her back, checking, not petting.
“Sore.”
“Yes.” She tipped her head against his shoulder. “Good sore. Do not make a speech.”
“I was going to offer you the shower and a ride.”
“I will take the shower. I will not take the speech. I already know I am coming back.”
Grant went still behind her. Tessa picked at a thread on his shirt, uninterested in pretending this had been a one-night experiment she would file under curiosity.
“Four days,” she said. “Not seven. I will text you the things on your list I want to try. You will say Friday. I will show up hungry. You are not going to talk me out of it by being decent in a kitchen.”
He exhaled into her hair, something like surrender and something like want.
“Friday.”
“Friday.” She shifted, felt his cum smear between her thighs, and smiled at the dark TV. “And Grant. Next time I am sitting on your face before you get inside me. Write that down so you do not act surprised.”
His laugh this time was real, low, tired.
“You are a lot.”
“You came in me. You can say I am a lot in a nicer tone.”
He did not argue. Tessa closed her eyes in a 36 year old man’s living room, sore and full and already planning the next door she would walk through without waiting to be invited twice.
Tessa texted him Thursday night while she was still in work clothes.
She did not ease into it. She copied the shape of his own profile and sent him a list with her name on it.
Friday. I want to sit on your face until I cum.
I want your cock in my throat. I want my hair pulled.
I want you to fuck me from behind. I want the window and the wall.
I want to ride you where I can see your face.
I want your fingers in my mouth when I am close.
I already told my roommate I will not be home.
Eat first if you need to. I am not coming over to share a plate.
Grant took eleven minutes to answer. She watched the green dot the whole time.
You eat too. I am not doing that list on an empty body.
I will eat.
Tessa.
I will eat. Friday. What time do I knock.
Seven. If you change the list—
I will add to it. I will not subtract.
She set the phone down and smiled at her ceiling like she had already won the night.
Friday she left work early and bought a sandwich she did not respect.
She ate it in Grant’s parking lot with the engine off, paper wrapper on the passenger seat, watching lights come on in other people’s windows.
The bread was dry. She did not care. The point was the box checked so he could not stall her in the kitchen.
At 6:52 she checked her mouth in the mirror. At 6:54 she locked the car. At 6:55 she was in the hallway that still smelled faintly of new paint.
She knocked once.
Then she opened the door herself.
Grant stood at the end of the short hall in a dark T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, 36 year old surprise crossing his face before he could hide it. Tessa shut the door with her heel and dropped her bag.
“I told you I would show up hungry,” she said. “I ate in the lot. You can skip the host speech.”
“You opened my door.”
“You said seven. It is seven.” She walked into him until her chest hit his and tipped her chin up. “Still yes. All of it. Say it back so we do not waste the rug.”
Grant’s hands found her waist, a reflex he had stopped pretending he did not have. He smelled like soap, like he had showered for her and then stood in his own apartment trying not to pace. Tessa put two fingers on his mouth before he could start the careful version.
“Do not ask me if I thought it through. I thought it through on your floor with your cum in me. I thought it through at work. I thought it through in the car with a bad sandwich. I want your mouth first. I want to sit on it. I want you on your back.”
He kissed her fingers, then her mouth, a brief hard press that gave away how little the four days had cooled him. “Rug. Living room. You set the pace on that part. I am going to put a hand on your hip so you do not fall over when your legs go.”
“Romantic.”
“Practical. You shake when you cum.”
Heat punched low in her belly. She liked that he had catalogued her. She liked it enough that she was already wet, four days of replay sitting in her body like a second pulse.
She stepped back only far enough to pull her shirt off. No ceremony. Bra next. Grant’s eyes dropped and came back up, hungry and still faintly stunned that a 21 year old had walked into his post-divorce apartment and started undressing like she paid the rent.
“Jeans too,” she said. “Yours can stay on until I say they come off. I want your mouth, not a race to get your cock out.”
“You texted throat.”
“After I cum on your face. I wrote it in order on purpose.”
Grant dragged a hand over his mouth. “You are a lot.”
“You came in me. You do not get to keep saying that like it is news.” Tessa popped her own button, shoved denim down, kicked free, and stood in her panties in his hallway light. The cotton was already dark. She watched him see it. “Where do you want me to sit. Use words.”
“Rug. I will lie down. You come over my mouth facing the window or facing the couch, your choice. If anything goes numb, you lift up. If you want fingers, you put my hand there. If you want me to stop, you say stop.”
She hooked her panties down and stepped out of them.
“Window,” she said. “I want the dark glass. I want to see myself.”