Take Me Off the App Virgin, Age Gap, Explicit #4
Grant walked backward into the living room without turning away from her, pulled his shirt off, and went to his back on the rug like she had ordered the pose out of a catalog. The lamp from night one was on again. His chest rose. His jeans were tight over a cock she could already see the shape of.
Tessa stood over him, 21 year old and naked and exactly as eager as she had promised in the first message, and lowered herself toward his mouth.
“Do not be gentle,” she said. “I did not drive here for gentle.”
Grant’s hands settled on her hips, waiting for her weight.
Tessa settled her knees on either side of Grant’s head and gave him her weight.
His mouth opened under her pussy like he had been waiting four days to be used this way. The first flat stroke of his tongue split her folds and dragged all the way up to her clit. She grabbed the windowsill behind her and hissed. The glass was cold. His tongue was not.
“Stay there. Right there. Do not wander off to be fancy.”
Grant made a sound into her cunt that vibrated through her belly.
His hands tightened on her hips and pulled her down harder, the 36 year old man on his own rug eating her like the list had been a contract.
Tessa looked at their reflection in the dark window: her tits, her open mouth, his jaw working between her thighs.
The picture made her wetter. He lapped it up.
She smelled herself and his soap and the wool.
She heard the filthy, specific sound of a tongue in a soaked cunt, louder than she had expected, wetter than his fingers had been.
He sucked her clit between his lips and flicked, then dropped to push his tongue into her hole, then back to the clit when she dragged his head by the hair and put him where she wanted him.
“Good. Like that. I am going to use your mouth until I cum. You can breathe when I lift.”
He tapped her hip once, acknowledgment, and went back to work.
Stubble scraped the inside of her thighs.
His nose pressed her pubic bone when she ground down.
Tessa rode his face in small, greedy circles, not shy about smearing herself over his mouth and chin.
Spit and her slick ran toward his throat. She felt it. She liked it.
The orgasm gathered fast because she had been thinking about this exact view since she left last time.
She came on his tongue with her forehead against the cold glass, thighs shaking on either side of his head, a broken noise punched out of her.
Her pussy fluttered against his mouth. He licked her through it until she jerked and lifted, oversensitive, laughing under her breath.
“Fuck. Your face is a mess.”
Grant’s mouth shone. “That was the idea.”
She crawled off him only far enough to turn around.
Sixty-nine, her idea, her knees bracketing his ribs, her tits brushing his stomach.
She yanked his jeans and briefs down in one impatient shove.
His cock sprang up, already dark and wet at the head.
She swallowed him while his mouth found her cunt again from below.
The angle made her sloppy. She gagged on the first deep try and stayed there anyway, spit running down his shaft onto his stomach.
Grant groaned into her pussy, the sound buzzing her clit.
He licked her through the aftershocks, slower now, meaner in the patience of it, while she sucked what she could fit and stroked the rest.
His hips wanted to thrust. He did not let them. She felt the fight in his thighs.
Tessa pulled off long enough to say, “You do not cum in my mouth. Not tonight. I want this cock in my pussy standing up.”
He answered with his tongue on her clit, a rude wet flick that made her drop her forehead to his hip.
She went back down on him because she liked the weight on her tongue, liked tasting her own cunt on his skin from when she had sat on him.
The apartment filled with choked sounds and the soft obscene work of his mouth.
She did not cum a second time. She was too busy taking him as far as her throat would allow, eyes watering, one hand braced on his thigh. When her jaw started to shake she sat up, straddled his stomach for a second, and looked back at the wreck of his face.
“Window,” she said. “I want you behind me. Standing. I want to watch you put it in.”
Grant sat up, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and got to his feet like his knees had to remember the job.
Tessa walked to the glass naked, put both palms on it, and looked over her shoulder.
Behind her a 36 year old man stepped out of the jeans still tangled at his calves, cock wet with her spit, eyes on the shine between her legs.
She spread her stance on his living room floor.
“Now,” Tessa said. “Fuck me where anybody with a tall enough window might see a shape. I want it in me while my hands are on this glass.”
Grant closed the space, dragged the head of his cock through her soaked folds once, and waited for her to push back onto it.
Tessa pushed back and took him standing.
The head of Grant’s cock stretched her open against the glass, a thick, familiar burn that her body remembered from his rug.
She watched it happen in the dark window: the 36 year old man behind her, the 21 year old girl on her toes, the place they joined.
He slid in on her wetness until his hips met her ass and his breath hit the nape of her neck.
“Stay there,” she said. “I want to feel how full I am before you move.”
He stayed. His cock twitched inside her. One of his hands braced beside hers on the glass. The other wrapped her hip. The window fogged under her palms. Cold on her nipples. Heat everywhere he touched.
“All right,” she said. “Fuck me.”
Grant gave her standing strokes that made her tits swing toward the glass. The angle was shallow and rude. Each thrust lifted her onto the balls of her feet. The wet slap of it carried through the quiet apartment. She watched her own mouth fall open in the reflection and did not look away.
“Harder. I did not come here to be rocked.”
He hooked an arm around her middle and gave her harder. Her clit got nothing but the shake of her own body until she dropped one hand from the glass and rubbed herself, two fingers working in time with his cock. Slick ran down her inner thigh. She could smell sex on the pane.
It was not enough. She wanted the stretch to change.
“My leg,” she said. “Lift it. I want to feel you from a different side.”
Grant caught her right knee and opened her.
Standing split. The shift punched a sound out of her.
He went deeper, the head of him dragging a line that made her vision flicker.
She had to put both hands back on the glass or go down.
He held her thigh in the crook of his elbow and fucked up into her, steady, a man using patience as a weapon.
“Look,” he said against her ear.
She looked. In the window she was lewd and specific: one foot on the floor, one leg hooked high, his dark hand on her pale thigh, his cock shining every time it left her and slammed back in. The picture undid her more than the words.
“Do not let me cum yet,” she said, even as her pussy started to flutter. “I want the wall for that.”
Grant pulled out. The empty throb made her swear.
He turned her, lifted her, and she locked her legs around his waist because she had already decided he was going to carry her.
He was stronger than the careful profile had advertised.
Her wet cunt slid against his stomach as he walked her into the hall.
The wall met her back. Paint, a light switch digging into her shoulder blade, the faint smell of new plaster. Grant reached down, lined himself up, and drove into her in one standing thrust that knocked the air out of her lungs.
“Fuck—”
“Still yes.”
“Yes. Pin me. I want your whole weight.”
He pinned her. Her legs wrapped his hips.
His hands held her ass open so he could fuck up into her against his own hallway wall, deep strokes that made the cheap fixture rattle.
Tessa’s mouth found his. She kissed him sloppy, tasting herself from when she had sat on his face.
His stubble scraped her chin. Her tits mashed his chest.
The angle ground her clit against him. She had been denying the orgasm at the window; it came back mean. She shoved her fingers into her own mouth the way she had put on the list, two of them, and sucked, eyes on his, while he pounded her into the plaster.
She came on his cock with her back on the wall.
Her pussy clamped down in hard, milking pulls.
She moaned around her own fingers and shook in his arms, heels digging into his ass, the hallway filling with the wet sound of him still thrusting through her orgasm.
Grant’s forehead dropped to hers. He was shaking.
He did not spill. She felt him swell and hold, 36 year old restraint stretched thin and still standing.
Tessa pulled her fingers from her mouth, slick, and dragged them across his lower lip.
“Put me down.”
He did, slow, his cock slipping out of her with a filthy sound. Her legs wobbled. Cum-slick—hers, not his—painted her thighs. She turned in the narrow hall, pointed at the living room, and looked back at him over her shoulder.
“Couch. Bend me over the back of it. I want my hair in your fist and I want you to stop acting like you are going to break the furniture.”
Grant’s laugh came out wrecked.
“You are going to kill me on a Friday.”
“Not before I ride you,” Tessa said, already walking, already reaching for the couch. “Move.”
Tessa folded herself over the back of the couch and reached behind her head.
“Take it,” she said. “I wrote hair. I meant hair.”
Grant gathered the dark length of it in his fist, not yanking yet, just holding so her scalp woke up. She pushed her ass back, found the wet head of his cock with a roll of her hips, and took him in one greedy slide that made the couch feet hop on the floor.
The stretch from behind was familiar now and still a lot. He filled her until his hips sat flush to her ass. His fist in her hair tipped her face up toward the lamp. She liked that. She liked being arranged.
“Now pull and fuck me.”
He pulled. Not cruel. Exact. The sting ran from her scalp to her clit as he started thrusting, long strokes that shoved her into the couch cushions and dragged a sound out of her on every hit.