2 #3
She's tight. Tighter than I expected, and the heat is different from her mouth — deeper, denser, a full-body temperature that envelops me from every side.
The wetness coats me in a slick rush that makes the first stroke almost frictionless, and her body resists for half a second and then gives, opens, swallows me inch by inch until I'm buried completely and my pelvis is flush against hers and I can feel her heartbeat through the walls of her pussy,
a rapid, thudding rhythm that pulses against the shaft.
Her eyes go wide and her mouth falls open and the sound she makes is guttural and raw, pulled from somewhere deeper than her throat.
"Oh, fuck." Her voice cracks on the word. "Oh my god, that's — fuck, fuck — you're so deep. You're so fucking deep already."
"You wanted deep."
"I wanted deep and I'm getting deep and I'm — oh, god — just fuck me. Fuck this pussy."
I pull back and drive in again, harder, and the impact pushes her into the armrest.
The stroke forces the air out of her lungs in a sharp, punched sound, and her thighs shake against my shoulders.
Her hands scrabble at the cushion beneath her, finding nothing to grip, and she grabs my forearms instead, her nails digging half-moons into my skin.
The pain is bright and small and it makes me want to hit her harder.
So I do.
The mating press angle drives me deep on every stroke, deeper than any other position allows, and each thrust bottoms out against her cervix with an impact I can feel in my own abs.
The sensation is overwhelming from this angle — the tightness of her entrance gripping the base of my shaft, the wet suction of her walls on the backstroke, the deeper pressure at the end of each thrust where her body gives just enough to take all of me and then squeezes to keep me there.
"You feel that?" Her voice is tight and breathy, her words interrupted by every thrust, each impact chopping her sentences into fragments. "Feel how — ah — how wet I am for you? This pussy's been — fuck — been waiting for this all day."
"I can feel it." My voice comes out lower than I recognize, roughened at the edges. "You're dripping. I can feel you running down my balls."
"Because I need it. I need your cum so bad, Jude. I need you to — ah, fuck — to fill this pussy up. You have no idea how long I've been — fuck — thinking about getting filled up and bred."
I reach up and wrap my hand around the back of her neck, pulling her into the next thrust, and the depth change makes her scream — a short, sharp sound that bounces off the walls.
Her pussy clenches around me in a reflexive spasm and the grip is extraordinary, a full-circumference squeeze that tightens the sensation to a blinding point.
"Harder," she demands. "Don't be gentle with me. I'm not your — ah — I'm not your girlfriend. You don't have to be nice."
I grab a fistful of her hair and pull, tilting her head back, and her throat stretches long and pale beneath me. She moans, a deep, vibrating sound that I can feel through my cock, and her eyes roll back for a half-second before they find mine again, glazed and desperate and delighted.
"Yes — pull my hair — fuck, just like that — treat me like the slut I am."
"You want me to treat you like a slut?"
"I want you to fuck me like you hate me and come in me like you love me."
I keep my grip in her hair and increase the pace, driving into her with a rhythm that makes the couch groan and shift against the floor.
Every thrust pushes her body up the cushion and she slides back down by gravity and the next stroke catches her at the bottom of the motion, driving her into the armrest with compounding force.
The sounds in the apartment layer on top of each other — the wet, rhythmic slap of my skin against hers, the creak of the couch frame, her voice scaling up through registers, and underneath it all the slick, liquid sound of my cock moving in and out of her soaked pussy,
a continuous wet clicking that rises and falls with the pace.
I feel the sweat building between us, the friction of her skin against mine, the heat of the room climbing with every stroke.
Her perfume has mutated into something rawer — the sweetness burned away, replaced by the salt of sweat and the musk of sex that thickens the air until breathing feels like drinking it.
I can taste it on my lips when I breathe through my mouth, and underneath it I can still taste her from the kiss, the lingering flavor of her tongue against mine.
"That's all I can think about," she manages, her words dissolving at the edges. "All I want — fuck — is to be your pretty little cum slut. Just — ah, right there — just take this pussy and fill me up. Breed me. Put a baby in me right here on this couch."
"I'm going to." I lean down and my mouth finds her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat, and I bite the tendon that runs to her shoulder. She yelps, her body jolting beneath me, and her pussy contracts so hard my vision narrows. "I'm going to come so deep inside you, you'll feel it for days."
"Promise me. Promise me you'll fill me up."