5
I stand behind Nikki and put my hands on her hips, and her skin is warm and slightly damp with cooling sweat.
She pushes back against me before I'm inside her, grinding that ridiculous ass against my cock in a slow circle that drags me through the slick mess between her legs.
She's still soaked from round one — my cum and hers, mixed together, glossy and obscene on her inner thighs — and the visual alone would be enough to justify everything that's happened tonight.
I run my hands up from her hips to the curve of her waist and back down, gripping the full swell of each cheek, and the flesh is soft and heavy in my palms, warm enough to feel alive under my fingers.
I spread her apart and watch the mess between her legs catch the light — pink and white and glistening — and her pussy clenches at the exposure, a reflexive tightening that pushes a bead of cum out of her and down her thigh.
"Stop staring and start fucking," she says.
"Stop telling me what to do and let me enjoy the view."
"You can enjoy the view while you're inside me. I didn't bend over this couch so you could admire the scenery."
She reaches between her legs and wraps her hand around my shaft, guiding me to her entrance, and pushes back until the head splits her open and sinks inside.
The contact is electric — the leftover sensitivity from round one amplifying every nerve, the wetness and the heat and the familiar tightness all hitting at once but from a new angle that grips me in different places, tighter at the entrance, a different pressure along the top of the shaft.
"There. Now fuck me."
I push forward, and Nikki's body opens for me with a wet, pulling heat that drags a groan out of both of us simultaneously.
She's still tight, still swollen from the first round, and the added slickness from my cum makes every inch feel like sliding into something molten and alive, every ridge and contour of her insides amplified against my raw, oversensitive cock.
"Harder," she says before I've finished the first stroke. "I didn't say make love to me, Jude. I said fuck me. I'm not breakable."
I grab her hips and slam forward, and the impact jolts her entire body against the couch.
The sound is immediate and devastating — a heavy, fleshy smack of my pelvis hitting her ass that fills the room, followed by the smaller, wetter sound of my cock bottoming out inside her.
Her back arches, driving her ass higher, and the sound that tears out of her is raw and sharp, a yelp that fractures into a moan halfway through.
"Yes — fuck — like that. Just like that. Don't hold back on me."
I set a pace that's punishing, harder than round one, each thrust driving deep enough that my hips collide with her ass in a rhythmic, heavy clap that fills the apartment.
The sound is different from behind — louder, meatier, the impact absorbed by the dense flesh of her ass and rebounding in waves that ripple outward across her hips and thighs.
I watch it happen with every stroke, the visual feedback loop feeding something primal and greedy in my hindbrain — her body reacting to mine, flesh bouncing and resettling and bouncing again, every impact confirming that this is real and happening.
She braces her hands against the couch cushion, fingers curling into the fabric, her shoulders rolling with each impact.
Her hair swings forward and back in time with the thrusts, dark strands catching on her sweat-damp shoulders and sticking to her neck.
The smell of sex fills the apartment now — thick, unmistakable, the combined musk of two people and two orgasms layered over her fading perfume and the salt-tang of sweat, heavy enough to taste on the back of my tongue.
I bring my hand down on her ass — not gently.
The slap cracks through the room like a starter pistol and her skin blooms red under my palm immediately, the outline of my fingers emerging on the pale flesh in vivid detail.
She yelps, her body jolting forward from the impact, and then she shoves back against me with a force that takes the next thrust twice as deep.
"Fuck — yes — spank me again. Harder. I can take it."
I hit her again, the other cheek, and the impact drives a sound out of her that's halfway between a scream and a laugh, wild and sharp and completely unhinged.
The handprint rises pink against the white of her skin, vivid, and the heat radiating from the mark is something I can feel against my palm when I rest my hand back on her hip.
"God, you're — ah — you're meaner than I thought you'd be." She's grinning over her shoulder at me, breathless, her eyes glassy and unfocused, mascara already smudged from round one and getting worse. "I like it. I like you rough. Ben's always so — ah — so careful with me. Like I'll break."
"You're not going to break."
"I'm not going to break. So stop being polite and fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me like you're trying to put me through this couch."
From behind her, I can see everything. Her ass ripples with every stroke, the flesh bouncing and resettling and bouncing again, each cheek marked with my handprints in overlapping shades of pink.
Her waist looks impossibly narrow above the swell of her hips, and below that waist everything is thick and heavy and built for exactly this — the proportions staggering from this angle, her body a study in contrast that no amount of looking seems to resolve.
Between her legs, the connection is visceral — my cock disappearing into her, reappearing slick and shining with the combined mess of both our orgasms, the swollen ring of her pussy stretched tight around me,
gripping the shaft on every backstroke with a clutching suction that I can hear as clearly as I can feel.
"Deeper." She drops to her forearms and the angle shifts, her spine curving, her ass rising higher. "Get deeper. I want to feel you in my fucking stomach."
I adjust my grip — one hand on her hip, one fisted in her hair, winding the dark strands around my knuckles until the pull is anchored at her scalp — and I use both simultaneously, pulling her back onto me as I drive forward with everything I have.
The new angle pushes me past something, some internal depth that round one's position didn't reach, and Nikki screams.
Not a moan, not a cry — a scream that starts in her chest and comes out shredded, barely recognizable as language.
"Oh, fuck — oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck —" Her words dissolve into repetition, a chant that breaks apart every time I bottom out inside her.
I can feel her pulse through the walls of her pussy, rapid and hammering, and the involuntary clenching that comes with each scream tightens her around me in spasms that white out coherent thought.
I pull her hair harder, tilting her head back until her throat stretches long and pale, and I lean forward and bite the junction of her neck and shoulder — not a love bite, teeth sinking into muscle until she gasps and her pussy clenches so hard my vision goes bright at the edges.
The taste of her skin fills my mouth, salt and sweat and the ghost of her perfume, and underneath it something warm and faintly sweet that's just her, the base note of her body stripped of everything artificial.
"You're going to take every drop again," I tell her, my mouth still against her neck, my teeth grazing the mark I just left. "You're going to let me breed this pussy until I'm done with it."
"Yes — yes, breed me — breed this little hole — it's yours tonight, all of it is yours —"
"Say that again."
"It's yours. This pussy is yours. Breed it, own it, fill it — ah — fill it with your cum and make it mine."
I slam into her and she screams again, and I spank her while she's still screaming, a full-palm crack across the cheek I haven't hit in a while, and the layered sensation — the depth of the thrust, the sting of the slap,
the vibration of her scream traveling through her pussy and into my cock — compounds into something almost too intense, a feedback loop where every input amplifies every other input.
"Fuck — oh god — your cock is so fucking deep — I can feel you in my — ah — in places I didn't know I had."
She shoves back against me, matching my rhythm, and the collision doubles the impact.
Her ass slams against my pelvis and the sound echoes off the walls, loud enough that the neighbors can hear it, loud enough that there is no ambiguity about what's happening in this apartment.
"You're going to ruin me. You're going to ruin me for everyone."
"That's the idea."
"Even for Ben?"
"Especially for Ben."
She turns her head, cheek pressed against the cushion, and looks at me over her shoulder.
Her face is flushed and wrecked, mascara smudged in dark crescents beneath her eyes, her lip bitten red and starting to swell, and she looks exactly like what she is — a woman getting fucked raw from behind by her hookup's roommate on a Friday night, marked and spanked and loving every second of it.
"You know what's funny?" she says, and her voice wavers with each thrust but the words are clear, deliberate, chosen.
The dazed cum-drunk girl from ten minutes ago is gone.
Whatever is speaking now is sharper. "If this works — if I actually get pregnant tonight — Ben's going to think it's his. He doesn't even — ah — doesn't even know this happened."
"And you're not going to tell him."
"Why would I?" She grins, and the grin is the sharpest thing in the room. "Two guys, one night, no condom with either of them. Nobody knows who the daddy is. Not Ben, not you, not even me."
I slam into her hard enough that her words cut off, and she gasps, then pushes back into the next stroke, grinding her ass against me in a slow circle that changes everything from impact to friction, deep and grinding and exquisite.
"And the beautiful thing — ah, fuck, right there — the beautiful part is that I get to pick. I get to decide which one of you finds out. Or if either of you does."
There it is. Underneath the chaos and the dirty talk and the sundress and the grin, there it is — the thing I clocked forty minutes ago when she asked me to breed her with the composure of someone ordering delivery.