5 #3
"Oh god — oh fuck, yes — I can feel it — I can feel you filling me up again —" Her voice is wrecked, barely audible, her body shaking and clenching and milking me with contractions that won't stop.
"Give me all of it. Every last — ah — every fucking drop. Both loads. I want both loads deep inside me."
I give her everything. My hips stutter against her ass and my cock throbs inside her and the orgasm stretches long, each pulse pulling another surge out of me until there's nothing left, and even then my body tries — one more contraction, two,
the muscles in my abs burning with the effort of wringing myself completely dry inside her.
I stay inside her, bent over her back, my forehead pressed against her shoulder blade.
Her breathing is ragged and her skin is slick with sweat and I can feel my own heartbeat in my cock, still buried inside her, still surrounded by the wet, pulsing heat of her body.
The air between us is thick and humid and smells like nothing except the two of us, everything external burned away by the hardest sex I've ever had in my life.
"Holy shit," she says into the cushion. Her voice sounds like it's coming from very far away, thin and dreamy and entirely satisfied.
I pull out slowly, and the visual is immediate and devastating — my cum leaking from her in a thick, white rush that overflows from her swollen pussy and runs in twin rivulets down both thighs.
There's more this time, the combined evidence of two rounds, and her pussy is red and swollen and thoroughly destroyed, the lips puffy and parted, clenching involuntarily around nothing and pushing more cum out with each contraction in slow, obscene pulses.
My handprints glow bright pink across both cheeks of her ass, overlapping, layered, vivid against her pale skin.
She straightens up slowly, carefully, like someone standing after a long illness, and turns around.
Her smile is post-orgasmic and loose and slightly unhinged, the smile of someone whose body has been so thoroughly used that her face forgot how to arrange itself into anything more complex than satisfaction.
Her mascara is destroyed. Her hair looks like she survived a natural disaster.
Her collarbone is marked with my teeth in two places.
"Aren't you glad I let you come inside me?" she says, and her words are still slightly slurred, still cum-drunk and loose at the edges.
"I think that's a dangerous question."
"Thanks for the creampie, you fucking weirdo." She leans in and kisses me, slow and sloppy, her tongue lazy against mine, and I taste the ghost of myself in her mouth from the oral earlier. "Both of them. Think your guys are doing their thing in there?"
"I hope so, for your sake."
"For all our sakes." She pats my cheek, a gesture that should be condescending but comes across as strangely affectionate, the way you'd congratulate a dog for learning a complicated trick. "Good job, buddy."
She picks her sundress up off the floor and pulls it over her head, and just like that, the naked, unhinged, cum-filled woman who just demanded I breed her twice is gone — replaced by Nikki in a sundress, looking disheveled but otherwise unremarkable,
someone you'd pass on the street without a second thought unless you caught the way she walked and the thing she did with her hips.
Except her thighs are wet under the dress, and there are marks on her neck that the fabric doesn't cover, and she's moving with the careful, measured gait of someone whose body has been rearranged from the inside.
"You should probably get dressed too," she says, smoothing the fabric over her thighs with a wince. "I doubt Ben's going to be thrilled about walking in on this tableau."
I pull my boxers and jeans back on. My shirt is somewhere near the TV stand.
The apartment smells like sex — dense, unmistakable, baked into the couch cushions and the air itself — and there's no hiding it, no candle or open window that's going to fix it in the next fifteen minutes.
Nikki doesn't seem concerned. She retrieves her phone from wherever it ended up and sits back on the couch, cross-legged, scrolling through something like she's in a waiting room.
"You're just going to sit there."
"I'm waiting for Ben. That's what I came here to do."
She looks up at me and the innocence on her face is flawless, seamless, the work of a woman who has been performing normalcy in abnormal situations for longer than I've known her.
"What? It's not like he and I are exclusive. I can do whatever I want."
"And you did."
"And I did." She smiles. "Twice."
I take my beer from the side table and carry it to the kitchen.
It's warm. I pour it out and open a new one and lean against the counter and try to figure out what, exactly, just happened to my Friday night.
Nikki is on the couch, humming to herself, my cum inside her body — two loads, mixed together, doing whatever they're going to do — and she's acting like she just finished a yoga class.
Her composure is either a masterwork of emotional detachment or proof that she exists on a different plane of consequence than the rest of us.
I think it's the second one.