23. A Post-Victory Celebration #3
He’s purposefully avoiding my G-spot, instead skating his crown around the perimeter and teasing me with the hubris of a man who knows he excels in every aspect of life—whether it’s fucking, fighting, or flirting.
His stamina never wavers, nor does his tempo. Another open-palm spank to my ass wrings quiet tears from my eyes, and I feel more arousal spiderweb down the plug of his cock in gush after humiliating gush.
I may not be able to see the expression on his face, but I can hear the gratitude in his tone—as if I’m a jewel he can’t stop admiring, mined from the deepest parts of the earth.
“I’ve dreamed about fucking you raw like this.
I’ve dreamed about you taking my seed and swelling with my child,” he gruffs under his breath, dotting an avenue of kisses down my back.
They contrast against the prime-time shunting that’s going to leave my pussy raw by the time this whole ordeal is over.
I never thought much about children, but there’s something inexplicably hot about getting cream-pied. My thinning breath and tiring pulse are a testament to the mastery of his strokes—how he continues to batter his dick against raw tissue and shoot me over the mountain cap of my incoming orgasm.
“Aren’t we a little young to start a family?” I ask in the throes of a sensory overload, though it’s more of a cautious comment than a genuine concern.
“Considering how fucking sexy you’d look pregnant, I don’t think you want me to answer that.”
I’ve never been with a man who had a breeding kink before. I think it’s awakening something inside of me. Something bad.
Sutton’s dick, pinioned inside my pussy, begins to slow its pace. He moves his hand over my stomach, circling my belly button with an expert finger.
“You have no idea how badly I want to breed you, Lake. What I’d give to watch your tits grow two sizes.
How I’d drool just to get a taste of the milk leaking from your nipples.
You can feel how deep I am inside you, can’t you?
How your greedy pussy is sucking me in and begging for my load?
The thought of knocking you up makes me so”—thrust—“goddamn”—thrust—“hard.” His heavy, drooping balls smack against the backs of my thighs, and a noise of worship (bordering on a self-complacent purr) dredges up from deep in his belly.
My composure crumbles in the blink of an eye.
I’m so close. I just need one last push before I’m diving headfirst into the euphoric after.
“Don’t stop. I—God, I want you to come inside me.
I want you to breed me, Sutton,” I whine, clenching around his length and wringing the last vestiges of lust out of him.
“If you spill a single drop, I’ll push everything back in.”
I bite my lip. “Promise?”
That single word alone is the detonator for what precedes a geyser-like stream of cum, and I feel a blaze lance through my shoulder before it dawns on me that Sutton is absentmindedly sinking his teeth into my skin to quell the intensity.
A deluge of warm arousal floods my cunt, and I orgasm the same time he does, undergoing a shower of pinpricks and short-lived dizziness. I would be embarrassed about the amount of emission that leaks out of me if I could even distinguish it from the hot mess stuffing my pussy to the brim.
The only thing still holding me up is Sutton’s grip on my hips, and I slouch against the side of the locker, so slick with sweat that a thirty-minute session on the Stairmaster wouldn’t compare to this workout.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He lets his softening cock marinate inside me as he sweeps my disheveled hair up and away from my neck.
“Baby, you’re incredible,” he whispers, still riding the high that simultaneously has my belly doing cartwheels.
“Nobody’s…ever…fucked me like that,” I pant.
“You don’t have to stroke my ego, Lake. You’ve already stroked plenty of me tonight.”
I try to turn around without disengaging, but Sutton eventually pulls out, leaving me gapingly empty. A rivulet of cum splashes up the wreck of my thighs before dripping onto the ground.
“Shit,” we both say in unison, staring down at the ever-growing puddle of viscous, white fluid that would pin us at the scene of the crime.
Sutton can’t help but laugh while he nuzzles his nose into the junction of my neck, tickling me with the fine whiskers of his beard. “I told you not to spill.”
I immediately cling to him and relish the security of his embrace—the broadness of his back, the vastness of his muscle distribution, the comforting scent of his natural musk. “That was before you sprayed me like a cannon.”
“Remind me to bring a rag next time,” he quips.
I pull back so I can look properly at him, my promiscuity growing into a physical thing that won’t retreat until Sutton thoroughly rails me against every surface in this arena. My nipples peak from the overhead draft, and despite the soreness in my abused cunt, I’m more than ready for round two.
“Next time? A little presumptuous, are we, Mr. Whittaker?”
“Baby, judging by the way you strangled my dick and moaned like a porn star, I think my presumptions are very much warranted.”