Willow #3
I fragment, splintering like a blown glass and loving the violence of it.
Somewhere in me is a voice that says this isn’t real, that it’s all some elaborate fever dream, but the snap of teeth on my shoulder, the dull ache of being stretched so wide I might break, the slick heat of Gabe’s tongue in my mouth, none of it gives an inch to the idea of fantasy.
My ribs creak with every hammering thrust. Xander’s groans start as barely audible rumbles, a storm in his chest, but with every new collision they get harsher, more ragged, until he snarls my name like he wants to wear it down to the marrow.
Gabe guides himself to my mouth, just a hot brand of salt at the tip, and groans as my lips close over him.
He doesn’t even try to be gentle. He growls, not even words, and drives in deep, his hand wrapped around the back of my skull like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
The shock of it, how raw, how immediate, brings tears to my eyes, salt and spit and the drag of his length down my throat. I gag, but he doesn’t let go, not even when my vision stars at the edges.
I flatten my tongue, relax my jaw, and let him use me; I want to be used, to be process and not product, a living instrument for their pleasure. I feel the throb of them in my pussy, my ass, my mouth, all three of them cycling through, working me.
Xander is relentless, and the deeper he pushes, the more my world narrows to the obscene, relentless piston of his hips. A blur that feels like it might actually fuck me apart.
I moan around Gabe’s cock, the sound guttural, frantic, borderline bestial. My jaw aches, I drool down my chin, but the slap and scrape of his cock along my tongue is so satisfying, so right, I want to weep with relief.
Xander is growling now, his nails biting in at my hips. Julian’s hands clench, then slide up my front, keeping me locked in place.
I meet every thrust, greedy for it, uncaring if I rip. The fullness is excruciating and exquisite enough that I don’t care about pain anymore; I want it, I want to be framed by it, to look down at my own body and see the evidence.
Gabe’s cock throbs on my tongue, and from the busted-open sounds he’s making, I know he’s close. I look up at him, eyes rimmed in tears, spit-slicked, and he’s staring back, almost undone by what I’ve become.
I swallow him down harder, daring him, demanding he give in first. He does.
His whole body tenses, then shudders, and the hot flood in my mouth is so shocking and intimate I nearly weep.
The taste blooms, bitter and oceanic. I drink and let him fuck out the last tremors until he collapses, hands limp, strings cut.
There’s a half-second lull as Gabe shivers with aftershock, but Julian and Xander keep going, keeping me pinned between them, not even pretending to go easy.
Xander’s breathing is ragged in my ear, the frame of his body caging me in at the edge of the bed, and I can feel the pulse in his cock ramp up, the stuttered slam of him a perfect counterpoint to the more methodical piston of Julian in front.
It’s pure sensation now: friction, heat, the strain of nerve and muscle and the splitting, the pleasure of being taken, again and again, until language burns away and only the whine of bodies and the blitzkrieg of orgasm matters.
I come again. Harder than before. Violent, all consuming, the kind of climax that makes the world momentarily white out at the edges.
My body seizes and pulses, then collapses, spent and quivering, a rag doll in the hands of men who know exactly what they’re doing.
I gasp for air, desperate, and blink sweat and tears and the blur of the universe from my eyes.
Julian’s breathing gets weird, fractured, his hands shaking where they grip my hips. He slams forward a few more times, then, with a snarl that’s more animal than man, jerks my whole body onto him, and I feel it: the heat, the pulse, the slick push of his come inside me.
He holds me there, forehead pressed hard between my shoulders, teeth at my skin, the world reduced to the shaking bed and the hurricane of his release.
The burnt sugar smell of it collides with the sweat and blood and everything else, and it feels like the chemical signature of a new life.
He grunts, the sound punched out of him, then goes slack, falling with his full weight against me. The collapse doesn’t stop things. The friction is just different, the sense memory of being filled, gaping, claimed in every way a body can be.
Xander pulls out, just in time to paint me with his come, all up my back.
The hot slick of it lands across my shoulders and spine, a falling star in a fever dream. The way Xander says my name is like a benediction. Guttural and hoarse, all the letters blunted, emptied out.
He stays locked to my skin for a beat longer, forehead braced to my sweaty back, and then he peels away, laugh shuddering in the ruin he’s made.
I don’t know how things escalated quite to that point, but I do know that despite the burning heat shrouding us, I need to be careful.
This is only a bit of fun, after all.