8. Ryan #2
I come back to myself with his tongue pushing inside me, working in deep, insistent strokes.
He’s growling softly, just audible over my wet, ragged panting, as if he’s furious or starving or both.
The sound vibrates against my hole, and it’s so overwhelming I want to push him off—but I don’t; I clutch his hair and grind against his mouth until I’m crying.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” I chant, barely able to breathe. Paul never did this, not once—never touched me like this was something to savor, to worship, not even during the good parts. It aches, the want, but it also hurts how badly I want more. “Oh my god, oh my god, please—”
Camille’s hands slide up and under my shirt, nails dragging across my ribs, taking the ribbed fabric of my top with them.
He licks me with ruthless focus, and then I feel a finger at my hole, pressing, circling, and then slipping inside.
It’s a shock, sudden and burning, but so good it makes my toes curl.
I gasp, almost choke, and he fucks into me with his finger, crooking it forward, thumb never leaving my dick. Each push lights up my whole body in blinding, electrical bursts of pleasure and pain so close I can’t separate them.
I writhe, legs flexing, and grab at his wrist, not to stop him, just to have something to hold on to. He hums, pleased, and I feel it everywhere, every place I’d ever wanted to be touched.
I come again before he even slows down. This time it’s louder, messier—my throat can’t hold the sounds, and I’m sobbing, keening, nearly hiccuping from the intensity.
My vision blurs, and my hands clench so hard my nails dig half-moons into his skin.
I want to scream yes, yes, yes, but all I can do is buck up into him and take whatever he gives.
“C’est bon,” Camille whispers, voice gone deeper than I thought possible. It’s good. “Don’t hold back. Let it all out.”
He adds a second finger, stretching me, then slides his mouth up, teeth nipping at my dick so deliciously I see stars.
I shatter a third time—my body locking up, then convulsing so hard I nearly pull him up off the floor.
My thighs clamp around his head, and the pressure almost makes me faint, but Camille seems thrilled by it, rutting his tongue against me as if he can taste my soul.
I’m shaking, sweating, barely aware of where I am. When he finally pulls away, I collapse back into the velvet of the couch, boneless and fucked-out, unable to move. My hole pulses, empty and raw, and my chest heaves as I try to remember how lungs work.
I taste metal in my mouth, salt and static.
I keep my eyes shut, hoping maybe Camille will give me a minute to reboot, but instead I feel the couch dip, and then his hands slide up my thighs, kneading muscle with quiet, predatory patience.
There’s a wet sound as he licks his lips.
I risk a glance down. He’s palming himself through his pants, the outline of his cock evident, brutal, and obscene.
It has no business being that big. He’s not even touching me, and I am so far gone I can’t move my hands.
He pushes my knees apart and settles, his weight a warm anchor. “Do you want to see me?” His voice is a sawblade dragged over silk. “Or do you wish to rest?”
The question is so gentle I want to sob. He’s giving me the choice. I want both. I want to be ruined, and I want to be held. I reach for him, greedy, not even pretending to play it cool.
“Show me,” I murmur brokenly.
His eyes flash, and he unbuttons his pants with one hand, the other tracing fire up my thigh. The sound of fabric sliding open is loud in the quiet. He pulls himself out—thick, dark, curving just a little to the left, already wet at the tip. My brain blue-screens.
He notices the way I stare and grins, unrepentant. “You like?” I can’t speak, so I nod, honest and dumb. He presses the tip against my lips, his hand cradling the back of my skull, and whispers, “Open.”
I do.
The first taste is salt and something uniquely, aggressively him.
He smears the bead of himself over my lower lip, painting me with it, then strokes the head against my tongue.
It’s so much hotter, so much heavier than I expected.
I try to take more, but he pulls back, teasing.
My tongue chases after him, and I realize I’m whining, needy, and desperate, and he’s eating it up.
“Très bien,” he purrs, rubbing his cock over my lips, up to the bridge of my nose and back down.
Very good. “You are perfect like this. Feral, hungry. Comme un chat sauvage. C’est ce que tu veux?
Tu veux être mon petit chaton?” Like a wild cat.
Is that what you want? You want to be my little kitten?
I think he just said something about a cat, but honestly, at this point, I couldn’t care less. He could say anything in that sexy voice of his, literally, and it’d turn me on.
He thumbs my jaw open wider, and I suck at the tip, savoring the taste. My jaw aches, but I don’t care. I want all of him. He lets me, for a minute, then pulls away, smearing his pre all over my flushed face.
He then stands, stroking himself with long, lazy movements as he looks down at me, and the power dynamic is crystal fucking clear. I want to be consumed. I want to be obliterated.
He kneels again, slides his cock along my cheek, and says, “Do you want this inside you?”
The question detonates in my chest. I nod, unable to articulate anything else.
Luckily, Camille seems to read my mind and pulls a condom from his back pocket.
I don’t even have time to think about why he happens to have a condom on him before I’m pulled into a trance as he tears the packet open with his teeth and rolls the condom down his massive length.
I brace myself, drunk on the smell and the want and the knowledge that this is happening, that he wants me, that I am about to get absolutely destroyed.
My hips are already lifting from the couch, desperate for more, when Camille slides back down my body and bends over me with one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other stroking himself as he lines up against my hole.
He glances up, searching my face for permission. I nod so hard I’m surprised my head doesn’t come loose, and it’s almost funny how careful he is in that split second.
Then he pushes, and it’s no longer funny; it’s everything.
The burn is overwhelming. He’s not just thick; he’s impossible. The blunt head of his cock parts me, and I grip at the cushions, digging in deep, not sure if I want to run or take it like a goddamn champion.
I do both.