Another round

The wet sound of your bodies parting is obscene in the quiet room. You lift yourself off him slowly, and the slide of his softening cock leaving your pussy makes you both exhale at once—his a shuddering gasp, yours a low, satisfied hum.

Cathy's thighs are slick. You can feel it, the mess he made, already cooling against your skin. His cum and yours, mixed, dripping.

"Stay there," you murmur.

You rise on unsteady legs and cross to the side table by the couch, where a box of tissues sits beside a half-burned candle. You pull three free, bunch them in your hand, and press them between your legs. The cotton comes away soaked, glistening, and you watch Marcus watch you—his eyes tracking the tissues, the evidence, the slow drag of paper through your folds. You wipe again. And again. Each pass spreads the wetness rather than removing it, and you take your time, letting him see the way your hips tilt into the pressure, the way your breath catches when the tissue grazes your swollen clit.

"You're dripping," he says, barely a whisper.

"You did that." You drop the tissues on the coffee table, a small white pile of ruin. "And you're not done."

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

You kneel between his knees again, and this time you don't hesitate. His cock is limp against his thigh, tacky with the mess you both made—his cum, your slick, the mingled salt of everything. You take him in your hand, and the smell of sex rises off him like heat off asphalt. It should disgust you. You brace for it. But Cathy's body doesn't flinch, and neither do you. The scent is musky and warm, and something beneath the revulsion—something older, hungrier—leans into it instead.

You drag your tongue up the length of him.

His whole body jolts. "Oh, God—"

"Shh." You lick again, root to tip, tasting the salt of your own pussy on his skin. "Let me."

You take the head into your mouth and suck gently, and his hips buck off the couch. His hands fly to your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he needs something to anchor him. You flatten your tongue along his shaft and slide down, and he swells against your tongue almost instantly—blood rushing back, the limp softness firming into that long upward curve you felt before.

"There he is," you say, pulling off with a wet pop. You stroke him once, root to tip, and he's fully hard again, glistening, twitching in your fist. "I knew you had another round in you."

"I've never—" He's panting. "I didn't know I could—so fast—"

"Shy boys are full of surprises." You release him and stand, then turn your back to him and bend.

Your hands find the arm of the couch. Your feet plant wide on the floor. And you arch, slow, letting your spine curve like a drawn bow, pushing your bare ass up and out toward the room behind you. Cathy's ass—round, firm, the cheeks parting slightly as you spread your stance. Cool air touches the wetness between your thighs. You look back over your shoulder at him.

He hasn't moved. He's just staring. His cock stands straight off his body, bobbing with each breath.

"Come here, Marcus."

"I—" He swallows. "What do I—"

"Stand up." You wiggle your hips, and you hear him make a sound like he's choking. "Walk over here. Put your hands on me."

The couch creaks. His bare feet slap the floor. Then his palms land on your waist, warm and dry and trembling, and his touch is so careful, so reverent, that your pussy clenches around nothing.

"Lower," you say.

His hands slide down, over the swell of your hips, and stop at your ass. His fingers press into the flesh, kneading once, testing.

"Now put your cock between my cheeks," you tell him. "Don't push. Just feel."

He grinds against you, up the crack, down again, the length of him sliding through the divided heat of your ass. Precum smears across your skin, tacky and warm. You push back into him, and the head catches on your opening—not there, not where he expects—and you laugh, soft and mean.

"That's the wrong hole. Try lower."

He fumbles down, hand guiding himself, and the broad head finds your cunt. He presses.

"Wait." You reach back, take him, angle him. "Okay. Now."

He sinks in all at once.

The stretch punches the breath out of you. He feels even thicker than before—Cathy's body greedy now, swollen, and he splits you open inch by inch until his hips meet your ass. You hear him groan, a long, breaking sound, and his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Move," you say. "Fuck me."

He moves. His first thrust is tentative, shallow, but he finds the angle fast—hits something deep that makes your vision blur at the edges. He does it again. Harder. Wet sounds rise with every stroke, obscene and rhythmic, skin slapping against skin. Your breasts swing beneath you, nipples brushing the rough fabric of the couch arm with each drive.

"Harder," you gasp. "I'm not glass."

His hips snap. Now he's fucking you. Really fucking you, and the impact shudders through your spine. His cock rams your cervix on every stroke, a deep, blunt collision that sends sparks up the back of your skull, and each time you grunt—an ugly, breathless sound you'd never make as yourself, but you're not yourself. You're a woman bent over a couch, taking a virgin so hard her teeth click.

"How do you feel?" You throw it back over your shoulder, riding the rhythm. "Fucking the girl you've been watching for two years?"

His answer is a strangled moan. His pace increases.

"You think about this when you touch yourself? Behind that door of yours, in 2B, thinking about my body?"

"Yes," he chokes. "Yes—"

"Then say it. Tell me how it feels."

"So good." His voice cracks and steadies. "So tight. So—I can't—"

Your ass bounces back into his pelvis with each thrust, a jiggle of flesh, wet and loud. His balls slap your clit and you nearly scream. The coil is winding deep in your belly, all of it tightening.

"Don't stop," you pant. "Don't you dare."

He doesn't. He grips your waist and drives, and you take it, arching, presenting, grinding your ass back into him like you were born for this. One of his hands slides around your hip, fingers fumbling down, and finds your clit.

Smart boy.

You come hard, clamping down around him, shaking, and he keeps pounding through it, and the second wave rolls in before the first finishes—two orgasms stacked on top of each other, leaving you sobbing into the couch cushion, forehead pressed to fabric, moaning like something wounded.

"That's it," you gasp. "Come on me. Pull out and come on my ass."

He does. He yanks free at the last second and strokes himself—two, three desperate pulls—and then he's coming. Thick ropes of it stripe across your lower back and the swell of your ass, hot against your skin, and you feel each impact land: one across the small of your back, another pooling in the dip above your tailbone, and one that catches the cheek and drips, slow and heavy, down the crease of your ass. He keeps pumping, shuddering, until he finally sags forward and braces himself on your hips, spent.

You collapse onto the couch.

Face-first, legs splayed, boneless. His cum is cooling across your skin, tacky and wet, and your pussy throbs with the ghost of every thrust, and you can still feel the place deep inside where he kept hitting, a sore, satisfied ache. The room is silent except for the two of you breathing—his ragged, yours shallow.

Behind you, Marcus says nothing. But his hands settle on your hips again—gentle now, uncertain—and hold you like he doesn't know how to let go.