Fuck yes

Her back was to me, sprawled naked across my bed, her thin body like a dare I couldn’t back down from. Beth, my Tinder match—the blonde with the quirky bio about theater improv and late-night poetry slams—had been texting me for days, all flirty heat that had us both itching to meet. Now here she was, in my dim apartment, the air heavy with her vanilla lotion and the raw musk of want. Moonlight sliced through the blinds, painting her pale skin with silver streaks, her spine curving just so, her hips flaring slightly as she arched, practically begging for it.

She glanced back, her blonde hair a messy tangle, eyes glinting with something wild. “Do it hard,” she growled, voice low and rough, not asking but demanding. My hands found her hips, fingers sinking into her soft skin, feeling the wiry strength beneath—years of hauling stage props, probably. My cock was rock-hard, throbbing, massive in a way that made me pause. It looked... huge, veins bulging, thick as her wrist, the head swollen and slick. Was it always this big? Yeah, sure, it’s always been like that, right? I shook off the thought, too caught up in her.

I pressed against her entrance, slick and hot, teasing her until she pushed back with a needy moan. One slow thrust, and I sank in deep, her walls tight, stretching around me. The sound hit like a slap—wet, loud, skin on skin echoing in the quiet room. She gasped, fingers clawing the sheets, knuckles white. “Fuck, yes,” she hissed, her voice cracking. I pulled back, then slammed in again, harder, faster, the rhythm turning brutal at her urging. “Like that—harder!” she panted, her thin frame jolting with every thrust, her ass rippling despite how small she was.

The slaps grew louder, obscene, a relentless beat. I gripped her tighter, thumbs digging into her hips, leaving faint marks. Her moans deepened, raw and throaty, not shrill but torn from her core. I reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough circles. She bucked, her first orgasm hitting fast, her pussy clenching like a fist, fluttering wildly. “God, yes!” she screamed, deep and primal, her body shaking as she buried her face in the pillow. I didn’t stop, pounding through it, sweat dripping down my back, her skin glistening under me.

She came again, quicker, her legs trembling, toes curling as she clawed the bed. “More—please!” she gasped, grinding back, insatiable. My balls felt heavy, massive, slapping against her with every drive. Were they always this full? Yeah, sure, it’s always been like that, right? The thought flickered, but her third climax drowned it out—a guttural roar, her body seizing, nails raking the sheets. I flipped her over, needing to see her face. Her eyes were glassy, lips swollen, blonde hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. “You’re... huge,” she half-laughed, half-moaned, as I drove in deeper, hitting that spot that made her arch off the bed.

Her fourth orgasm came in waves, her nails scratching my arms, leaving red streaks. “Don’t stop—fuck!” she begged, legs wrapping around me, heels digging into my back. The fifth hit harder, her scream muffled against my shoulder, her body convulsing, squeezing me so tight I nearly lost it. I was close, the heat coiling in my gut, my cock pulsing inside her. Had I asked about protection? Shit, too late. Her sixth climax tore through her, a deep, throat-rending cry, her hands fisting my hair. “Come inside me!” she pleaded, and that broke me. I buried myself deep, erupting with a groan—thick, hot spurts, one after another, ten heavy ropes flooding her. Her seventh orgasm synced with mine, her pussy milking every drop, our bodies locked together, trembling.

Beep beep beep.

It was just a dream. The grating blare of my phone’s alarm shattered the morning silence. The same obnoxious tune I’d picked as a teenager five years ago—some ridiculous pop song I’d once found hilarious—still screeched through the speaker. Too lazy to change it, I’d let it haunt my mornings ever since. I lay there, drenched in sweat, my body heavy with a strange mix of hunger and an overwhelming, almost painful arousal. My erection throbbed beneath the sheets, hard and insistent, like it was trying to demand my attention. God, it almost hurt. There was this nagging feeling, deep in my gut, that something about me was… different. I couldn’t shake it. The intensity of my desire was unlike anything I’d felt before, a primal, aching need that seemed to pulse through every nerve.

I reached down, wrapping my hand around my cock. Had it always been this big? The weight of it in my palm felt both familiar and strange, like I was discovering it for the first time. I let my mind drift to the fantasies I often turned to when I touched myself—vivid, heated scenes that played like a movie in my head. My cock was long, thick, especially around the middle and at the tip, where the girth made it impossible to close my fingers around it completely. It felt heavy, powerful, almost too much. My balls ached, swollen and tight, like they were ready to burst. They were huge, the size of apples, I thought, though I tried to convince myself that was normal. That’s how they’d always been, right? But something about the sensation didn’t sit right—it was too intense, too overwhelming.

I started stroking, my fingers gliding along the shaft, slick with the sweat that coated my skin. The feeling was electric, each movement sending a jolt of pleasure through me, but it was laced with frustration. No matter how fast or slow I went, I couldn’t find release. Time was slipping away—I had to get ready soon—but my body refused to cooperate. Eventually, I gave up, the ache still gnawing at me, and dragged myself to the shower. The hot water cascaded over me, but my mind wandered to Ellie, the girl from last night. I could still see her, the way her eyes had rolled back, her breath heavy and ragged, her lips parted as she sat in front of me, lost in the moment. The image sent a fresh wave of heat through me, and my cock stayed rock-hard, unyielding.

I gripped the base of my shaft with one hand, firm and steady, while the other focused on the sensitive head, circling and teasing. The pleasure built, sharp and consuming, as I pictured Ellie—her flushed cheeks, her soft gasps, the way she seemed to unravel under my gaze. The tension snapped, and I came hard, thick ropes of cum shooting out in powerful bursts. One, two, three—they hit the glass of the shower door with a loud, wet smack, each pulse more intense than the last. Eight, nine, ten. The streams ran down the glass in heavy, creamy streaks, glistening under the bathroom light. My cock didn’t soften, though. It stayed just as hard, just as demanding, as if nothing had happened. Was that normal? My head spun, a mix of dizziness and lingering arousal clouding my thoughts.

I stumbled back to my bed, collapsing onto the sheets, still horny, still restless. I grabbed my cock again, this time with a tighter grip, my mind shifting to Beth, the girl I was meeting later for brunch. It was our first date, and I hadn’t even met her in person yet. I’d only seen her pictures—blonde, petite, almost delicate, with a body that looked like it belonged on a stage. She did something with theater, apparently, which sounded interesting, even if her face wasn’t strikingly beautiful. Not that it mattered. First dates were always exciting, but they rarely led anywhere. I tried to recall the dream I’d had about her. Had I hypnotized her, too, like in some of my wilder fantasies? The thought sent me over the edge again. My cock pulsed, aiming instinctively toward my stomach, but the **** of my climax was unreal—thick, heavy spurts shot past my face, splattering onto the pillow. One hit my cheek by accident, warm and sticky. I adjusted, aiming higher, and five more bursts painted the wall above my bed. My cock finally softened, but even flaccid, it felt swollen, massive. At least 20 centimeters, I thought, though I told myself that was normal. It had to be.

I shook off the haze and got ready for the date. I pulled on a loud, tropical-patterned shirt—palm trees and animals splashed across it. Maybe it was a tacky choice, but it was a conversation starter, and I needed all the help I could get. My jeans were next, but as I zipped them up, I noticed how tight they felt around my groin. My cock, even soft, pressed prominently against the fabric, impossible to ignore. I shrugged it off—jeans never fit me quite right, anyway. That’s what I’d told myself when I bought them.

Keys in hand, I headed out the door, my mind already on the brunch with Beth. The morning’s intensity lingered, a strange mix of anticipation and unease, but I pushed it aside. It was just another day, another date that will turn out a failure... Nothing unusuall right?