Join him and tell him your a top

You wanted to take a little frustration out on the catfish. Sex is sex for a Gooner like you. The body on the couch doesn't matter. The face, the personality it's all irrelevant noise. What matters is the act. The friction. The heat. The release. The suit is a costume. This room is a set. Ricky is just a prop. You are the star.

You stand up. Your movement is stiff, robotic. You shed the suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor. You unbutton the shirt. The crisp white cotton is a shroud. You pull it off, exposing your pale, soft torso. You kick off the expensive shoes, peel away the socks. You are naked but for your trousers, which you unbutton and let drop around your ankles. Your cock is hard. It has a job to do.

Ricky's stroking falters. He looks at you, a flicker of surprise in his dull eyes. He was expecting a fight, or flight, or tears. He wasn't expecting this.

"I'm a top," you say. Your voice is flat. Devoid of emotion. It's a statement of fact, a line of code in the scene. "Get on your knees."

Ricky's surprise turns into a slow, greasy smile. He sees it. He understands the gooner logic. This isn't about conquest or power in the traditional sense. This is about fulfilling the script. This is about taking the lead role in a porn that's actually happening. It's the ultimate goon.

"Fuck yeah," he breathes, scrambling off the couch. He drops to his knees on the cheap hotel carpet, looking up at you. "Fuck me, man. Use me. Whatever you want."

You step forward. You put a hand on the back of his head. His lank hair feels greasy against your palm. You rub your cock across his face. You take a big sniff of the panties while rubbing your cock on his face. You want to degrade him. The smell is intoxicating, fueling the fantasy. This isn't Ricky anymore. He's a vessel. A warm body for you to use to fuck the ghost of Sabrina Carpenter.

"Open your mouth," you command.

He does. You push your cock inside. It's warm. Wet. You close your eyes. You see her. Sabrina, on her knees for you. Your hips begin to move. You grab a handful of her hair and start to fuck her face. Ricky makes gagging sounds. It's perfect. It's a soundtrack.

You're in control. You are the pornstar. You are the one in the driver's seat. The shame is still there, a bitter taste at the back of your throat, but it's drowned out by the overwhelming surge of power, of pure, uncut gooning. This is what the "GoonetteGoddess" promised. Worship. You are finally getting what you craved. Just not in the way you ever could have imagined.

You pull out, a string of saliva connecting you to him. "On the bed," you growl. "On all fours."

He scrambles to obey, clambering onto the king-size bed, presenting himself to you. You grab the panties from the armchair where you dropped them. You take another deep, shuddering sniff, the scent of fantasy flooding your senses. Then you toss them onto the small of his back, a delicate lace flag planted on a sweaty, hairy hill.

You get behind him. You line up your cock. This is it. The final scene.

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