Far From it

Jameson hit the floor on all fours, dick swinging heavy and slick between his thighs, still half-dazed from the overload. The room smelled like warm lube and panic.

“Fuck, you’re not getting away that easy,” he growled, voice thick.

Under the dresser it had wedged itself tight, those fat cheeks squashed against the wood, trembling. The second it felt the vibration of his knees on the carpet it redoubled its efforts: frantic little hump-hump-humps, silicone squeaking against the floorboards as it tried to burrow deeper.

Jameson reached in, fingers scraping carpet. “Gotcha—”

It shot backward like a bar of soap, ricocheted off the back wall of the dresser, and squirted out the other side in a wild sideways skid. A glistening streak of lube painted the floor behind it.

“Fuck—fast little bastard!”

It was already halfway across the room, cheeks clapping in rapid fire—fop-fop-fop-fop—like an obscene inchworm on cocaine, aiming straight for the open closet. Jameson dove, belly-flopping onto the carpet, and managed to slap one hand down on its plush ass just as it reached the threshold.

The toy bucked hard, twisting under his palm. Both tunnels clenched in panic; he could feel the inner walls ripple through the silicone like it was trying to bite his fingers off. A hot squirt of leftover lube shot out and splattered his wrist.

“Quit—fucking—squirming!” He clamped down with both hands, dragging it back into the open. It fought like a greased otter, hips humping the air, labia fluttering, every motion making its cheeks wobble obscenely.

He flipped it over. The molded pussy and asshole stared up at him, still gaping and glossy. It tried the corkscrew again—twisting wildly in his grip—but this time he was ready. He pinned it against his thigh, one palm spread wide over the squishy mound, the other gripping the far cheek like a stress ball.

“Nice try,” he panted, chest heaving. His cock, traitor that it was, had gone diamond-hard again from the struggle.

He shoved it down onto the carpet, straddled it, and lined himself up in one rough motion. The second his tip kissed the entrance it tried to twist away again, but he was faster. He drove in to the hilt.

The toy squealed, or would have if it had lungs. Every ridge inside seized around him in frantic, pulsing waves, fighting and milking at the same time. Jameson groaned, forehead pressed to the floor above it, hips already snapping.

“Thought you could run?” he rasped between thrusts, voice ragged. “You’re not going anywhere now.”

Under him the toy thrashed, cheeks slapping the carpet with every stroke, lube foaming at the edges. It was losing the battle, and they both knew it.