Jan. Week 3: Friday(Raw)-Leah Rides Mr. Bill...with gusto

The old couch sagged under Mr. Bill’s weight, and Leah hovered over him, her knees pressed into the flat vinyl cushions. She aligned herself, feeling the blunt, bottle-thick crown of him nudge against her entrance. She had to angle her hips just right—he was too big for a straight shot—and even then, the first push made her gasp. It was like being split in half, her body protesting with a sudden, full-body shudder. She gritted her teeth and **** herself down, bit by bit, feeling the stretch and burn, the sense of being filled past all reason.

Mr. Bill’s hands gripped her waist, steady and bruising, holding her aloft until she’d sheathed him to the hilt. Only then did he relax, one thumb tracing slow circles along her hipbone.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, voice almost reverent. “You tight as a drum, girl. Thought you’d be looser after all that sleepin’ round.”

She wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, but her jaw refused to unclench. Instead, she braced her palms on his shoulders and started to move, slowly at first, just lifting herself up an inch before sinking back down. Each time she bottomed out, the pressure made her head swim. The sound of her own wetness echoed obscenely in the tiny closet. Bill’s cock filled her so completely that her clit ground against his pelvis every time she dropped down, sending the tiniest sparks of unwilling pleasure through her system.

She rode him in silence, eyes locked on the wall behind his head, focusing on the pain, on the humiliation, on anything but the unholy symphony of sensation building between her legs. Every few seconds, Mr. Bill would flex, bouncing her higher, making her breasts jiggle under her sweater.

He’d mutter encouragements while squeezing her ass with the audacity of a man who’d already won. “That’s it. Keep goin’.” “You makin me proud, Miss Leah.” “Take all of it, that’s my girl.”

She despised how the words landed. Not because they were gross—though they certainly were—but because they made her feel like some prancing show pony, trained to perform. But what made it worse was the sneaking suspicion that she was, on some level, performing for herself as much as for him. She hated how good it felt to **** him inside, to prove that she could handle it, to match some impossible masculine ideal with her own stubborn, twisted pride.

It wasn’t long before her hips took over. The initial pain blurred into a sick, heady pleasure, and she bounced up and down in earnest, her thighs clenching and shaking with the effort. Her hands clung to his shoulders, nails digging deep. She could feel the orgasm lurking at the edge of her mind, a dark shape she wanted to ignore, but it was coming for her whether she liked it or not. She clenched harder around Bill, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.

“Damn, you a fuckin’ beast,” he croaked, sweat running down his brow as he looked up at her with an odd mixture of awe and glee. “You ride dick like it’s your job.”

Leah almost laughed at the line—a cruel, bitter bark that escaped her throat. It was her job. She was being paid, in a manner of speaking, with silence and the continued sanctity of her life. She wondered if that made her a whore, or just a survivor. She wondered, fleetingly, if it mattered.

Her legs began to burn from the exertion, but she wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, not when she was so close. She let herself focus on the sensations: the fullness, the heat, the insistent stroke of Bill’s cock against her most sensitive places. She could feel her own climax rushing up, a freight train with no brakes, and she bit down on her lip to keep herself quiet. But Mr. Bill heard the shift, the way her rhythm faltered, the way she squeezed him tighter than ever.

“You gonna cum on this dick, Miss Leah?” he gloated, dragging her down so she couldn’t escape. “Go on, do it. Get you some.”