A proper tit fucking

You want to reach for him. Desperately. Immediately. Your mittened hands twitch toward his waistband, but the pink mittens cuffs are cinched too tight around your wrists and you can’t get purchase to undo the cuffs! Jo must have known, the bastard. The mitts have, turned your fingers into useless pink paws. You can’t even get a grip on the zipper of his ski pants, let alone free his cock yourself. A frustrated whimper escapes you. You have no agency, no control, no volition and the frustration is making you fucking horny as fuck because you can’t fuck. “Fuck me…” you mutter in wide eyed realisation.

Jamal notices your predicament and his broad white toothed grin is slow, predatory. “Aw, princess can’t get her hands free? Let me help you…” He takes both your wrists in his massive palms and effortlessly guides them behind your back. There’s a soft click as the flimsy plastic clips on the mittens locks them together at the small of your back. Your arms are pinned now, shoulders pulled back, chest thrust forward even more obscenely. This is pushing all of Jo’s submissive button. Your buttons. The position makes you lean forward your breasts pushing out of the half open zipper, your nipples tingling with every breath.

“Much, much better,” he murmurs, “now I can do anything I want and you can’t stop me. You like that don’t you Jo?”

“Yes sir…” you agree in an excited little girly voice as he unzips his own fly with deliberate slowness. When he frees himself, your breath catches hard.

Jamal’s cock is beautiful. longer and thicker than yours ever was. You stare in wide eyed awe. His manhood is dark, veined, heavy and already glistening with pre cum at the tip. It sways hypnotically in front of your face in the warm air of the gondola, curving upward slightly, the head fat and flushed. You stare, mouth watering, cunt clenching so violently you nearly buckle. This is what a real man looks like. This is what you’re reduced to craving. You want him to fuck you. Deep. Hard. His fuckpet…

He steps closer, wraps one big hand around the base, and guides the thick shaft between your heavy breasts. You arch instinctively, offering yourself up like a gift. He groans low in his throat as your soft, lotion-slick flesh envelops him. The contrast is incredibly erotic as his midnight black cock slides through your pale, pillowy cleavage framed by screaming fluorescent pink. He starts to thrust, slow at first, then harder, using your tits as if they were made for this.

The gondola sways in rhythm with his hips, creaking louder, the motion amplifying every slide. Your nipples drag against his skin, sending sparks straight to your clit. The crotch of the suit feels soaked, grinding tightly against your swollen nub with every thrust between your titties. You moan, a high, feminine, helpless sound that devolves into regular gasps and whimpers that fill the small space. The windows fog up fast from your combined breathing, turning the bright mountain view into a soft white blur.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls. “Taking it like you were born for it.” You are. Right now you are.

He speeds up, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing. Your head bends back against the gondola wall, pigtails swinging, mouth open in a constant stream of needy little cries. Shame floods you. Hot, humiliating, perfect. You used to be the one doing the fucking. Now you’re the eager, dripping bimbo getting her tits used on a ski lift by a stranger who’s twice your size.

Jamal’s rhythm falters. He pulls out suddenly, grips the base, and aims higher. “Open wide. Here cums the Choo Choo train.”

You blink at the ridiculous words then you lips part wide, tongue out like you’ve been trained.

He comes with a deep, guttural sound. Thick ropes hit your face then his aim improves and they stripe your tongue and your chin. The smegma drips down onto the tops of your exposed breasts. You swallow what lands in your mouth. It’s salty and hot and overwhelming. Then you gasp as the rest slides down your belly to your naval inside you suit, cooling fast in the gondola air. Some drips onto the rubberized floor between your boots.

He exhales hard, tucks himself away with a satisfied grunt and zips up. He wipes your face and lets you lick the cum of your fingers which you do obediently. Then he reaches for your suit, drags the zipper back up just high enough to contain your breasts again. A few pearly streaks of cum still gleam on the upper slopes of your cleavage. He doesn’t wipe them away.

Next your mittens are unclipped with another soft click. Your arms fall forward, numb and tingling as the gondola doors slide open to blinding sunlight and fresh powder at the top station.

Jamal offers you a steadying hand as you shuffle out on trembling legs. Your pussy is throbbing so hard it hurts, empty and aching, the suit soaked with his cum and clinging dirtily. You feel like a complete slut. Every step rubs your clit raw. Cum is drying sticky on your chest and belly, hidden but unmistakable if anyone looks close.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “Next ride up,” he promises, voice dark velvet, “I’m fucking you properly. Bent over, suit peeled down just enough. You’re gonna take every inch.”

Your cunt flutters at the words, fresh slick seeping out. You nod mutely, cheeks flaming.

He clips your skis back on for you, his big hands efficient and possessive. Then he puts on his skis and steps in close behind you at the top of the run. His skis slide between yours once more. His body crowds in, chest to your back, one hand on your hip, the other lower, cupping the curve of your ass through pink fabric. You feel the heavy nudge of his thick long black cock again, already half-hard, pressing right against the cleft where the suit rides up.

“Snowplow position, princess,” he murmurs, breath hot on your neck. “Knees bent. Ass out. Just like last time. This is good practice for when I fuck you. I want perfection…”

You obey. The V of your skis opens. He pushes forward, slow and controlled, steering you down the groomer. Every small correction rocks his hips into yours, cock grinding against your ass in promise.

Soon.

The mountain stretches empty and glittering below you. Your body hums—shame-soaked, arousal-drenched, utterly unmanned.

You can’t wait for the next gondola.