setting goals

You pull her off your cock, flip her onto her hands and knees on the couch, and take her from behind in one deep thrust.

One hand slides up and closes gently around her throat—not crushing, just enough pressure to make her back arch and her breath go thin and needy. Sandra moans immediately, the sound clipped by your palm, and pushes her ass back to take you deeper. You settle into a hard, steady rhythm, filling her to the hilt on every stroke while you talk against her ear.

The swimming resort. Tomorrow. That is the one.

You start listing the little challenges while you fuck her, voice low, thumb stroking the side of her neck in time with your hips.

Stealing the tiny swimsuit off her in the water. Making her earn it back by swimming a full length of the quiet pool with nothing on, staying low so the few people on deck only see a girl doing laps. Taking a slide nude because you pulled the bottoms off at the top and kept them. Standing in the whirlpool with the suit bunched in your fist while she has to sit on your cock and look normal if anyone walks by. Sending her to the sauna first, then joining her with her top already in your pocket.

Sandra clenches around you at every new rule. The gentle choke keeps her arched and focused, glassy-eyed, taking every thrust like the ideas themselves are another form of being filled. You bury yourself deep and grind there when you start to come, pumping her full while your hand stays on her throat and the list of tomorrow’s games keeps spilling out of you.

She comes on the last of it, shaking, still pushed back onto your cock, still wearing that look that says the danger is the part she wants most.

The thought hits you mid-thrust.

The resort is not walkable. You have to take the train.
You could take her parents car, but the parking is expensive, and where is the fun in that.

You say it out loud before you have fully formed the picture, still buried in her, hand still around her throat.

A full cabin. Midday, not packed like rush hour but nowhere near empty. Her in that tiny swimsuit under a flimsy cover-up that does nothing once you slide it aside. Standing in the aisle between stops with your body crowding hers against the wall by the doors. Your hand under the fabric, two fingers already in her because the carriage is rocking and no one is looking directly at the couple in the corner. Then more. Turning her to face the window, lifting one of her legs, pushing into her right there while the train moves. Other passengers three metres away. The reflection of her face in the glass. Having to stay still at each station when the doors open, cock still inside her, until they close again.

Sandra’s reaction is instant and violent.

Her whole body seizes. A raw, incoherent moan tears out of her against your palm as she squirts hard—hot, messy pulses that soak your cock, your hips, the couch beneath you. She shakes through it, pussy clamping down in frantic waves, the train fantasy hitting whatever switch the alley and the living-room movie night already installed in her.

The sight of her like that does it for you.

You slam deep and come with her, grinding against her core while you empty into the same cunt that is still squirting around you. Thick pulses, held there by the lock of her hips and the hand on her throat, both of you locked in the picture of a crowded train car that does not even exist yet.

The intensity fades just enough for her brain to switch back on.

Sandra goes pink in a different way—post-nut clarity catching up with everything she just squirted through, everything she asked for, everything she imagined in a packed train car. She hides her face against the couch cushion for a second, then mumbles it without looking at you.

“…Sorry you have to deal with such a perverted girlfriend.”

You do not let her sit in it.

You hook an arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lift her off the ruined couch in a clean princess carry. She makes a small startled sound and grabs your shoulder, still dripping, still flushed with leftover shame. You carry her down the hall toward the bedroom while you talk, voice easy and certain.

“Your pervertedness is the best thing since sliced bread. I’m keeping it. I’m using it. Stop apologising for the part I like most.”

Sandra lets out a helpless little chuckle and bonks her forehead lightly against yours.

“God, you can dry a girl up so fast with that dorky talk.”

She does not mean a word of it. Her legs are already tightening around you, her mouth already seeking another kiss, the shame thinning out under the way you are holding her and the fact that you are clearly taking her to bed to keep going. You kick the bedroom door wider with your foot, drop her onto the mattress, and follow her down.