Push Derek off and reach for your purse — you need to get out of here before round two happens.

1 Breedmore Lane, Maplewood Suburbs, at 9:03 PM on Friday October 31, 2024

I plant both palms against Derek's broad chest and shove. My arms tremble — every muscle in my body feels like overcooked noodles, my thighs still twitching from the orgasm that's barely finished rolling through me. His weight is immense, his sweat-slicked skin hot under my palms, and for one horrible second he doesn't move at all. He just stays there, buried inside me, his softening cock still plugging my flooded cunt.

"Get off," I manage, my voice cracking. "Get off me."

"Relax, baby," he murmurs against my collarbone, his hips giving one lazy grind that shifts his cum inside me — I can feel it sloshing, thick and hot, pressing against my cervix. "We've got all night."

"No — we don't —" I shove harder, twisting my hips, and the movement causes his cock to slip free with a wet, obscene pop. The sudden emptiness is shocking — my pussy clenches around nothing, walls still fluttering — and then I feel it: a thick, warm flood of his cum pouring out of me, running down my ass, pooling on the couch cushion beneath me. So much of it. A steady, viscous stream of white that makes my thighs slick.

Derek lets me push him back, his silver eyes watching me with a lazy, satisfied amusement as I scramble sideways off the couch. My legs are shaking so badly I nearly hit the floor — I catch myself on the armrest, my purse strap tangled around my ankle, and yank it free with trembling fingers.

"You're welcome to come back anytime tonight," he says, standing up slowly, his cock hanging thick and half-hard between his thighs, still glistening with our mixed fluids. A bead of cum clings to the tip. "Door's always open for you, Luna."

I don't answer. I grab my purse, clutching it against my bare chest — my corset hangs open, my skirt is somewhere on the floor, and I'm standing in nothing but my thigh-high boots and a ruined, unlaced corset with Derek's cum actively dripping down my inner thighs. I snatch the micro-skirt from the carpet and yank it up my legs, the fabric immediately darkening where his semen soaks through.

"Your thong's by the door," he offers helpfully, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, completely unbothered by his own nudity. "If you want it."

I don't. I grab the corset laces and pull them tight with shaking hands — not properly laced, just enough to hold — and stumble toward the front door. My pussy is still leaking. I can feel every step shifting the hot wetness inside me, his cum threatening to run down to my knees. The cool October air hits me as I wrench the door open, and I nearly collapse onto the porch steps.

The street stretches before me — eleven more houses, their porch lights glowing orange and purple in the Halloween dark. My body is still humming, still aching, still wanting. The insatiable hunger that lives in my core is already stirring again despite everything — despite the cum dripping from my freshly-deflowered pussy, despite the violation of trust, despite the very real consequences now swimming toward my womb.

I lean against the porch railing and try to steady my breathing. My thighs are sticky. My skirt is ruined. And somewhere deep in my belly, I can still feel the heat of his load.