Rail-roading

He does not finish you over the bench. Big hands at your waist, the chain still wrapped in his fist, he lifts your tiny frame effortlessly, and lays you on your back on a couch.

The fabric sticks to your sweat-slicked your shoulders. Your legs fall open because the pill opens them. He steps in between them, unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his perfectly-toned pecs. Your pussy clenches for what feels like the thousandth time, as his tall athlete’s body blots out the lights.

He grins down at you - cock tall and proud - like he has all night and no mercy. Like a lion standing arrogant above its prey.

Then he sinks into you in one long, claiming stroke.

Missionary. Face to face. His weight pins your smaller body to the bench. Your tits mash to the hard plane of his chest, shirt buttons cold against your nipples. Those huge hands find your wrists, then change their mind and cradle your face instead, thumbs at the collar, as if he wants to watch what he is doing to you.

It is fucking.

It is also, horribly, something else.

He rolls his hips instead of just slamming. Deep. Slow. Then deep again, grinding the fat head of him against the place that has been screaming since your master first put a condom in you. You writhe under him — not with any plan, just the raw animal twist of a body trying to get closer to the thing that might save it. Your small hands slide up his taut chest, spreading out over those defined arms, then up to grip that smooth preppy hair you stared at when he walked past.

It is as soft as you thought. Holding it while he fills you makes your cunt flutter.

He is so sexy it feels unfair. The mouth. The shoulders. The way his stomach flexes when he bottoms out. The clean-sweat-and-cologne smell of a boy who should be at a party, not breeding a collared stranger - who's really a much older man - on a club sofa.

You hate how pretty he is from this angle. You hate that you are staring at him like he is a reward.

Michael, buried, supplies the other feeling, sharp and thin: he is a college kid. You are desperate enough to spread for some young college jock who paid cash to play with you - and now all but owns you. The demeaning feel of it lands in the same place as the pleasure. Your pussy clenches around him in answer, greedy, shameless, and the shame only makes you wetter.

“Fuck, look at you,” he whispers, almost tender. He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your throat, above the leather. Then he starts to move in earnest.

You take each other apart.

He fucks you like he wants to remember it — long strokes that drag every inch of him through you, then harder.

Your ankles lock at the small of his back, just where those tight glutes pump his sword relentlessly into your sheath.

You strain to meet him. You can’t not. Your hips lift, grind, chase. The chain slithers between your bodies and tugs the collar when he draws himself out.

Every time he bottoms out you see stars that are not orgasm, just the climb - with shorter steps, harder steps... more arousal.

“Please,” you hear yourself breathe next to his sinewy neck. “Please, I’m so close, you’re so— you’re so fucking gorgeous, just come in me, I need it, I need you—”

He groans like the words hurt him. His rhythm stutters, then slams. The polite tease is gone. He is a young man about to lose it inside a girl who cannot finish unless he does. You feel it — the specific, filthy change — his cock engorging, thickening, the already-too-much stretch turning sudden and urgent. He slams even harder. The head of him punches deep. His forehead drops to yours. His breath breaks.

“I’m— fuck— I’m gonna—”

He drives in to the root, hips jerking, that huge shaft swelling against your walls as if it is trying to lock itself there, about to explode.