Reach for the condom you set on the couch arm before he gets any closer — you need to put it on him.

1 Breedmore Lane, Maplewood Suburbs, at 8:50 PM on Friday October 31, 2024

My hand shoots toward the arm of the couch — fingers scrabbling against the fabric, searching for the little foil square I set there just minutes ago. My pulse is still hammering, my pussy still throbbing with aftershocks, but somewhere in the fog of pleasure there's a voice screaming protection, protection, protection — and I listen to it, barely, my trembling fingers patting the armrest where I distinctly remember placing the condom.

Nothing.

My fingers slide over empty upholstery. I pat harder, turning my head to look, my vision still slightly blurred from the intensity of my second orgasm. The arm of the couch is bare. No foil wrapper. No condom. Just smooth fabric and a slight indent where something might have been.

"Where —" I start, my voice cracking. "I put it right here. The condom. It was right —"

"What condom?" Derek asks, and his voice is so genuinely confused that for a moment I doubt myself. He tilts his head, his thick cock bobbing between us, a fresh bead of precum welling at the slit and sliding down the flushed shaft. "Baby, you were kind of out of it. Maybe it fell?"

I lean over the arm of the couch, my bare breasts swaying, my soaked pussy clenching as the movement shifts my hips. I look down between the cushion and the armrest — dark, narrow, impossible to see into properly. My fingers probe the gap and find nothing but dust and a lost remote control.

"It was here," I insist, but my voice is already wavering. Was it? My memory of the last few minutes is a blur of tongue and fingers and screaming pleasure. Maybe it slid off. Maybe I imagined putting it there.

Derek steps closer. His cock is inches from my face now — thick, veiny, radiating heat. The musky scent of him fills my nostrils and my mouth waters involuntarily, my pussy clenching around nothing. He's so close that I can see every detail: the thick veins pulsing along his shaft, the way his foreskin pulls taut over the swollen head, the glistening thread of precum stretching from his slit.

"Hey," he says softly, his hand cupping my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. Those silver eyes are warm, patient, almost tender. "We can look for it later. But look at me — look at how hard I am for you. I've been eating your sweet little pussy for twenty minutes and I'm about to fucking explode."

His thumb traces my lower lip. My breath is coming in short, desperate pants.

"I promised I'd use it," he murmurs. "And I will. But let me just — let me feel you first. Just the tip. Just so I don't lose my mind." His hips shift forward and the slick head of his cock brushes against my inner thigh, leaving a wet trail of precum on my skin. The contact makes me gasp. "You're so wet, Luna. So ready. I can see your pretty little cunt dripping. Just the tip, baby. I'll pull back and we'll find that condom. I promise."

His hands settle on my knees — warm, heavy, insistent — and he pushes my thighs wider apart. The head of his cock aligns with my entrance, the heat of it radiating against my swollen, soaked folds. My pussy clenches in desperate anticipation, my body betraying every rational thought screaming in my skull.

"Just the tip," he repeats, his voice a low groan. "Tell me I can have just the tip."