Slow

Then he begins to move.

Not the deep, pounding thrusts you might have expected. Instead, Darrell pulls back slowly, just an inch, maybe two, before pushing forward again with the same deliberate control. The movement is shallow, restrained, but the sensation is anything but subtle.

The slow drag of his sword against your inner walls sends shockwaves of pleasure through your core. Your pussy grips him instinctively, your muscles clenching and releasing in a rhythmic pulse that seems to milk his hard shaft with each small movement. Even this shallow thrust makes you feel every ridge, every vein of his cock as it slides against your most sensitive places.

"Fuck," Darrell groans, his voice strained. His large hands tighten on your waist, his dark fingers pressing into your pale skin with enough **** to leave marks, hands spanning your hips, holding you in place as he fucks you with those slow, controlled movements.

He pulls back another inch. Pushes forward. The dragging sensation is exquisite pain. Your body has molded around him, accommodating his size, and now every small movement creates friction that makes your nerve endings sing. You can feel your inner walls rippling along his length, involuntarily milking him, trying to pull him deeper even though he's maintaining this maddeningly shallow rhythm.

The water cascades over you both, creating a constant white noise punctuated by other sounds—the wet slap of his hips against your ass with each small thrust, the splash of water displaced by your moving bodies, your gasping breaths echoing off the tile, Darrell's low groans of pleasure. Steam swirls around you, thick and hot, making the air heavy and difficult to breathe.

Another slow withdrawal. Another deliberate push forward. The pleasure builds with each repetition, mounting in intensity despite, or perhaps because of, the restraint. Your hands press flat against the slick tile, trying to find purchase.

"You're so tight," Darrell breathes, his voice rough. "The way you're gripping me... fuck..."

You can feel it in the tension of his body, in the way his fingers dig harder into your waist, in the slight tremor in his thighs pressed against the back of yours. He's getting close. The shallow thrusts are becoming slightly less controlled, his breathing more ragged. The danger of it sends a thrill of panic through you even as your body continues to pulse around him, milking his cock with each slow drag.

"Darrell," you gasp, your voice barely audible over the shower. "You can't... you can't cum inside me."

His grip on your waist tightens further. Another shallow thrust, the drag of his cock against your walls making you whimper. You can feel how hard he is, how close he's getting, the way his shaft throbs inside you with each pulse of his heartbeat.

He groans, ignoring you, but there's a strain in him that suggests consideration.

Another inch withdrawn. Another inch pushed back in. The slow, deliberate friction is driving you both toward the edge. Your pussy clenches around him involuntarily, your body betraying you, milking him harder. The wet sounds of your bodies moving together mix with the drumming of the water, creating an obscene symphony that fills the steamy shower.

You look behind you, watching where his dark hands grip your pale hips, the way his strong fingers press into your flesh with possessive intensity. The visual is almost as erotic as the physical sensation—this man holding you, controlling you, fucking you with slow, measured thrusts that are somehow more intense than any pounding could be.

"Please," you whisper, though you're not sure what you're begging for. For him to stop? To continue? To pull out before it's too late? Your body is screaming for release, for more, for him to fuck you harder, but your mind knows the danger. You're highly fertile. The risk is real, immediate, terrifying.

Darrell's breathing becomes more labored. His thrusts, still shallow, become slightly faster. Just an inch or two, in and out, but the rhythm is building. The drag of his thick cock against your sensitive walls is relentless, the friction creating heat that has nothing to do with the shower water pouring over you.

"You have to pull out," you gasp, your voice more urgent now. "Darrell, you have to—"

"I will," he promises, but his hands grip you tighter, his hips pressing forward with slightly more ****. "I will, I just... fuck, you feel too good..."

Your inner walls ripple around him again, that involuntary milking motion that your body can't seem to stop. Each shallow thrust makes you feel impossibly full, the slow drag creating a building pressure that threatens to overwhelm you both. The tile is cool against your cheek, a stark contrast to the heat of the water, the heat of Darrell's body pressed against yours, the heat building between your legs.

Another shallow thrust. Another slow drag. His cock throbs inside you, and you can feel how close he is—that telltale tension in his body, the way his breathing has become almost ****, the way his fingers are digging into your waist hard enough to bruise.

"Darrell," you warn, panic edging into your voice even as pleasure courses through you. "You need to pull out. Now. You can't cum inside me."

But the shallow thrusts continue, that maddening drag of his thick cock against your most sensitive places, the building tension that threatens to snap at any moment. Every sensation is heightened—the fullness, the friction, the danger, the overwhelming pleasure that builds with each deliberate thrust.

You can feel him trembling now, his control slipping. The shallow movements become slightly erratic, his breathing ragged against your neck. Your pussy clenches around him again, milking him harder, and you hear him groan—a deep, primal sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Pull out," you gasp, your voice **** now. "Darrell, please, you have to pull out—"