That’s it

The dark-haired one pulls out, and for half a heartbeat I'm empty, gasping, the cool air hitting my slick, stretched holes. Then the bachelor's hands find my hips, guiding me down onto the couch cushions, my upper body flat against the leather, my ass lifted high in the air. The pile driver position — I've seen it in videos, never thought I'd be in it, never thought I'd want to be in it.

"Watch this," the bachelor mutters, his voice strained, and then he's lining up at my asshole, the head of him pressing against the ring of muscle still loose and slick from the dark-haired one's fucking. He pushes in, and the angle is so deep it steals my breath. My fingers claw at the couch, my face pressed into the cushion, muffling the broken moan that tears out of me.

He starts moving, slow at first, letting me feel every inch of him dragging against my inner walls. Then he picks up speed, his hips slapping against my ass, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. I can feel him hitting something inside me that makes my whole body spasm, my toes curling in the boots I'm still wearing.

"That's it," I gasp into the cushion, my voice muffled but audible. "Right there — fuck — right there —"

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