Try to regain control — push him off and demand he put on a condom

Megan's House, Westwood Heights, at 11:02 PM on Thursday October 31st, 2024

I have to stop this. I have to.

The thought surfaces like a drowning swimmer breaking water — desperate, gasping, immediately dragged back under. My hands find his chest and I push, or try to push, but my fingers just curl into the fabric of his flannel instead, pulling him closer. My arms won't obey me. My voice won't come. Everything below my neck has declared independence from my brain and formed its own government with a single platform: more.

"Trevor — wait —" The words come out thin, reedy, nothing like the commanding tone I intended. My hips roll up to meet his next thrust and the sentence dissolves into a moan that embarrasses me.

He pauses. Actually pauses, his cock buried to the hilt inside my bare pussy, those strange amber eyes looking down at me with something like patience. Like he's giving me a chance.

"You want me to stop?" he asks, and his voice is so calm, so reasonable, while my cunt is clenching around him like a vice. His thumb traces my hipbone. "Just say the word, Megan."

Say it. Say stop. Tell him to pull out. You always use condoms. You've never let anyone —

"I..." My mouth opens. My throat works. The word stop is right there, formed and ready, sitting on the tip of my tongue like a loaded gun. All I have to do is fire.

But his cock twitches inside me — just a tiny pulse, the head pressing against my cervix — and my pussy floods with fresh wetness so intense I can feel it running down my ass onto the sheets. My clit is swollen, throbbing, desperate. Every nerve ending in my body is screaming for him to move, to thrust, to breed me —

Where did that thought come from?

"Condom," I manage. My voice is barely a whisper. "You need — a condom — I always —"

"Do you?" He pulls back slowly, dragging his thick shaft through my clenching walls until just the head remains inside. The friction makes my eyes roll back. "Because your pussy is telling me something different, Megan. Your pussy is begging me to fill it up."

He pushes back in — one long, devastating stroke — and my spine arches off the mattress. A sound tears from my throat that I've never made before. Something animal. Something surrendered.

"Tell me to pull out," he says, settling into a rhythm now, each thrust punctuating his words. "Tell me you don't want me to cum inside this tight little pussy. Tell me you don't want to feel it."

"I —" My legs wrap tighter around his waist. My heels dig into his lower back. My hips are rising to meet every thrust without my permission, fucking myself onto his bare cock like my life depends on it. "I can't — I don't —"

"That's what I thought." His pace increases, his cock driving deeper, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. His balls are heavy against my ass, swinging with each thrust, and I can feel how full they are. How much is waiting for me.

"I'm close," he growls against my ear, his teeth grazing my lobe. "Last chance, Megan. Tell me to pull out."

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out except a desperate, keening whine. My fingers dig into his shoulders. My pussy grips him so tight I can feel every vein, every ridge, the blunt head kissing my cervix with each deep thrust.

"Please," I whisper. But I don't know what I'm begging for anymore.

He buries himself to the root and holds there, his cock swelling inside me, and I feel the first hot pulse of his cum flooding my unprotected womb.