At his house

You barely have time to register where you are before Tyrone’s hand clamps around your wrist like a vice. The front door of his off-campus house—a sleek, modern place that screams “ money”—slams shut behind you with a heavy thud. The entryway is dim, lit only by the glow of a single recessed light above the stairs, but you can already smell the faint mix of weed, cologne, and gym bags that hangs in the air.

He doesn’t speak. He just spins you around and shoves you forward, chest-first, against the cool, smooth wall. Your palms slap flat against the plaster. Your new crop top rides up instantly, exposing the small of your back. You feel the rough scrape of denim as he yanks your leggings and thong down in one impatient tug, not even bothering to pull them all the way off—they tangle around your thighs like makeshift restraints.

“Spread,” he growls low against your ear.

Your legs part on instinct now. No hesitation. No protest. Just the wet, shameful slide of your thighs opening for him.

He doesn’t bother with foreplay. His zipper rasps down, then you feel the blunt, heavy head of his cock nudge between your folds—still slick and swollen from the coach, still leaking the remnants of two other loads. The stretch is immediate and brutal, even though your body has already started learning how to take him. You gasp, forehead pressing into the wall as he sinks in to the hilt in one long, punishing stroke.

“Fuck… still so tight,” he mutters, almost surprised. “Thought that old man would’ve loosened you up more.”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. His hips snap forward, hard and fast, pinning you in place. Each thrust shoves the breath out of your lungs. Your tits bounce under the thin fabric of your top, nipples scraping against the wall with every impact. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the foyer. You can feel the mess from earlier—his cum, the coach’s cum—being churned and pushed deeper inside you with every stroke.

You bite your lip to keep quiet, but a broken whimper escapes anyway.

“Tell me whose pussy this is,” he demands, voice rough.

“Yours,” you whisper, hating how easily the word comes out.

“Louder.”

“Yours, Tyrone—fuck—it’s yours—”

He groans, pleased, and slams in harder. One big hand fists your hair, yanking your head back so your neck arches. The other slides around to palm your stomach—right over where his seed is already taking root, or so he believes.

“Gonna keep fillin’ this little white womb till it sticks,” he pants. “You hear me? You’re mine now. My baby mama. My live-in slut.”

The words hit like a slap and a caress at the same time. Your pussy clenches around him involuntarily. You hate it. You hate how much you don’t hate it.

He lasts maybe another minute—long, punishing strokes that make your knees buckle—before he buries himself balls-deep and comes with a guttural curse. You feel the hot flood of it, thick ropes painting your insides again, adding to the obscene cocktail already there. Your body shudders, betraying you with a small, helpless orgasm that milks him dry.

When he finally pulls out, a thick trickle immediately starts leaking down your inner thigh. He doesn’t let you clean up. He just tugs your leggings back into place over the mess, gives your ass a possessive smack, and steers you toward the stairs.

“Up,” he orders.

You stumble ahead of him on shaky legs, cum-soaked and dizzy. He follows close, one hand on the small of your back like he’s guiding livestock. He strips quickly—shirt, shorts, everything—then drops onto the mattress and leans back against the headboard, cock already half-hard again and glistening. “Climb on,” he says, patting his thigh. “Ride me slow this time. I wanna watch you work.”

You hesitate for half a second. Just long enough for him to raise an eyebrow.

“Don’t make me ask twice, baby girl.”

You crawl onto the bed. Straddle his hips. Guide the thick head back to your entrance—still puffy, still dripping—and sink down inch by inch. The stretch is different this time. Slower. Deeper. You can feel every ridge, every vein. Your hands brace on his chest for balance; his tattoos are warm under your palms. He watches your face the whole time, dark eyes hooded, lips parted.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nice and easy. Show me how much you love this dick.”

You start to move—small, rolling circles at first, then longer strokes. Up until just the head is inside, then down until your ass meets his thighs. The wet squelch is obscene. You can feel the cum from before being pushed out around his shaft with every rise and fall.

He lets you set the pace for a while, hands resting lazily on your hips. Then he starts guiding you—harder, faster—until you’re bouncing, tits jiggling, moans spilling out of you despite yourself.

“Look at me,” he growls when your eyes flutter shut.

You **** them open. Meet his gaze.

“Good girl.”

He thrusts up to meet you now, driving deeper, making you gasp. One hand slides up to wrap loosely around your throat—not ****, just holding. The other finds your clit and rubs slow, firm circles.

You come first—shaking, clenching, crying out his name like it’s the only word you know.

He follows right after, hips snapping up as he floods you again. You can feel the heat of it, the way your pussy flutters and tries to pull him deeper, greedy even when you’re exhausted.

When it’s over, he doesn’t push you off right away. He keeps you seated on him, cock still buried inside, softening slowly. His hands stroke up and down your back in lazy circles.

“You’re movin’ in,” he says quietly. Not a question.

You’re too wrecked to argue. Your head drops to his shoulder; you can smell sweat and sex and him.

“Tomorrow we’ll get your shit from your parents’ place,” he continues, voice low and certain. “Tell your sister whatever you want. Doesn’t matter. You belong here now. With me. Takin’ this dick every day till that belly starts to grow.”

He presses a surprisingly gentle kiss to your temple.

“Sleep, baby mama. Big night tomorrow. Gotta look good on my arm at the club.”

You don’t answer. You just close your eyes, still impaled on him, still leaking, still full of him in every possible way. And for the first time all day, the panic in your chest quiets—just a little. Just enough to let you drift off.