Eyes Open

“Bedroom,” he said.

He hauled her up by the hair and came up out of the chair with her in the same motion — one arm around her waist, the other fist in her hair — and kissed her, deep and open, his tongue pushing into the mouth his cock had just left. The taste of him was everywhere — on her tongue, her lips, her chin — and now it was in the kiss too, and she moaned into it and pressed against him, her glazed tits smearing against the damp polo.

His hands found her ass through the skirt and squeezed, his fingers digging down to the plug through the fabric and pressing, and the moan climbed an octave.

She’d grabbed her bag off the floor as he pulled her up, and she dropped it on the little table by the couch as he walked her backward out of the living room — hands on her waist, his bulk filling the narrow hallway, his gut pressing warm against her stomach with every step. Her heels caught and stuttered on the carpet. He stopped. “Step out of them.” She braced a hand on his chest and stepped free, the shoes abandoned against the baseboard.

Halfway down the hall he stopped her again. Pressed her back against the wall, gently, and stood looking at her in the dim light — mascara tracked down her cheeks, chin still shining, tits bare over the rucked tank, the gold script bright against her breastbone, the flush spreading pink all the way down her chest. His wreckage. His work.

“Look at the state of you,” he said. Quiet. Almost wondering.

“You did this.”

“You did this. I just gave you somewhere to do it.” His hands came up and filled with her tits — rough, calloused, the drag of his palms across her peaked nipples pulling a gasp out of her, her hips rocking forward into nothing. “How wet were you driving over here?”

“Ray—”

“Answer me.”

“Soaking,” she said. “I’ve been soaking since the kitchenette. Since Thursday. Are you happy?”

“Getting there.” He kissed her again — slower, filthy, taking his time with it — and his hand slid down and found the zipper of her skirt. He worked it down her hips, the fabric catching on the width of her ass, and he stopped there a second just to look: the black cotton hung up on her, cheeks spilled over the descending waistband, the plug’s silver glint between. “Jesus Christ.” The shimmy she did to help only made it worse. The skirt pooled at her bare feet. She stepped out of it.

He walked her the rest of the way. The bedroom. A queen bed, unmade — sheets bunched, a single flat pillow, a nightstand with a phone charger and a water glass. The overhead light was bright and unflattering and the room smelled like his sleep and sweat and the warm close air of a man who lived alone.

He stood her in front of him at the foot of the bed. Black underwear, soaked — the fabric dark and translucent and clinging, the seam pressing her slit in a visible line. He hooked a finger in the waistband and pulled them down and the smell hit the room — her arousal, sharp and musky and abundant — and the plug’s brushed-silver base was visible between her cheeks, flat against her skin.

He turned her. Both hands on her hips. Looked.

Under the bare bulb her ass was a problem with no solution — high, round, flushed pink at the edges where his hands had already been, the silver flange winking between her cheeks like a receipt. He spread her with his thumbs and watched her clench around the stem. “Three years,” he said, quiet. “Staring at this through every pair of pants you own. And you walked it into my bedroom with a bow on it.”

He pressed the base with his thumb, rocked it gently, and she pushed back against his hand before she could stop herself. “All night with this in you. My good girl.” He worked it out of her — slow, the drag of it pulling a whimper out of her — and set it on the nightstand, and from the drawer he took another. The same brushed silver. Bigger. The flare of it obscene across his thick fingers. “Bought it weeks ago. Been waiting for the right night.”

She watched him drag the head of it through her own slick, unhurried, his eyes on her face under the bare bulb. “Ray — that’s not going to—”

“It’ll fit.” He pressed. The stretch came slower and fuller and meaner than the one she’d worn here, and her breath broke into pieces as it seated — dense, deep, a pressure she felt in her back teeth. “There,” he said, almost gentle. “Now you’re ready for me.”

She was naked except for the chain and the plug. In his bedroom. Under his overhead light. The apartment was ugly and the bedroom was uglier — the thin mattress, the cheap blinds, the carpet going bald in the path between the bed and the bathroom — and she was standing in it bare and beautiful and wearing only the two things he’d given her.

He undressed. Polo off — the body underneath: broad shoulders gone soft, the gut prominent and pale, grey hair thinning across his chest. The belly hung over his waistband, layered, the mass of a man who had been large his whole life and let gravity do the rest. Khakis and boxers kicked to the floor. He stood naked and his cock was painfully hard, the head nearly purple, blood-thick, pre-come beading at the slit. In the overhead light his body was unforgivable — pockmarked shoulders, loose skin at his sides, sweat gathering in the creases of his stomach. Fifty-three years old and north of two-seventy and looking it all.

He got onto the bed. The mattress dipped hard — cheap springs groaning, the frame shifting — and she felt the bed pull toward him by gravity. He settled on his back and reached for her.

“Come here. Eyes open.”

She climbed onto him — her thighs spreading over his hips, the plug shifting, the width of his cock pressing up against her bare slit from below. She looked down at him. The heavy face, the sweat, the small sharp eyes, the mass underneath her. His hands engulfing her hips. His belly warm and soft and enormous under her.

She reached between them. Took him in her hand — guided the head through her folds, the slick sound immediate — and notched him at her entrance. She held there one breath, eyes open because he’d told her to, looking down at the ugly, blood-thick head pressed to her pink, and then she sank.

The head breached her and she whimpered — stretched wide around that flare, the plug in her ass making the fit brutal and perfect. She held there, panting, and he didn’t push. He let her feel it: the thick ring of her stretched around the crown, fluttering, gripping, trying to pull him deeper on its own.

“Eyes open,” he said again.

She looked down and watched herself sink. Another inch — the ridge popped inside and she felt it seat, discrete, a wet sound under his belly. Midshaft: he crowded the plug through the thin wall between, the pressure lighting every nerve in her pelvis, and her breath broke into little punched sounds she couldn’t govern. More. More. Until her ass met his thighs and he was rooted in her to the hilt — thick and dark and bare, her pink stretched wide around the base of him — and she sat there full of his cock on his cheap mattress under his bare bulb, the room already smelling like sweat and sex, like them, and they had barely started.

From where he lay, the view was the whole point: her thighs spread wide over the pale mass of his gut, his cock disappearing into the stretched pink of her, the chain swinging between her tits, that face tipped down watching herself take him — dark eyes, open mouth, a woman who looked too sweet to be doing this and was doing it anyway.

“Fuck—” She gripped his chest, her nails digging into the thick flesh. “Oh God — the plug — I can feel you against it — you’re crushing it — you’re *everywhere*—”

“I know.” Strained. His thumbs pressed bruises into her hips. “I can feel it too. You’re squeezing me so tight it’s—” He exhaled through his teeth. “Ride me.”

She rode him.

Slow at first — long, wet drags, lifting until the flare caught at her entrance and sinking back down to the root, her palms braced on his chest, the bed frame singing under them. He seemed to touch everything — the plug, the front wall, some deep place that made her vision soften at the edges. The chain swung between her tits, tapping her sternum in time. His eyes moved from her face to her tits to the junction, watching his own cock disappear and reappear, shining with her.

“God — the *stretch*—” Her nails dug into his chest. “Every time I sink down I can feel you dragging through me — every ridge — and the plug, there’s no room, there’s *no room* and you make room—”

“Eight days,” he said. Low. “You were thinking about this in that conference room. During your little speech. Weren’t you.”

“Yes—”

“And the whole drive over. Soaking, you said.” His hands slid up her ribs and filled with her tits, thumbs rolling her nipples, and she cried out and her hips stuttered. “Now look at you. You know every word I wrote. You know what I did to you, to him. And you’re riding my cock like you paid for the privilege.”

“I hate you — don’t stop — don’t stop talking—”

Both were true. The fury was still in her, banked and burning, and every downstroke spent a little of it — on him, on James, on the man who’d kissed her goodbye for four months knowing. She rode faster. The slap of her thighs against his grew louder, wetter, her cries punching out on every downstroke — *ah — ah — ah —* rising in pitch, slick running down to his balls, the wet clench of her audible between them.

She was close. He felt it — her rhythm going frantic, her grip fluttering around him — and his patience ended.

He gripped her waist and rolled — one motion, his mass, the world turning over — and she was on her back in the bunched sheets. He rose up on his knees between her spread legs, still buried in her, and hooked her knees over his thighs and dragged her hips up onto his legs, tilting her off the mattress.

Then he started using her.

Both hands locked around her waist — his thick fingers spanning the narrow of her, nearly meeting — and he pulled her onto his cock and pushed her off, again and again, sliding her body along the sheet like she weighed nothing. Like a toy. Her tits bounced with every pull, the chain dancing, her cries jolted out of her involuntarily, her hands flying to the sheets and finding nothing to hold.

“That’s it,” he said, watching himself move her. “That’s what I wanted. Just take it. Let me use you.”

“Yes — fuck — *yes* — use me — use all of me—”

He drove harder, his hips and his grip working together, deep on every pull, the head slamming the place past the plug’s pressure until she was sobbing with it — a pleasure so complete she couldn’t locate it in one part of herself. Her knees fell open wider. She could see his gut shaking with the force of it, sweat running down the heavy slope of his chest, his face rigid and intent above her — ugly, enormous, irresistible — and below it the place where her body swallowed his whole cock over and over, pink and stretched and gleaming. The sight pulled a moan out of her so filthy it barely sounded like her voice.

“Nobody’s ever — fuck — nobody’s ever moved me like this — like I weigh nothing—”

“You don’t,” he said. “Not to me.”

Her nails found his forearms and broke skin. She was full and tight and burning and the fury had found a use.

He pulled out. Turned her over — his hands on her waist, rolling her effortlessly — and she was on her stomach and then her knees. Face down. Ass up. He pressed between her shoulder blades and she went flat to the mattress, her cheek against the sheet that smelled like him, her arms stretched forward along the cotton. She spread her knees wider without being told.

She heard his hand find the belt on the nightstand. The leather creaking. He drew her arms back and took her wrists — both, gathered behind her back in one of his hands, engulfed — and the belt wrapped twice, snug, the buckle cold against her inner forearm. He pulled the excess through his fist like reins.

Then his other hand came down on the back of her neck. His whole palm — broad, hot, covering her from skull to shoulders — and he pressed her face into the pillow.

Belt in one fist. Her neck in the other. He lined himself up and drove into her from behind.

The thick crown forced her open against the plug’s pressure and she moaned into the mattress — long, low, hungry — as he seated to the root in one stroke. The belt yanked her wrists taut behind her. His palm pinned her down. He was deeper at this angle, heavier, and every thrust shoved the plug inside her from the other side until she was nothing but the two points of fullness and the man holding both ends of her.

He stayed there, buried, and she felt him looking. Knew what he saw: her ass up and open, the silver base of the plug winking between her cheeks, his thick dark cock splitting her pink and swollen, her wrists crossed and belted behind her back in his fist.

“Look at this,” he said. Quiet, reverent, filthy. “You put the plug in at your own house. While your lying husband was downstairs. And you brought it to me like a present.”

He stayed buried and looked his fill. Ass up. Knees wide. The silver base winking. Her pink stretched shiny around the thick dark base of him, and above that the full heavy cheeks he’d been building afternoons around since Dallas — marked faintly where his fingers had dug, trembling when he flexed inside her. He drew one hand back and laid an open palm across the right cheek, not hard, just claiming the surface, then again a little sharper. The sound cracked soft in the small room. She whimpered into the pillow and pushed back onto him for more. He spread her with both thumbs, watched himself disappear between, and said, almost conversational: “This is what I think about in meetings, Blondie. Your husband talks. Your boss talks. I sit there hard thinking about fucking this ass.”

He pulled her head up by the hair for one second — just long enough to see the mascara tracks, the open wet mouth, the cute ruined face — and shoved her back into the pillow.

She couldn’t answer. The pillow took her answer. He pulled back and drove in again, and again, and found the rhythm — deep, punishing, his hips cracking against her ass, the belt hauling her back onto every stroke, his palm flexing on her neck. The smell of them was thick in the small room — his sweat, her pussy, the salt-mineral of bare sex. She was drooling into the pillowcase. Her sounds came muffled and desperate out of the cotton, and when they got too loud he just pressed harder, and something about that — being quieted, being held down and fucked and quieted like noise was a privilege — made her wetter than anything yet. She felt it running out of her, down the inside of her thigh.

“Harder,” she managed. Into the pillow. Barely words. “Harder — fuck me harder — *papi*—”

The word — said on purpose this time, chosen, delivered without surprise or accident — and she felt him swell inside her, the already-thick shaft going denser, the rhythm stuttering and catching. The wet crack of his hips on her ass filled the room. She said it again.

“*Papi* — don’t stop — please—”

“That’s my girl.” His voice had gone rough as the belt leather. “Beg for it.”

He gave her harder. Short, punishing strokes that kept him deep, her pussy gripping him on every stroke, the plug grinding back against him through the wall between. She was begging and the begging was real — *please, papi, deeper, don’t stop* — muffled into the pillow, drool and words and the sheet twisted in her fists, her wrists straining against the belt, and every part of her straining toward the same point. She wanted him deeper. She wanted the fullness of this man with her hands bound and her face pinned down and his weight deciding everything.

It built past where she could hold it. Her thighs locked. Her toes curled. She tried to warn him and what came out instead was Spanish — *sí — ahí — no pares, no pares—* — and then she came.

It went through her in waves — clenching around him and the plug at once, so tight his stroke went short and his groan was raw above her, wet heat flooding out of her around the shaft, soaking his balls, the sheet, her own thighs — and he fucked her through it, belt and palm held taut, drawing it out until the waves ran together and she was crying into the pillow, *papi, papi, don’t stop, don’t—*

When it released her she was shaking. Her thighs were slick to the knees. The sheet under her hips was ruined, a dark spreading map of her, and her chest heaved against the mattress and her bound hands opened and closed on nothing.

He let her lie in it. Left her bound and face-down and went to the kitchenette — she heard the tap run, a glass, the bottle — and came back and sat on the edge of the ruined bed and touched her hair while she got her breath back, saying nothing, in no hurry at all. She didn’t know how long they stayed like that — twenty minutes, half an hour — her cheek in the sheet that smelled like him, the plug still seated deep, his fingers combing idly through her hair, his other hand warm on her ass, his thumb now and then pressing the base of the plug just to feel her clench around it, the sweat cooling on her back.
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Next chapter (equivalent in length to 5-9 posts here), newsletter for updates, and discord server for discussion/ai video in my profile link.