No

The realization hit you like a slap—his bare cock pressing where no condom separated you—just as the blunt head breached your entrance.

The blunt pressure of him pressing against you makes your breath hitch—too much, too fast—but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. His hips jerk forward with a grunt, and the stretch burns as he forces himself inside, your body yielding in ragged increments. The air reeks of sweat and the tang of your own arousal, his thick cock splitting you open with every rough thrust. His thickness forcing you open inch by relentless inch. His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, spreading you wider as he bottoms out, his balls slapping against your ass with a wet sound.

Your nails scrape against the counter’s edge, you grip against it as he pulls back only to slam into you again, his rhythm uneven, ****.

Your grip fails as your back hits the counter with a thud—the cold laminate sticking to your sweat-slick skin as your legs splay open wider. His calloused hands dig into your hips, fingers pressing hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks as he yanks you back onto his cock with a wet slap of flesh. The sharp thrust punches the air from your lungs, your spine arching as the counter’s edge bites into your shoulder blades.

His rhythm is brutal now, hips pistoning forward with ragged grunts, his balls slapping against your ass with every snap of his pelvis.

Your vision blurs as your head lolls over the counter’s edge, the fluorescent lights above the refrigerated section flickering like a strobe—too bright, too close. The glass doors fog with condensation, your breath coming in short, ragged huffs that fog the surface further with each stifled moan. A bag of half-melted ice and a six-pack of beer sit just out of reach, the distorted reflection of your own face—flushed, mouth slack—staring back at you between the rows of energy drinks.

His hips snap forward again, forcing a choked gasp from your throat as your fingers scrabble uselessly against the laminate.

The stretch burns—a searing, relentless pressure as his cock splits you open, the thick ridge of his shaft dragging against oversensitive walls with every brutal thrust. You feel every vein, every pulse of him inside you, the swollen head nudging deep enough to make your stomach clench. The friction is raw, wet, the slap of skin echoing louder than the hum of the refrigerators as he fucks into you with jagged, uneven strokes. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers pressing into bruises as he pulls you back onto him, the thick base of his cock stretching you wider on the downstroke.

Your body betrays you—clenching around him in involuntary pulses as his brown cock drags over that raw, swollen spot inside you. Each thrust forces a wet gasp from your throat, your cunt fluttering like a trapped thing, gripping him tighter with every brutal snap of his hips. You can feel the way your walls stretch obscenely around his girth, the heat of him splitting you open only to squeeze back tight the moment he pulls back, the slick friction making a filthy, wet sound with every movement.

His rhythm stutters—a ragged groan tearing from his chest as he bottoms out deep, grinding against your cervix in slow, deliberate circles.

Your legs lock around his waist instinctively—muscles tensing as your thighs squeeze tight against his heaving sides. The sudden shift makes him groan, his thrusts faltering for a heartbeat before he presses deeper, harder, the swollen crown of his cock grinding into your cervix with a roll of his hips.

The pressure is unbearable—a white-hot flare of pain-pleasure that makes your toes curl against the small of his back, your nails biting half-moons into the counter. His fingers digging into the meat of your ass as he drags you even closer, your bodies flush now, sweat-slick and trembling.

The counter creaks beneath you with each thrust, the laminate slick with sweat where your back arches against it. His fingers dig harder into your hips, blunt nails breaking skin as his rhythm fractures—deep, uneven strokes that leave you gasping.

His hips jerk erratically, the slap of flesh growing wetter as your body yields to his relentless pace. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, catching in the coarse gray stubble along his jaw before dripping onto your taut belly.

His hips snap forward again, and you watch—helpless, trembling—as your belly distorts with each brutal thrust. The flat plane of your stomach tightens visibly when he sheathes himself fully, the outline of his cock pressing up beneath your skin in an obscene bulge. A whimper escapes your lips as he pulls back, the tautness receding for one dizzying second before he rams home again, making your abdomen ripple.

The rhythm is relentless now, his cockhead dragging against that swollen, oversensitive spot inside you with every punishing stroke. Your belly quivers with the **** of it, muscles fluttering.

The counter groans beneath you under the **** of his thrusts as he pins your hips down, his cock pistoning into your clenching heat with wet, fluid slaps.

A moan claws its way out of your throat—high, broken—as your own hands scramble over your body, fingers twisting into the soft flesh of your breasts. Your nails bite into tender skin, kneading roughly, pulling at your nipples until they stiffen into aching peaks. The duality of it is maddening: the pain of your own grip, the brutal stretch of him inside you, the way your cunt keeps fluttering around him like it’s trying to drag him deeper.