He´s just taking a little break

I was way too drunk to argue with him anymore. My tongue felt thick and my thoughts kept sliding off each other like wet soap. When he gave one last aggressive thrust and buried himself all the way inside me, I just let out this tiny, surprised giggle.

He grabbed my narrow waist with both hands and held me pinned while his cock twitched—once, twice, three times, maybe four. Each little pulse felt funny, almost ticklish, but also kind of hot in a dirty way.

What was that? I wondered hazily. Is he… already done? That was fast.

But then I felt another twitch, deeper this time, and before I could even ask he pulled out with a wet sound and stood up.

“I just need a drink,” he panted, sounding a little winded. “Then I’m coming back for round two.”

I laughed—actually laughed—sprawled there on the nasty sheets with my jeans still tangled around my thighs.

“My husband never takes breaks when we do it,” I slurred, feeling oddly proud of the joke. “Maybe he could learn something from you.”

I kind of liked it, honestly. Taking it slow. Making it last. It felt grown-up somehow. Adventurous.

He came back thirty seconds later with a fresh glass in his hand, dick hanging soft and slick between his legs.

“Come on,” he said, voice rough but teasing. “Make me hard again. Suck me hard. And tell me again—why the fuck is a hot little slut like you not on the pill? You like playing with fire? You a risk-taker?”

I giggled again, head lolling back against the pillow.

“Well… I’m not on the pill because…” My words came out slow and sticky. “Because I didn’t want all those hormones in me. I don’t trust doctors. What can I say…”

He smirked. “So then you probably want me to come on your pussy instead of inside, right? Keep it safe?”

“Yeah, sure,” I mumbled happily. “As you wish. On my pussy, on my stomach, on my tits, in a rubber, whatever. You decide. You’re the man.”

I honestly didn’t care where he finished. I never did. Sex always felt best when I could just turn my brain off and let the guy call the shots. That was the whole point, right? Relaxing into it. Being wanted. Being easy.

I reached over and took another big sip from the glass sitting next to the open box of tissues on the little table. It burned less now. Tasted almost sweet.

He pushed my knees apart again—my skinny jeans still bunched around my thighs like loose shackles—and I just let him. His big stomach hung over me and that weird sweet-sour smell rolled off him stronger than before, but I was too far gone to care. My body was buzzing. I wanted his cock again. That part felt good. Really good.

“You’ve got such a tight little pussy, my little slut,” he groaned as he nudged the fat head back inside me. “Such a hot little fuckslut.”

I hadn’t even realized how wet I was until he slid in so easily. It felt… creamy. Slick. Almost like there was already something warm and thick in there making everything slippery. But that thought didn’t stick. It just floated away.

He rubbed my clit roughly with his thumb, then scooped up some of the wetness and smeared it across my flat stomach in shiny streaks. I watched it glisten under the buzzing light and thought it looked kind of pretty, like body oil or something.

For half a second I remembered my husband—imagined his face if he walked in right now—and my stomach flipped. But then the man pushed my legs up high, folding me practically in half so my knees were next to my ears and my ass was tilted toward him. He sank back in deep in that new angle and everything else disappeared.

It felt so good. Full. Stretched. Wanted. He kept calling me names—slut, whore, little cumdump—and each word hit like a spark. I loved it. I loved how rough his hands were, how heavy he was on top of me, how badly he clearly wanted my body. Being desired like that shut my brain off completely.

He fucked me hard and frantic on those stained sheets for what felt like forever and no time at all. His breathing turned ragged. His eyes started rolling back.

I felt proud. My young body was doing this to him. Making him lose control. That was power, right?

“Here we go, my little cumdumpster,” he growled suddenly. “Don’t move.”

I obeyed instantly. Lay perfectly still like a good girl, legs pinned up, pigtails splayed across the dirty pillow, hazy smile on my face.

He’s close again, I thought dreamily. He’ll pull out soon. Probably finish on my stomach or my tits this time. Maybe even my face if he’s feeling extra nasty. That’s what guys do. Then we’re done. Then I can go home.

Everything still felt harmless. Everything still felt like it would be over in just a few more seconds.

I looked up at him with big, glassy, trusting eyes and waited for his big finish—completely certain that whatever came next would be messy, quick, and totally fine.