You can't help it

Jesus fucking Christ, you think, staring at it with a mixture of awe and hunger.

Even semi-hard, it's massive—easily nine or ten inches long and thick as your wrist. The shaft is a deep, rich brown, the skin smooth and taut. As you watch, transfixed, it begins to swell and harden, growing even longer and thicker, the head emerging fully from the foreskin. The contrast is striking: where the shaft is that deep brown, the head is lighter, almost purplish-pink, glistening with moisture.

You can see every detail—the thick, prominent veins running along the underside, pulsing visibly with his heartbeat. The ridge of the corona is pronounced, a thick ring of flesh that you remember feeling in your throat, in your ass. The tip is already weeping clear pre-cum, a bead of it forming and threatening to drip.

Your mouth waters instantly, saliva flooding so fast you have to swallow. The response is completely involuntary, your body recognizing what it wants before your mind can catch up.

Look at it, you think, unable to tear your eyes away. Look at that fucking monster. It's so dark, so thick. How did I even fit that in my mouth? How did he get that in my ass?

But you did. You took it. And now you're **** to do it again.

"Go ahead, baby," Darrell says, his voice thick with amusement and arousal. "I can see you staring. You know what to do."

And you do. You know exactly what to do. This isn't like before, in the store, when you were confused and overwhelmed and just reacting on instinct. This time, you want it. You're eager for it. Your body is practically vibrating with anticipation as you unbuckle your seatbelt and lean over the center console toward him.

You position yourself over his lap, your blond hair falling forward like a curtain, and wrap your small hand around the base of his shaft. Your fingers don't even come close to meeting around the girth.

The contrast is obscene: your pale, delicate hand against his dark, massive cock. Your skin looks almost translucent next to his.

The shaft is hot in your palm, radiating heat, and you can feel it throbbing, getting even harder under your touch. The veins are prominent under your fingertips, thick cords of flesh that pulse with each beat of his heart.

The first thing that hits you is the smell—musky and masculine, mixed with something else. Something familiar and earthy.

You lean in and drag your tongue along the length of his shaft, from base to tip, tasting him. The texture is incredible—smooth skin stretched tight over rock-hard flesh, the veins prominent against your tongue. The flavor explodes across your taste buds—salt and musk and sweat, and underneath it all, the taste of your own ass. It's dirty and wrong and absolutely intoxicating. You trace one of the thick veins with your tongue, following it up to the head, and then you swirl around the corona, tasting the pre-cum that's leaked from the tip. It's slightly bitter, slightly sweet, and you moan again, louder this time.

Darrell chuckles above you, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. "You like that, don't you?" he says. "You like tasting yourself on my cock. Dirty girl."

Yes, you think, even as you take the head of his cock into your mouth, your lips stretching obscenely around the thick crown. Yes, I fucking love it. I love tasting my ass on his dick. I love being his dirty girl.

The head alone is a mouthful—thick and bulbous, the skin softer here, more sensitive. You can feel the ridge of the corona against your lips as you suck, and you hollow your cheeks, creating suction. More pre-cum leaks onto your tongue, and you savor it, mixing it with your saliva. Your hand is still wrapped around the base, and you start to stroke, feeling the incredible girth, the way your fingers can't quite close around it. Your pink lips stretch around the purplish head.

You start to bob your head, taking him deeper with each stroke, and the sensations are overwhelming. The ridged texture of his shaft drags across your tongue—you can feel every thick vein, every contour of his cock as it slides in and out of your mouth. The prominent veins pulse against your lips and tongue with each beat of his heart, thick cords of flesh that throb and swell as you suck. He grips your neck guiding you. It's degrading and humiliating and it makes you so fucking horny you can barely stand it.

Your pale face, your blond hair, your pink mouth stretched wide around his massive dark cock. You look like something out of the filthiest interracial porn, and the thought makes your pussy clench with need.

Your free hand slides between your legs, pressing against your pussy through your shorts, and you whimper around his cock.

"That's it, baby," Darrell groans, his grip on your hair tightening slightly. "Take it deeper."

And you do. You relax your throat and push down, taking more of him, feeling the thick head slide past your tongue and hit the back of your throat. The weight of it is incredible—heavy and solid, filling your mouth completely, stretching your jaw to its limit. You gag slightly, your eyes watering, but you don't pull back. Instead, you push through it, taking him even deeper, feeling your throat expand around his girth. The sensation is overwhelming—the thick shaft forcing its way down your throat, the veins pulsing against the soft tissue, the way your throat contracts around him involuntarily. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every throb, until your nose is pressed against his pelvis and his entire length is buried in your throat.

"Fuck," Darrell hisses, his hips jerking slightly. "That's a good girl. That's my good little cocksucker."

You pull back, gasping for air, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. The shaft is absolutely drenched now—glistening with your spit, slick and shiny in the afternoon light filtering through the windshield. You can see every detail: the way the moisture catches in the ridges of his veins, the way his purplish head gleams, the bead of pre-cum forming at the tip, your eyes watering, your lips swollen and red. You look up at Darrell through your lashes, and the expression on his face—pure lust and satisfaction—makes you feel powerful in a way you've never felt before.

He grips and squeezes your neck again. A slight pressure pushing your head down.

You submit, putting your head back down, taking him deep again, and this time you start to move with purpose. You bob your head faster, feeling the texture of his cock sliding across your tongue—the smooth skin, the prominent veins, the thick ridge of the corona catching on your lips with each stroke. Your hand strokes the base of his shaft in rhythm with your mouth, and you can feel how hard he is, how the flesh is rock-solid beneath the smooth skin, how his cock seems to pulse and throb with each beat of his heart. Your tongue swirls around the sensitive head every time you pull back, tasting the constant flow of pre-cum, mixing it with your saliva until everything is slick and messy.

The car hits a bump and you adjust automatically, not missing a beat, and Darrell laughs breathlessly.

"Damn, girl," he says, his voice strained. "You're gonna make me crash this car."

But he doesn't slow down, and neither do you. You're lost in it now, lost in the rhythm and the taste and the feeling of his massive cock sliding in and out of your mouth. Your jaw is starting to ache from the stretch, but you don't care. Your throat is raw from taking him so deep, but you don't care. All you care about is the weight of him on your tongue, the way his shaft expands and contracts slightly as he gets more aroused, the way you can feel him getting even harder, even thicker, the sounds he's making above you.

You pull back and focus on the head, sucking hard while your hand works the shaft, twisting and stroking. The purplish head is swollen now, darker, the skin taut and sensitive. You can feel it throb against your tongue, can taste the increased flow of pre-cum. Your other hand cups his balls, heavy and full in your palm, and you massage them gently, feeling how tight they are, how they draw up slightly as you work his cock. They're large and warm, the skin slightly rougher than the shaft, and you roll them carefully in your hand.

Darrell groans, his hand tightening in your hair almost painfully.

"Shit, Joan," he breathes. "Where'd you learn to suck dick like this?"

Today, you think wildly. I learned today. I've been a girl for a few hours and I'm already a fucking expert at sucking cock. The thought should terrify you, but instead it fills you with a perverse sense of pride.

You take him deep again, gagging as the thick head hits the back of your throat, and you hold yourself there, swallowing around him. You can feel his cock throb in your mouth, can feel the veins pulsing against your lips and tongue, can feel the way his shaft twitches slightly with each swallow. Tears stream down your face, mixing with the saliva dripping from your chin, and you know you must look absolutely wrecked. But you don't care. You want to look wrecked. You want to look like a girl who's been thoroughly used.

When you finally pull back, gasping for air, you look down at his cock—slick with your spit, glistening in the afternoon light, the dark shaft contrasting sharply with the lighter purplish head—and you're struck by the visual. Your small, pale hand wrapped around his thick, dark shaft, your delicate fingers barely able to encircle the girth. Your delicate features, your blond hair, your pink lips stretched obscenely around him. The contrast is stark and incredibly erotic.

And the thought makes you moan, makes your pussy clench, makes you want to take him even deeper.

You spit on his cock, watching the saliva drip down the shaft, coating the veins, making everything even more slick and messy. Then you spread it with your hand, stroking from base to tip, feeling the texture of his cock beneath your palm—the smooth skin, the thick veins, the way his shaft pulses with each heartbeat. You're not being neat or careful anymore. You're being filthy, vulgar, exactly what he wants. Exactly what you want.

"Fuck, that's hot," Darrell groans, glancing down at you before returning his eyes to the road. "You're so fucking hot, Joan. Look at you. Look at this pretty little mouth taking my cock."

You look up at him as you take him deep again, making eye contact, and you see the way his jaw clenches, the way his knuckles go white on the steering wheel. You can feel his cock throb in your throat, can feel it expanding slightly, getting even harder. You're affecting him. You're making this strong, powerful man lose control, and it's the most intoxicating feeling in the world.

You increase your pace, bobbing faster, taking him deeper, your hand working in perfect rhythm with your mouth. The wet, obscene sounds fill the car—slurping, gagging, the slap of your hand against his pelvis. You can feel every detail of his cock: the way the thick veins pulse against your tongue, the way the ridge of the corona catches on your lips, the way his shaft seems to swell and throb with each stroke. The head is so thick in your throat, so heavy, stretching you, filling you completely. It's filthy and crude and you love every second of it.

Your other hand is still between your legs, rubbing yourself through your shorts, and you can feel how soaked you are. You're going to cum just from sucking his cock, you realize. Just from the taste of him, the feeling of him in your mouth.

You can feel his cock twitching now, throbbing more insistently, the veins pulsing harder against your tongue. His balls are tight in your hand, drawn up close to his body. He's getting close. Your jaw aches, your throat burns, your eyes are streaming tears, but you don't stop. You can't stop. You're addicted to this.