two can play that game

Dinner finally ends after what feels like an eternity of her foot and the constant, wicked glances she keeps shooting you.

Sandra is soaked. When she stands up from the table you catch the faint shiny streak of her arousal already running down the inside of one thigh. She’s so worked up for the promised punishment that she’s practically vibrating, and you can see the exact moment she silently curses the fact that her parents are still home—grateful they gave her the chance to tease you so mercilessly, furious that they’re the only reason she can’t already have your cock rearranging her guts.

You both head to the living room under the excuse of playing Smash Bros while her parents finish cleaning up in the kitchen. The TV is only a short distance away; their voices and the clink of dishes are clearly audible.

Sandra walks over to the couch with that same dramatic little sway, clearly planning to sit on the floor between your legs and “accidentally” end up with her bare pussy right in your face under the short skirt. She never gets the chance.

The moment she turns to lower herself, you free your cock, grab her hips, and pull her straight down onto your lap.

She sinks onto you in one smooth, filthy slide.

Her pussy is so wet and ready that there’s almost no resistance. You bottom out instantly, the thick head of your cock pushing right against her soft, descended cervix and prying it open with the same ease as the night before. A sharp, punched-out breath leaves her, eyes flying wide. Her hands grip your knees hard as she forces herself not to moan.

You lean in just enough to murmur against her ear, voice low and dark:

“Sit still and play the game. Your Parents are right there.”

Sandra is fully impaled, cervix kissing the tip of your cock, and she has to stay exactly like that—legs on either side of your thighs, skirt pooling around your hips, looking for all the world like she’s just sitting on your lap while you both play. Every tiny shift makes the head of your cock nudge deeper against that soft entrance to her womb. She’s already fluttering and dripping around you, the punishment she wanted now twisted into the most frustrating kind of teasing possible.

Her parents are still talking in the kitchen only a few metres away.

You hand her a controller like nothing is wrong.

The second your cock is fully seated inside her, cervix soft and open around the head, her brain short-circuits. She’s holding the controller in both hands purely for show—thumbs not even on the buttons. Her mouth hangs open, a thin line of drool already slipping from the corner of her lips and trailing down her chin. Between her legs she’s even worse; her pussy is drooling around your shaft in steady, warm pulses, soaking your jeans and the couch cushion beneath you. Every tiny involuntary clench sends another trickle of her slick running down your balls.

She’s completely lost on your cock.

Her hips keep trying to move on their own. Little aborted bounces, desperate rolls, tiny upward lifts that would let her drop back down and force you even deeper against her cervix. Each time you feel her start to rise you clamp your hands hard on her waist and force her back down, pinning her in place with your cock buried to the hilt. The first time she almost moans out loud. The second time she bites her own lip hard enough to leave marks. The third time a tiny, broken whimper still escapes and you have to cover it by mashing buttons on your own controller and talking over her to the TV.

“Stay still,”

you growl under your breath against her ear. “They’re right in the kitchen.”

Sandra nods shakily, but her body isn’t listening. The combination of being so full, the constant pressure against her cervix, and the brutal denial of not being allowed to bounce is frying whatever reasoning she has left. Her eyes are glassy. Her thighs are trembling. Every time you stop her from riding you she clenches harder, like her pussy is trying to suck another load out of you through sheer frustration.

From the kitchen her mother calls out something about dessert. Sandra has to answer in a normal voice while your cock is throbbing against the entrance to her womb and her own drool is dripping onto your shaft.

She’s barely managing it.

You don’t let up.

While Sandra is still trembling and drooling in your lap, completely lost on your cock, you slide one hand around her waist and press your palm flat against her lower abdomen. You start massaging in slow, firm circles, feeling the soft give of her belly, then deliberately push deeper—using the pressure to force her womb down even harder onto the thick head of your cock. The soft, spongy mouth of her cervix kisses and yields around you with every controlled shove of your hand.

Sandra’s entire body jolts. A broken, desperate sound tries to escape her throat. Her pussy clamps down in frantic pulses, walls fluttering and milking you like she’s trying to pull the cum straight out of your balls. She’s so far gone that her controller has slipped from her fingers onto the floor.

The combination of the deep pressure and her frantic squeezing is too much.

You start cumming hard—thick, heavy ropes that pump straight against and through her open cervix, flooding her womb in long, pulsing streams. There’s no escape for any of it; every drop is forced directly into her baby-maker. Sandra feels it the second the first spurt hits. Her eyes roll and a loud, shameless moan starts to tear out of her.

You react instantly.

Your free hand clamps over her mouth, muffling the sound into a series of desperate, wet whimpers against your palm. She keeps moaning into your hand the entire time you empty inside her, body shaking, thighs clamped tight around your legs as her pussy greedily milks every last pulse. She’s not letting a single drop escape. Even as your cock twitches and begins to soften she stays locked down, cervix soft and welcoming, refusing to release the seal.

From the kitchen her father’s voice calls out casually about whether you two want ice cream.

Sandra is still trembling in your lap, your hand over her mouth, her womb freshly filled with another thick load, and she only manages a muffled, shaky “mm-mm” of refusal while she keeps greedily holding every drop inside her.