Half laying on my side and stomach, I woke up when fingers roughly pushed their way into my body, pounded in and out to where the hand and remaining fingers felt like a fist against my lips.
I was already wet, as it seems I always am. I clenched around the fingers and dream and reality splintered with the rough and quick orgasm.
I was pushed fully on my stomach, my legs spread by Mr. Texas’ knees as he popped the head of his cock between my lips and past the initial resistance of my entrance. My wet body allowed the rest of him to slide effortlessly to my wall, which he hit surprisingly fast and painfully. A few more thrusts that hit and hurt, and my body stretched more fully to accommodate him, adjusting to where it was less pain and more pleasure.
Even in the pain, I tightened in the pleasure and raised my hips to welcome him hitting the depths that caused the discomfort. I love the uncaring taking, the forcing in. It turns me on far more than words can express. Even now, as I type this, I grow wet with the memory.
I groaned a bit too loudly. He yanked back my head with a fist in my hair; I moaned even more, arched back and took him deeper, and he pushed my face into the bed.
Perhaps he did so because of the sleeping kids in the house, he is after all quite considerate.
I struggled to breathe for a minute, my nose squished uncomfortably. I came; I screamed. The uncaring nature of such an act, the pounding of him inside of me, the slight objectification of being used in such a manner, all of it so unbelievably hot to me that orgasms simply didn’t cease, pleasure after pleasure crashed and didn’t ebb. It allowed me to not think, to go from dream to orgasm after orgasm, to not even have to be conscious of my own noises or own reactions, just to be repeatedly rammed by his cock. I felt every ridge, every throb, especially the tip of his head and the curve underneath – felt like a hook scratching an incessant itch against my walls.
The fist demanded my head up so quickly I had to use elbows to brace myself, a hand went around my throat and his fingers felt and dug where I showed him I liked on either side. Normally, he allows my own weight to dig into his fingers, this time they squeezed as he lowered my head upon the fingertips, my elbows no longer needed to brace myself up. His cock continued it’s relentless pleasure thrumming in my body. His fingers around my throat competed with attention. Dizzying, I felt my legs lower and my body become heavy. My eyes were already shut or otherwise I would have noticed the world go dark; I only noticed the gasping of breath as he rolled me over, the heaviness of my body, the haziness of my brain.
“I think you passed out for a moment, your whole body went limp,” he thrusted himself between my thighs as he stated that, and though it didn’t sound like it – I still sensed the concern even as he fucked me senseless.
I knew amid foggy brain and orgasms he still needed reassurance. I also knew that if I passed out, it was done correctly, safely, and was far shorter than my ex husband and I would do.
“Probably, and that’s hot. I’m fine,” I managed to breathe out in between cries of pleasure. I bit down on his shoulder as my arms wrapped around him, my heels digging in to his hips to pull him in even deeper.
He leaned back, grabbed my wrists, forced them over my head, pressed upon them with his body weight as just that action alone caused another orgasm. I was so tense under him and in that tension tightened even more as his own grunts and groans signaled his release.
I fucking love rough sex, feeling forced, being taken, pinned.
And I fucking love the softness of being held, of reassuring that what occurred was amazing, of praising each other and communicating how deeply we care for each other.
Have I ever shared that The Wanderer knows me intimately? Perhaps it is because we have been friends for so long, but he knows how uncomfortable some words make me. And sadist that he is, he uses them and smiles about them (even from distance, I’m sure).
For example, he wrote to me that I was a good cocksucker. Okay, even writing the words makes me squirm a bit.
But he told me that as my mouth was wrapped around him last time as well. In the act, he uttered words that turn me shy. It was a contrast – a mind fuck that I always find delicious – as my body and mouth were wanton and bold, but words suddenly make me feel like a sheltered and shy unsure youth.
*This picture is not with The Wanderer. It’s a shadow that I love from the photo story of David and I.