You press your face into my balls as greed follows your tongue, a nut seated in each cheek like a crown, like you’re trying to suck me empty from the root.

Empty—as if you hadn’t made me fuck what’s-her-name twice. As if she wasn’t still panting face down in the living room, cum leaking from both her used-up holes.
Bianca… yeah. That’s it.

Then—just teeth. Dragging. Scraping against the flesh of me.

“Her cunt’s all over you, baby,” you grin, mouth still half full of skin and whatever’s left of me.

I want to groan. Beg mercy. But I know it’s useless when you’re high on fuck, holding the edge you’ve been nursing for hours.

Ever since you made me lick your cunt right to the edge—your edge of fuck all—then told me to sit pretty and wait for you to get back.

I think you were eager tonight. You came home sooner. And she was skankier than your usual flavor. Redhead? Sure—but fake. You usually weed those out.

The things you make those girls do while you watch—rubbing yourself close, but never over.

Just holding yourself there, on that razor edge, like some fucking Mother of Sensation. Mistress of Lust. The fucking Edge Lord.

She was on the skinny side. A cunt so tight it begged for mercy, slit stretched over too much meat, leaking alcohol and the wonder of the fuck she’d stumbled into.

Thrusting into her, she clung to your legs—begging to eat your cunt out like the good girl she dreamt of being.

But you only let her get close enough to feel the trap of your heat, before twisting your fists in her hair and yanking her off.

Just enough to let her breath tickle you.

She came too soon.

As if she were high on something besides cock, cunt, and booze. But most of your girls get like that, don’t they?

“Fuck her full,” you said, lip curling into a snarl.

I always do as you say.

Let her have it. It’s not the length of me that breaks them—it’s the girth. The fatness of too much cock stuffed into one skin. I pumped her properly full, shoved it all in there, making sure she’d leak for hours.

“Oh-my-God!” she whimpered, clutching her cunt like she was trying to close it again. Then again. Over and fucking over.

“Oh, baby,” you moaned, thighs trembling. “That was too fucking close. Fuck.”

You grinned, crossed your legs, and pressed your thighs together. I’m never sure if it’s to keep something from spilling out—or not to let anything in.

Then you let your legs part, teasing a finger over your swollen clit. Just once. Enough to make your thighs tremble anew, to let an obscene moan spill from your lips before you shoved two greedy fingers inside yourself. A little hard. Violent.

“I’m so disgustingly slick,” you groaned, rising from the chair.

I was still clutching her ass, still catching my breath, as you stepped up beside me—two slick fingers teasing me. I knew what you were doing. You’d tempt me with your slick. Tease me into it. Make me open my mouth for you, drag your fingers along my cheek, leaving streaks of you on my skin like a filthy reminder: this was always going to be your show.

And as I knew you would, you swallowed your fingers with a greed only reserved for the heat inside you.

But you’re good—the way you part your legs and let me witness your near-grotesque slick leaking down your thighs.

You do this to get me hard again. Let me lick and suck it from your skin, almost to the point where you grab my scalp and hold me there, an inch from your throb.

“Smell my cunt, baby,” you hissed, as if my entire being wasn’t already full of you. “I know what gets your cock hard.”

You let me have one taste. One lick. One desperate suck of your throbbing clit before pulling me off again.

“And you get so hard for me, don’t you, babe?”

It just shoots fuck and pulse into my groin like your words reached between my legs and yanked the thought out of me by the cock—filling me with pure animal need. The instinct to fuck whatever hole offered itself to me.

So, naturally, you slid atop her, grinding cunt into her neck as if it were always meant to be your muse.

There’s something about the way you split her ass—the way you reached between your legs to gather, disgustingly fucking wet, and smear her pulsing hole slick with you. You didn’t ask her to brace. Didn’t warn. Just pushed two fingers inside her and let her gasp. Fucking whimper. Beg a little.

“Fuck her ass, baby.”

You just held her open. I ground against her. Once. Twice. Then pushed, daring her to take the shape of me. Her voice fell muffled to the carpet, held down by your weight on her.

She did what they all do—clenched until it hurt. Until she had to let out a cry. And then her hole pulsed, before it gave. I gave her all of me, and watched you grin as her sphincter stretched around me and her begging resumed.

“Oh-my-God-oh-my-God.”

Not yelled—just begged into the floor.

You rubbed yourself, just to keep the edge, then fed me your fingers to push me beyond desire. You watched my fervor rise—the way I grabbed onto her cheeks and pulled her onto my cock.

“Yeah, baby,” you groaned. “Fuck her over. Pump her full.”

My cock pulsed greedily, impatiently, thrusting balls deep into her. It wasn’t me. It was you, driving me past anything but the need to cum. To fill her again. To fuck her over. No mercy, no pause, no chance to catch the breath she lost the moment you spread her open.

She came again. Then again. Until her legs gave way and she sank to the floor.

Your eyes stayed fixed on mine, all the way to the moment you saw them roll back—when my jaw clenched, when my abs threatened to turn my gut against me.

I always cum harder when you suck my mouth into yours.

“Fuck,” you groaned.

And now, mouth full of skin and what remains of me, you decide to cum. To make me hard. To impale yourself on me and ride.

“Get fucking hard for me, babe,” you snarl, your grip tightening, dragging what’s left of me back to life with ruthless precision. It’s not tenderness. It’s hunger. Sharp, efficient, mean.

I swell for you. It’s automatic. A reaction. Pavlovian. There’s no thought in it—just blood and need and the dull ache of knowing this isn’t for me.

“Good,” you mutter, breath still shaking. “Now hold it.”

You reach for the cord.

I flinch, but you don’t even pause. You wrap the base of my cock tight—one loop, then another—until I feel the weight of it trapped, pulsing and useless, stiff with no promise of relief.

“You don’t cum,” you say, not even looking at me. “Not until I’m done with every last inch of this edge.”

You climb onto me with no grace, no softness—just cunt to cock, slick and swollen and mean with need.

And I know—this isn’t about fucking.

This is about making you come undone without letting go.

You sink down, one greedy, slick motion that feels like fucking clouds and madness—like your cunt forgot what friction was, like you’ve been soaking for hours just waiting to drown me in you.

It’s obscene. The way you take me. The way your wet coats everything, floods down my balls, soaks the base of me like I’m already spilling when I haven’t even moved.

“Yeah, stretch me, baby,” you whisper, eyes locked on mine. You’re high on it now—the edge you’ve been riding since early afternoon. Drunk on your own burn.

Your hips work like thrusters, your cunt like a greased vice. Tight, yes—but slick, frictionless. A well-timed machine.

Finally, you give in. Both hands find your throb.

“Fuck,” you groan. “I’m so obscenely slick I can’t even get enough friction on my clit to cum.”

I don’t know if it’s desperation, but you lean into me, pushing your tit into my mouth, ass twerking obscenely as you fuck me with no concern for the blood filling me beyond pleasure—the pressure threatening to undo me.

No, you’re just consumed by your need to reach the peak.

So you can crash down. Freefall into it.

You drool. Spit in my face.

Then, finally, your cunt clenches—just a throb tighter, just a hint of surrender. A break in your rhythm. A tremor in your thighs.

Then you seize.

It’s not subtle. It rips through you like it’s been held back too long—the kind of orgasm that rises from my cock and tears up through your spine.

You throw your head back, grinning—no, gleaming—as you pull off me, spraying your release across my cock, my stomach, the fuck of everything. You ride it out over my chest, cunt flexing like a living thing, your slick painting me everywhere.

You grind your clit against my mouth, against my teeth, thighs pressed tight, hands on my scalp to pull me in—uncaring if it’s pain or pressure, uncaring if I can breathe. Just chasing the last aftershock through your body, dragging every nerve with you.

You moan like something unholy. Your thighs quake. Your cunt won’t let go.

And I just lie there—tied off, denied, used—feeling the storm break across your body.

You push back. Off. Grin.

Your hands reach the ties. You slide back, taking me in. It doesn’t take much.

“Cum for me, baby,” you whisper. “Please.”

It’s not release. It’s undoing. Of everything. It ruptures. Hurts. And I can’t stop cumming.

“Love me?” you whisper.

“Always,” I groan.