It started as a promise for more wank material—something to get you off while wifey was on the rag. Poor you. Hard and aching after a night at the strip club, inviting the best skanks the city could serve up to come take a ride on your lap. They’d ground scantily clad pussies against the throbbing bulge in your pants until you were ready to explode.

Now you’re sneaking back to the ‘burbs, with your favorite e-slut on the line. Jerking off while Aunt Flo pays wifey a visit.

And I know just how to push your buttons, don’t I, daddy? The only thing I love more than pushing your buttons, is following your instructions. Usually on my own time—but I get around to it.

So if you want the details of how I took the horse cock, I’ll give them to you.

I call it the horse cock because it’s big. Obscenely big. The sort of toy that promises ruin. And god, you love ruining me from afar, don’t you?

I started exactly as instructed—on the floor, on all fours. Reached back to check for the ache from last time. Still sore. Just like you figured it would be.

I spat on the cock, smeared it with my fingers, then positioned it beneath me—dragging the tip from clit to cunt, slow and easy, just to feel the tease. I rocked my hips, flirting with the edge of entry. Not enough pressure to sting. Just enough to make me whimper, out loud.

Didn’t even need to hold the base—it’s perfectly weighted. I gripped it higher, just under the curve of the frenulum, so I’d know when I’d taken the widest part.

Then I did what you said. I sat.

Not as slow as I’d planned, or as slow as you’d probably like. The sting caught me off guard—sharp enough to leave me gasping. I froze there, right on the edge of taking the head in full. Felt the burn bloom deep.

You told me to bite something. Remember that scrunchie I always wear? Ended up between my teeth, clenched tight.

I pulled back. More spit. Smeared it lower along the shaft this time. Then tried again, scrunchie still in my mouth.

I spread myself open—my fingers glossy, thermal polish flashing silver. No black in sight. Too hot. Too wet.

This time, I gripped the shaft halfway down. Let the head breach me completely. Whimpered at the stretch. Paused just to feel it. Then I pushed deeper—back and down—until I was sitting on it. Fully.

My legs were shaking. The stretch was brutal. White-hot. I could barely breathe through it, but do you know what I was thinking about the entire time?

I bet you do.

When I dropped low enough to feel my hand, a moan tore out of me—pain, relief, disbelief. All of it. Loud.

By then, the shaft was slick halfway down with me. So I started to move. Gripped the base hard. Quicker on the upstroke. Slower on the down. Know how many strokes it took before I came so hard my legs locked tight enough to cramp, and my eyes rolled so far I saw the back of my skull?

Exactly five.

I clenched around it like my body didn’t know how to be this stretched, this full. Like it wanted to force it out and drag it deeper all at once. I sobbed into the scrunchie, the sound muffled and ragged. My thighs shook. My cunt pulsed around the cock in waves, each clench sending bolts of white-hot pain sharpened pleasure up my spine.

It was too much. And, fuck me, I loved it.

After, I stayed there—impaled. Shaking. My cunt twitching around the slick, unyielding length. I could feel it with every breath, every shift. A pressure inside me so thick and deep it felt like it rewrote something.

I didn’t move. Didn’t want to. Not yet.

Just let the heat ebb. Let the mess drip down my thighs. I think I whispered your name, maybe in exaltation, maybe to curse it.

I tell you this because the next time you take your cock in your hand and stroke, I want you to see me. Wrecked, dripping, impaled and trembling.

You told me to take it, and I did. I made myself a mess for you. Now stroke your cock and tell me—am I a good girl?