To say things changed between Troy and me is a statement riddled with complications.

I had sucked his cock. I’d cum from it.

He woke up with a hangover. I went to the library.

Me sucking his cock wasn’t something we spoke of.

But things did change.

He started bringing his fucks into our room. I’d pretend to sleep, and they’d pretend to be quiet.

Shannon Binnington was anything but quiet. A New York bitch with a New York attitude—loud, entitled, always talking like the world owed her time. She fucked the same way she spoke: confidently, noisily, like she was performing expertise.

At first.

She came in like a storm. A tight, horny fuckball of Black New York attitude—hair slicked, heels loud, thighs shimmering in shorts she wasn’t wearing to walk. She laughed like the room was hers, like I wasn’t even there, like Troy was lucky she’d carved out a night for him. She climbed onto him like she’d done it a hundred times. Like she owned cock.

And for a minute—maybe two—she did.

She rode him hard, grinding and bouncing, her moans cocky, theatrical. Like she wanted the world to hear. Like she wanted me to hear. Her cunt did all the talking, and it talked like it had a purpose—dragging him in by the root, sucking him into a stretch it could barely survive.

She looked ridiculously tiny on top of him. Tits firm as tennis balls, bouncing like they’d finally escaped their padded cell. Yeah, Shannon padded her bra for cheerleading.

She drooled and spat. Called him baby.
Then: Oh, baby.
Then: Fuck, baby. Fuck.

Her orgasm hit like a seizure—violent, desperate, convulsing against him with a sound that wasn’t pride, wasn’t performance. It was surrender. Something tore through her, and she sagged.

Spent. Useless.

And when Troy got tired of bouncing her on his cock, he just flipped her. Like changing positions with a doll.

He fucked her stupid from behind—pure muscle and rhythm—grunting low while she buried her face in the sheets and whimpered. No more attitude. No more New York. Just raw. Wet. Used.

Afterward, she didn’t speak. She reached for her clothes like they didn’t belong to her anymore. Rubbed her sore crotch with the back of her hand, trying to wipe her leaking cunt dry. Then tried to step into her shorts like they might reject her. Like she wasn’t tight enough for them now.

There was no swagger left in her.

Just a girl who’d been pulled apart.

I got used to our room smelling like sweat and cum. Cunt and release.

I got used to waiting for his breath to steady—slow, even, sleep-like—before whacking my cock stupid and soiling my sheets.

Then I stopped waiting.

Sarah Noble—a name wrapped in irony so thick it smelled like sarcasm. A freshman in pre-med with a chest that swayed when she laughed. Blonde, curved without slipping into fat. And a cunt too tight for his cock.

So he fucked her ass.

I couldn’t see it. I just heard it.

Her moans. Her gasps. Her ass slobbering around his cock, wet and obscene. Her whimpers echoing off the wall like guilt.

My cock was so tight I couldn’t wait.

I hand-fucked myself to the sound of my roommate and his for-the-night girlfriend.

Sarah stood with a little more pride than Shannon used to.

She even bent over and kissed his cock.

His cum seeped from her ass—an ass a little oversized, a little on the saggy side. I didn’t care about her ass. I cared about the spill running down the inside of her thigh.

What does his cum taste like from her ass?

The thought hit me like a distorted echo.

What does his cock taste like fresh from her butthole?

Sarah barely fit into her clothes the way she barely fit into anything store-bought. Her tits swelled and swayed inside a stretched-out tank top—no bra. Her jeans were both baggy and too tight around the ass he’d just emptied himself into.

She walked out of our room with more attitude than when she’d walked in.

Troy lay there, breathing heavy, spent—spilled wide across his bed. His cock rested lazily against his thigh, slick and half-hard, like it didn’t care what came next.

But I did.

Still in my cum-drenched t-shirt, I swung my legs to the floor. On whispered steps, I crossed the room. He glanced at me—eyes half-lidded, grin easy, muscles tense. Always tense, like his body had forgotten how to relax.

He was wet. With sweat. Maybe his, maybe hers.

I touched his pec—enlarged, sculpted—it felt like cold steel beneath warm skin. My fingers trailed down, slow, careful, like I was reading him in Braille. Each bump of his abs caught my breath, each ridge a word I didn’t know how to say.

They felt like stone walls. Solid. Scarred. A nickel mine carved into flesh.

I kept tracing downward.

Toward his cock.

His beautiful cock.

“Damn, bitch,” he said, arching a brow. “That nasty got you hot?”

I didn’t answer. Not with words.

My hand found its way—part instinct, part something darker. Greed, maybe. Or hunger.

He was slick. Not from her, but from himself—his own release pulled from her ass, still wet with spit. He’d spat twice down her crack before he pushed in like he owned her.

He did.

He owned everything he touched.

But he didn’t need to touch to own me.

He just had to grin.

And show me his cock.

It felt tamed in my hand, like something I could pull into my mouth and hold there. Let it rest against my tongue until the weight of it filled me. My mouth watered—starved, a greedy little face-cunt desperate for attention. For contact. For anything that could plug the ache.

I didn’t slide. I climbed—over the swell of him, up his mountain of body, then down into the warm valley between his thighs. I let myself drown in the heft of his meat.

He didn’t smell like ass. He smelled like him. That scent. Bacon. Smoked. Cheese-stuffed chili. Masculine and shamefully perfect.

“Yeah, that’s right, Aaron,” he grinned, watching my lips suckle at his flesh.

And I just kept swallowing him—gagging, twice—moaning something obscene into the heat of him, something dumb and hungry, slut-stupid and needing more.

I had half of him buried in me when I felt it change—throb and twist, thickening inside my throat, stretching me as it pulsed, as if my body were meant to house this exact ache.

Half my brain screamed at me to stop. The other half just acted—mindless, obedient. I forced myself down, pushed past the pain, swallowed through the gag. My throat sealed around him, choking, and still I took more. Air cut off. Breath lost. But he was already inside me, so deep it felt like I was breathing him.

“Oh, fuck,” Troy muttered, his voice warping with heat. “Tightest bitch I’ve ever felt.”

Then he fucked me. Not just my mouth—my face, my throat. Never pulling out far enough for breath, and I didn’t care. I could choke on him. Suffocate, so long as he kept using me.

My balls twisted into a knot between my legs, trapped in that desperate limbo—caught between wanting to burst and wanting to fold inward, to become a cunt he could fuck senseless, like Shannon.

When he finally pulled me off him, it felt like betrayal. Like being promised something holy, then denied at the altar.

“Fuck, babe,” he said, breathless. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

I just stayed like that—gaping, drooling, begging.

“I want your cum,” I heard myself say.

I sounded dumber than Loretta Swanson had the other night. The way she’d begged him to fuck her—first harder, then deeper, then slower. And finally begged him to come on her face.

On her glasses. In her mouth.

Her psychology major was less about Freud and more about finding new ways to unravel herself. A trail of study that had somehow led straight to her knees.

He sat and pulled me to his face, kissed me—or sucked my face-cunt, yeah. That’s what it was. He sucked my face-cunt like he meant to live there, then grabbed my ass and lifted me clean off the ground.

He spun me, fast, and let me fall face-down onto his cock.

I tried to swallow him again—tried—but there was no way to take him that deep now. My throat was wrecked. He didn’t wait. His hands clamped around my thighs like tiger jaws, pulling me apart, dragging me up.

Not for my cock. He didn’t touch it, didn’t even feel it pressed against his chest.

It was my ass. He split me open and tongued me like he was massaging my hole, sucking it open and making it forget how to close. I felt myself clench at first, then slowly opening, relaxing, letting his mouth claim me like it was—

His.

I closed my eyes and held on to his cock with both hands, still trying to open wide enough for him to push down and suffocate me again.

And he eased in—like he sucked himself in through my ass—his cock straining past the entrance of my throat until it popped, the head of his snake burrowing deeper. I was still breathing, through my nose.

Until I wasn’t.

I became the space between—him sucking my ass and his cock just filling me. I felt so unbelievably open, so utterly plugged, I started to wonder:

Is this what a cunt feels like?

Should I cum like this?

Oh fuck, I wanted to cum like that.

Then he pushed his hips forward—upward—down my throat. It felt like I was rupturing, my hand grasping my throat.

The bulge—unnatural, speared, nothing but cock.

His balls to my nose—I grabbed them, pressed them into my face like somehow they’d soothe me. Like pressing them could let me breathe again before—

I came on his chest. Trapped between his swollen muscles and my own leaking need, everything in me clenched—but he didn’t stop. He just kept eating me.

I could’ve faded there. I wanted to. But his hands yanked my head off him, denying me again.

Air.

I didn’t need air. I needed him inside me. I needed to taste his sweat, his cock, his cum.

But he pushed me off his face. I tried to hold on to him, but he was too strong. I was too weak.

Yeah, I was too weak.

So tenderly weak, my legs felt like loose, fluttering whispers—boneless, without any real will to move. I have feminine calves. Compared to his, they looked like Shannon’s, only pale.

My arms flailed—oh, his cock was thicker.

I have long fingers. My mother wanted me to play the piano.

He flipped me onto my stomach, lifted my ass, pushed my face into the mattress.

“I’m going to fuck your little cunt now,” he whispered.

And I could feel his gentle smile through the terror that curled up inside me.

His thumb? That alone should’ve been too much. But my ass just swallowed it. Willingly.
And the breath that left me?

It was deep. Wet. And vanished into a mattress that wanted to swallow me whole.

God—a little deeper. Yeah, right fucking there. Rub my prostate, milk like a little cunt.

I thrust back onto him and took his thumb like it was everything.

All.

Fucked his hand like a little bitch.

His little bitch.

“Tell me how much you want it, Aaron,” he whispered.

Deep. From somewhere in him—not voice exactly. Something older. Heavier. Maybe even his cock? Not vicious. Not mean. Just asking me to admit it—to tell him I wanted to be his.

“Make me your little bitch,” I moaned.

It wasn’t so bad. Except for the puny, pathetic word that slipped into the mattress like a confession.

Please.

“You want to be my bitch?” he asked.

His voice was almost flat. But there was warmth beneath it. Just enough to melt my insides, turn me into nothing but flesh with need.

“Troy—fuck me. Please—fuck me,” I pleaded.

But he just let me fuck his thumb, let me rub my balls against his palm like marble fidgets wrapped in a skin-pouch of want and soaked with need.

I’d cum again like that. Fucking his thumb, drooling into his bed. Pushed over the edge and into something soft, unresisting. Like a cunt.

Like a wet cunt of spill and release.

I almost sobbed when he pulled his thumb out of me. It didn’t even pop out—it just slipped free with a lazy, sloppy smooch. My hole refused to close, as if it was still gaping for more. As if it didn’t have the wits to understand when enough was enough.

I felt like one of those greedy girls who ruined themselves on his fuck-stick.

I understood them.

His hands felt like heavy blasting mats slammed across my ass. He pulled me open and spat a glob into my begging hole.

“That’s a begging cunt if I ever saw one, Aaron. You ready for this?”

“Fuck my cunt!”

Just like that.

Stupid.

Stupid horny.

I was his cunt.

Ready for it? How could I be? It’s not like I’d aimed to be an English major with a side dish of cock up my ass. It wasn’t a side dish. It was the main course. Sentient. Dominant. Sirloin. I’m not gay. I just love Troy’s cock.

As ready as I pretended to be—when he pushed that giant head against me—my heart stuttered. Ice wrapped around my skeleton, and I curled in on myself. I stopped breathing. I stopped drooling. And for a moment, I think I stopped being.

Everything just felt locked up. My spine curled. My arms stretched out without me noticing, dragging my head between them. My cock looked puny. But it felt massive—raw, bright, pulsing. Her. My beautiful, leaking boy-clit. I sucked the skin of my arm. It tasted like the sound of Shannon’s pussy wrapped around him. My thighs—smooth, pale—felt too small. Not mine. Too slender.

“Bitch,” he said softly. “Arc down, not up. Relax.”

He didn’t push. He just stayed there, letting my butthole find its new form, its new meaning. Its rightful purpose.

He let me come to him.

I hadn’t stopped being. I had arrived.

My body adjusted—not like a decision, but like muscle-memory I didn’t know I had. I sank into a perfect, bowed arc. My chest flattened against the bed, arms loose beside me, ass tipped up like it belonged there. My beautiful ass.

No, not ass. Something else.

It didn’t clench. It didn’t fight. I went soft—completely soft—so soft it felt like my skin had unstitched and folded open for him. Like my body had turned into labia. A seam. A split.

His cock pressed, and I didn’t grip—I welcomed. I was no longer holding him out. I was holding him in.

My thighs trembled, not from strain, but from need. I breathed out a long, useless moan.

"Yeah, bitch,” he said, low and reverent. “Nice and slow. Fuck, that’s tight.”

My ass had abandoned hope. So there was no pain—just a long, slow stretch that felt like something I’d read in poetry class. Anne Sexton.

I was every flower in her garden. Open. Wilted. Begging for bees.

Pain?

No. Just that feeling of filling—from the inside out—like his cock was replacing and rearranging my insides into something prettier. More functional. Something deeply purposeful.

“God—I’m so full,” I moaned.

“Hush, bitch,” he whispered. “Halfway there.”

Halfway?

I could almost taste his cock.

Halfway.

“Mmhph,” I said.

Somewhere in my guts, his snake burrowed deeper, chasing—

God, I don’t know.

Whatever was left of me that hadn’t opened yet.

Maybe my balls, begging to crawl up inside me and wrap around him like little fuck-beads. For his pleasure, not mine.

Mine was being filled.

He pressed against my skin—from the inside. Stretch-fucked my belly.

My cunt wanted to explode.

Not just cum.

Explode around him like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

“Almost there,” he whispered.

Gentle as a fuck wrapped in wet tissue paper.

I felt his thighs against mine. And then his balls—low, heavy—curled around mine like a protecting lover, kissing them with skin, hugging them with want.

He held me there, impossibly full, dumb with lust, and with an ache—not only from the stretch, or the suffocating pressure on my prostate, not even from my balls, which hung like overgrown labia, or my clit, which oozed with slow release—but something deeper. A fuller ache, like my body was rewiring itself around the intrusion.

No. The ache was orgasm, building not like a sudden burst but like a tide creeping in. My toes had already curled. My lungs pressed out long, vowel-heavy sounds I couldn’t shape into words, stretched up and out by a cock so impossibly inside me, I wasn’t sure if there was anything left of me untouched.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he warned. “Slow at first. If you have to cum, try not to do it on my pillow, okay?”

If being filled had been a slow torture of uncontainable reward and absolute surrender, then the moment he pulled out felt like he took everything with him.

Breath, at first. Then my heartbeat—my pulse—followed by the physicality of being emptied by a vacuum that didn’t just strip my insides but swallowed them.

My sanity—frayed, shredded—dissolved like morning fog in a field of cunt.

It only reappeared when he shoved back in. A sharp sting at first—not pain, exactly, more a pointed reminder of how little was left of me, and how much had already been rewired.

“Gaugh,” escaped my lips.

He took his time, found his rhythm. It didn’t matter. I was gone.

I’d become the cunt, and I was coiling around myself. Sounds escaped me, but they were dumb. Stupid. And they didn’t matter.

What mattered was how my knees bent, and my calves hugged his thighs. How I was stuck there. How my muscles felt like nothing more than part of the fuck-hole I’d become. The grip around him wasn’t control—it was just the slow beginning of a rupture I couldn’t escape, even if I wanted to.

I didn’t want escape.

I wanted to become the orgasm.

It didn’t hit like a wave. Waves crash. Waves suggest a choice or a warning. This was pressure, then rupture—something soft giving way inside me, something already stretched to its limit just… slipping.

I didn’t cum like a man. I didn’t even cum like a fucked boy. I came like the thing I was, the thing he’d made me—cunt, hole, wet release wrapped in a body no longer mine.

It started at the root of me, some trembling undercurrent that flared up my spine and down through the clutch of my thighs, jerking every nerve in my lower body like I was being electrocuted from the inside out.

My cunt clenched—once, twice—then spasmed. I heard myself whine, pathetic and high, and then I felt it. The gush. Not a squirt. Not some porn shot. A slow, heavy leak that trickled fat and unrelenting. My clit flopped, twitched, kept releasing whatever he was fucking out of me into the sheets, as if I was losing the very thing that had remade me.

I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. My body convulsed in small, tight seizures. My fingers gripped the sheets. My teeth sank into the pillow. And I came. I came like that was all I’d ever been good for.

And still, he just slow-fucked my face into his pillow.

“Damn, bitch,” he muttered. “That was intense.”

Even his voice fucked me now.

“Am I good?” I asked. It came out soft. Begging.

“Best little cunt-hole on campus,” he said, casual as a compliment. Like he meant it. Like I was.

“Then fuck me like one.”

His massive arms reached around me, under my arms, pulling me by the shoulders. My body was spent, I just felt my back pressed against his massive muscles as he let me fall down on his cock like a limp rag doll.

He spun us around, planted his tree-trunk legs on the floor and lifted me on his cock. His cock throbbed against my belly, skin, muscle, and cock. I bulged obscenely.

Then, he grabbed me under the knees and started fucking me like the best cunt on campus.

My legs fluttered like broken, useless wings—an angel too far gone. My arms hung limp at my sides, flailing in all their stupid uselessness. My neck felt broken, either slumped forward against my chest or thrown back across the muscle where his collarbone should have been.

He held me in front of the mirror he usually flexed for.

I looked like a broken butterfly stuck on a hornet’s stinger. And every time he stung, I fluttered.

“Look how beautiful you take cock, babe,” he grinned.

My clit.

So pretty.

I wondered if it would ever grow back. If it would ever find a woman to seed. If that was even a future.

“Beautiful?” I asked.

“Yeah. Took you a while, but a perfect, tight fuck-toy. Pretty like a girl arrived.”

“Yours?” I asked.

He grunted. It felt like he grew another inch inside me.

“Yours?” I begged.

“Rub your clit,” he said.

I rubbed. It was so soft. So wet. So slick I could barely keep my fingers steady.

“Make that clit cum again.”

“Fuck me harder. Fuck me,” I yelped.

He fucked. I rubbed.

I don’t know what came out of me. It looked clear, slick, and felt like another orgasm.

His eyes burned my clit in the mirror. He fucked me like he’d never fucked anything before. Uncontrolled. Claiming.

“Fuck, bitch! I’m gonna cum!”

“No!” I screamed, the panic ripping through my throat. “In my mouth. Cum in my mouth!”

He dropped me. Just like that. Let his cock slide out of me like I was nothing. A used-up, discarded shoe.

It was okay.

As long as he didn’t cum before I could move—before I could crawl.

I gasped once, then dragged my body forward, limbs trembling, knees slow to respond. My arms were useless. My neck hung limp. My mouth opened before I’d even reached him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, jerking his cock with the only hands that could fit around it.

His load was furious. Violent. Like he’d been saving it for this—this last use of me. Like I was the best cunt he’d ever had.

I opened wider, let it hit the back of my throat, and swallowed.

Again.

And again.

And again.

“Yeah, baby,” he groaned. “All mine.”