I can't move.
She's on top of me, her thighs warm and soft against my hips, her breath coming in these little hitched gasps that go straight to my cock. Her brown hair is so messy and soft—strands of brown hair clinging to her temples, to her neck, and I want to lick them off her skin.
She grinds down again. Slower this time. Deliberate. Like she's testing something.
My hands find her hips on instinct, fingers digging into the plush curve of her ass through those pink shorts. Fuck. She's so soft. Everywhere. I can feel the heat of her through the fabric, through my lounge pants, like she's burning right through to my skin.
"Diana."
Her name comes out rough. Broken. I don't recognize my own voice.
She looks down at me, those big brown eyes half-lidded, her lips parted and shiny. She doesn't say anything. She just presses down again, a slow roll of her hips that makes my vision go white at the edges.
I'm so fucking hard it hurts.
How did I get here? How did this girl—this perfect, soft, messy-bun-wearing girl—end up straddling me in my own bed, looking at me like I'm the one who's about to break?
She whimpers. A small, desperate sound that she tries to swallow. Her hips move faster, grinding against me in a rhythm that's all instinct, all need, and I feel her start to tremble.
Her hands land on my chest, fingers curling into my skin, nails leaving little crescents. She's panting now. Sweat glistens at her hairline, and her shirt—my shirt—has ridden up, exposing the smooth curve of her lower back.
"Look at you," I murmur.
She doesn't answer. She just grinds harder, faster, her breathing turning ragged. Desperate. Like she's chasing something she can't catch.
Her head drops forward, forehead pressing against my collarbone. Her whimpers get louder, higher, and I feel her start to shake.
She's close. She's so fucking close.
I could let her have it. I could let her ride this out, let her fall apart on top of me, feel her come undone.
But where's the fun in that?
My hands slide up from her hips, gripping her waist, and I still her. Hold her in place. Stop the grinding cold.
"Ah ah ah…"
She whines. An actual whine, high and frustrated, her hips trying to move against my grip.
"What did I say?"
Her eyes snap open. She looks at me, and there's something desperate in them. Something raw and unguarded. Her lips part, and I can see her trying to form words, but nothing comes out.
"I asked you a question, beautiful."
She swallows. Her thighs quiver against my sides. "I—I don't—"
"You don't what?"
Her breath hitches. She looks away, her cheeks flushing a deep pink that spreads down her neck, under the collar of my shirt.
Fuck. She's so cute when she's embarrassed.
I loosen my grip on her waist, just slightly. Just enough to let her know she's not trapped. But she doesn't move. She stays still, waiting, her breath shallow and fast against my chest.
"That's my good girl."
She shivers. A full-body tremor that runs through her like a current.
My hands slide down. Past her waist. Over the curve of her hips. Until my fingers find the waistband of her pink shorts.
Her eyes go wide. Needy. Pleading.
"You want something, baby?"
She nods. A tiny, desperate movement.
"Use your words."
She bites her lower lip. Her eyes are glassy, her pupils blown wide. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please touch me."
The words come out breathless. Broken. Like she's admitting something she didn't want to say out loud.
My fingers hook into her waistband. I pull, just slightly, watching her face. She doesn't look away. She doesn't tell me to stop. She just stares at me, those big brown eyes full of trust and want and something I'm almost afraid to name.
I slide my hand down. Past the waistband of her shorts. Past the damp fabric of her underwear. Until my fingers find her.
She's so fucking wet.
I didn't expect this. I mean, I knew she was into it—she was grinding on me like her life depended on it—but this? This is something else. Her pussy is slick and hot and ready, practically dripping, and I can feel her pulse thrumming against my fingertips.
"Fuck, Diana."
She presses her face into my chest, hiding. Her shoulders tremble.
"Don't hide from me, beautiful. Look at me."
She shakes her head, her fingers curling into my skin.
"Diana."
Slowly, reluctantly, she lifts her head. Her face is flushed, her eyes wet at the edges, her lips swollen from biting them.
"That's it," I murmur. "Good girl."
I slide a finger inside her. Slowly. Deliberately. Watching her face as she takes it.
Her mouth falls open. A soft, breathy moan escapes her, and she drops her forehead back to my chest.
"So tight," I breathe. "Always so fucking tight."
I push deeper. A second finger. She gasps, her hips jerking, and I feel her clench around me.
"Look at that. You're taking it so well."
She doesn't answer. She just moans against my skin, her breath hot and uneven.
I start to move. Slow at first. A steady rhythm that has her gripping my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin. Her whimpers get louder, higher, and I feel her getting wetter, her body opening up for me.
Squelch.
The sound cuts through the quiet, obscene and wet, and I watch her face go red.
"Hear that?" I murmur. "That's you, baby. That's how wet you are for me."
She buries her face in my shoulder. A muffled whine escapes her.
"Don't be shy now. You were grinding on me like a bitch in heat two minutes ago."
She shivers. Her hips start to move, meeting my fingers, pushing back against them. Desperate. Hungry.
"That's it. Take what you need."
Squelch. Squelch. The sounds get louder as I speed up, and she's panting now, her whole body trembling, her nails raking down my chest.
"Listen to the obscene sounds you make."
She whimpers. Her hips move faster, chasing it, chasing the edge, and I feel her start to flutter around my fingers.
"You gonna come for me, beautiful?"
She nods. A frantic, desperate movement. Her breath hitches, her body tensing, and I watch her face as she falls apart.
Her mouth opens. A silent scream. Her body convulses, clenching around my fingers, and I feel her come undone—hot and wet and perfect.
"That's it," I murmur. "Let go. I've got you."
She collapses against me. Boneless. Trembling. Her breath comes in ragged gasps against my neck, and I feel her tears on my skin.
I pull my fingers out slowly. Gently. She whimpers at the loss, pressing closer to me.
I hold my fingers up between us.
The city lights catch the wet shine between my knuckles. Translucent. Glistening. Her cum catches the glow like something precious, and I watch her eyes track the movement.
"Well would you look at that...?"
Her face goes crimson. All the way down her neck, under the collar of my shirt. She buries her face in her own chest, hiding between the soft swell of her breasts, and a muffled whine escapes her.
Fuck. She's so cute when she's embarrassed.
My free hand finds her chin. Gentle. Inexorable. I tilt her face up until she has no choice but to look.
"Don't hide from me, beautiful."
She whimpers. Her eyes are glassy, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed that deep pink I'm starting to get addicted to.
I bring my fingers to my mouth.
She watches. Her breath catches. Her lips part, just slightly, and I see her swallow.
I lick them clean.
Her taste hits my tongue—salty and sweet and so fucking her—and I let my eyes drift shut for a second, savoring it. When I open them again, she's staring at me like I just did something obscene.
Which. I mean. I kind of did.
But I'm not done.
I bring my still-damp fingers to her mouth. Trace them across her lower lip. The plush curve of it. She shudders. Her breath hitches, and I feel her lips part against my skin, just barely, like she's waiting for something.
I smear the last trace of her across her mouth. Her lipstick smudges, the taste of her mixing with the cherry gloss she wore this morning, and her tongue darts out without thinking.
She tastes herself.
Her eyes go wide. Her cheeks burn hotter. But she doesn't pull away.
Fuck. She's perfect.
I slide my hand down. Past her chin. Down the column of her throat, where her pulse is fluttering like a trapped bird. Past her collarbone. Until my fingers find the collar of the shirt she's wearing—my shirt, the gray band tee that hangs off her shoulder like it was made to fall off her.
I push my fingers inside.
The fabric pulls taut across her breasts. Her nipples harden immediately, pressing against the damp cotton, and I watch a wet spot darken the gray where my hand wiped clean.
She whimpers. Her hips twitch against my stomach.
I drag my fingers down between her cleavage. Slow. Deliberate. Leaving a slick trail down the center of her chest, dirtying the fabric, dirtying her.
She looks down at the mark I left. Her breath comes in shallow little gasps. Her fingers curl into my chest, nails scratching lightly, and she presses her forehead against my collarbone.
"So needy..."
She whines. A small, frustrated sound that she can't quite suppress.
My hand comes up to cup the back of her head. I stroke her hair, feeling the softness of it, the way strands cling to my calloused fingers. "So tiny and needy," I murmur. "What am I gonna do with you, huh?"
She doesn't answer. She just nuzzles her cheek against the hard plane of my bare chest. Her lips brush my skin—soft, almost accidental—and she lets out a shaky breath.
Her eyelashes flutter against my chest.
I can feel her still trembling. The aftershocks running through her in little waves. Her thighs are still quivering against my hips, and her breath is still uneven, and she's pressed so close to me that I can feel every beat of her heart.
My hand slides down her back. Slow. Soothing. Feeling the curve of her spine under the thin fabric, the way she melts into my touch.
"You okay?"
She nods. A tiny movement against my chest. Her fingers curl into the ink on my ribs, holding on like I'm the only thing keeping her from floating away.
"Good girl."
She shivers. That full-body tremor again, and I feel her press closer, her breath warm against my skin.
I feel it before I see it. The way she shifts, a restless little roll of her hips that brings her soft belly against my abs. Warm. Smooth. Her shirt's ridden up somewhere in the chaos, and there's nothing but skin now—her stomach pressing against the hard ridges of mine, the contrast making my cock twitch.
She's so fucking small under my hands.
"Restless, hm?"
Not really a question. An observation. The kind of thing you say when you already know the answer, when you can feel the answer trembling against you.
She doesn't answer with words. She just presses closer, her breath hitching, her fingers curling into the ink on my ribs.
Then I hear it. So quiet I almost miss it.
"M...More..."
A whisper. Barely there. Like she's afraid to want it out loud.
My hand stills on her back. "What was that?"
Nothing. She buries her face deeper into my chest, hiding. Her thighs clamp against my hips, and I feel her shake her head against my skin.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her face is hidden, her messy hair falling forward, but I can see the red tips of her ears, the flush creeping down her neck.
She's embarrassed. Good.
I bring my hand down on her ass. Hard.
The crack echoes through the room. Her body jerks, a sharp gasp escaping her—but it's not a gasp of pain. It's a gasp of surprise. Of relief. Of finally getting what she needed.
And then she moans.
Deep. Throaty. Unashamed.
"M-More!!"
The word tears out of her like she couldn't hold it back if she tried. Her hips grind down against me, desperate, seeking friction, and I feel how wet she is through my lounge pants, a warm dampness that makes my vision blur at the edges.
I roll her.
One smooth motion—hands on her hips, lifting, spinning, settling her between my legs with her back against my chest. She gasps, a soft surprised sound, and I feel her spine press into me, the delicate ridge of each vertebra through my shirt. Her messy bun brushes my chin, strands of brown hair tickling my jaw.
She's so small like this. Her whole body fits against me like she was made to sit here. My arms wrap around her waist, and I pull her closer, feeling her hips settle into the V of my thighs. Her pink shorts are damp at the crotch, a dark patch I can see even in the dim city light filtering through the windows.
"Look at you," I murmur against her ear. "So fucking cute on my lap."
She shivers. Her hands come up to grip my forearms, nails pressing into the ink on my skin. She doesn't say anything. Just leans back into me, her head falling against my shoulder, her breath coming in soft little gasps.
I slide my hands down. Past her waist. Over the plush curve of her hips. Down to the waistband of her shorts.
She stiffens. Her breath catches.
"Eyes on my fingers, doll."
I hook my thumbs into the elastic and pull. The fabric peels away from her skin, revealing the damp lace of her underwear. She whimpers, her head dropping forward, her chin tucking into her chest.
"Uh uh uh." My voice is soft. Gentle. But firm. "What did I say?"
She lifts her head. Slowly. Reluctantly. Her eyes find the space between us, where my hands are working her shorts down just enough to expose her. The city lights catch the wet shine on her thighs.
"Good girl."
I slide my hand into her underwear. My fingers find her clit before anything else—swollen, slick, begging for attention. She gasps, her hips jerking, and a low moan escapes her throat.
I don't move. I just hold my fingers there, feeling the heat of her, the pulse thrumming under my touch.
"Look at that," I breathe. "You're so ready for me, aren't you?"
She doesn't answer. She can't. Her mouth is open, her breath hitching, her eyes fixed on the space between her thighs where my hand has disappeared into her underwear.
I start to move. Slow circles around her clit, watching her face in profile. She bites her lip. Her eyelids flutter. Her hands tighten on my forearms, and I feel her whole body start to tremble.
She hides her face in her chest—buries it between the soft swell of her breasts, her shoulders curving inward. A muffled whine escapes her, high and desperate.
"Ah ah..." I click my tongue. My other hand comes up to cup her chin. Gentle. Inexorable. I tilt her face up, forcing her to look. "Don't be shy. Eyes on there."
She whimpers. Her eyes are glassy, her lips swollen from biting them. She stares down at the place where my fingers work her, and I see her swallow hard.
"Look," I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Lookkkk... It disappeared. Where did my fingers go?"
I slide two fingers inside her. In one smooth push, buried to the knuckle.
She screams. A broken, breathless sound that cuts through the quiet room. Her back arches, her head falling back against my shoulder, and I feel her clench around me, hot and tight.
Squelch.
The sound fills the space. Obscene. Wet. Perfect.
I start to move. Squelch. Squelch. The rhythm picks up, and she's moaning now, deep and throaty, her hips rocking against my hand.
"God..." I breathe into her ear. "You're so—" Squelch. "—fucking—" Squelch. "—wet."
She whines. Her face burns, the flush spreading down her neck, under the collar of my shirt. But she doesn't look away. Her eyes stay fixed on my hand, on the way my fingers move inside her, on the slick shine that coats my knuckles.
"Listen to those dirty noises," I murmur. "You like that, don't you? Being stuffed full of my fingers?"
"Ngh!" She nods. A frantic, desperate movement. "Ngh!"
Her hips start to move. Grinding back against me, her ass pressing into my groin, her spine arching and rolling against my chest. She fucks my hand like she can't get enough, her rhythm sloppy and hungry, her moans turning into little gasps.
I work her. Faster. Deeper. Feeling her flutter around my fingers, feeling the tension building in her thighs, in her belly. She's close. I can feel it in the way she grips my arms, in the way her breath catches and stutters, in the way her body starts to shake.
I pull my fingers out.
She gasps. A broken, disbelieving sound. Her hips chase my hand, grinding against nothing, desperate for friction.
"Please—"
The word tears out of her before she can stop it. Her eyes are wide, wet at the edges, her lips parted and trembling.
I don't move. I just hold my hand there, fingers glistening with her, inches from where she needs it most.
"Please what, beautiful?"
She whimpers. Her thighs press together, trying to find relief. Her head falls back against my shoulder, and I feel her whole body trembling.
"Please... touch me..."
"I was touching you. You want me to touch you again?"
She nods. Frantic. Her hands leave my arms, reaching down, trying to guide my hand back to where she needs it.
I don't let her. I hold my hand still, out of reach, watching her squirm.
"Use your words, doll. I know you know how to beg."
She makes a sound like a wounded animal. Her hips grind against the air, her thighs slick with her own wetness. Her face is a mess of need and shame and raw, open want.
"Please," she whispers. Her voice cracks. "Please, Ash, I need it, I need you to—please—"
Something in my chest twists. She said my name. Not "baby" or nothing—my name. Ash. Like she's reaching for me, not just the pleasure.
I slide my fingers back inside her.
She cries out. A sob of relief, her whole body arching into the touch. I start to move, slow and deep, watching her face in the dim light. Her eyes are closed now, tears slipping from the corners, her mouth open in a silent moan.
I bring her close again. That edge where her body starts to lock, where her moans turn into desperate little whines, where I can feel her starting to come undone.
I stop again.
She sobs. Actual sobs, her shoulders shaking, her breath ragged. "Please—please—I'll do anything—just let me—"
I don't answer. I just watch her. The messy bun falling apart, strands of brown hair plastered to her temples. The flush on her chest, spreading down to where my shirt hangs off her. The way her hips keep twitching, searching, even as she pleads.
"Please, Ash, please, I need to come, I need it so bad—"
Her voice breaks on the last word. A single tear traces down her cheek, catching the city light like a gem.
I'm so hard it hurts. My cock strains against my lounge pants, aching, leaking. I want to flip her over, push her down, bury myself inside her until I can't think anymore. But I don't. I hold myself still, watching her beg, feeling the power of it settle into my bones.
"One more time," I murmur. "Look at me and tell me what you need."
She lifts her head. Her eyes meet mine—brown, glassy, full of tears and need and something raw and unguarded. Her lips part. Her voice comes out in a whisper, almost inaudible.
"I need you to make me come. Please. I'll be so good. I'll do anything."
I curl my hand under her chin. My thumb traces over her lower lip, smearing the last trace of her across the swollen curve. She shudders. Her tongue darts out, tasting herself on my skin.
"That's my good girl."
I slide my fingers back inside her. And this time, I don't stop. I work her through it, feeling her climb, feeling her break, feeling her come undone against my hand—her body spasming, her cry swallowed against my shoulder, her tears wetting my skin.
Outside, the city hums. The light from the towers paints her trembling form in gold and shadow.
She collapses against me. Boneless. Breathless. Her head falls back onto my shoulder, and I feel her pulse hammering against my chest.
"So fucking cute." I breathe the words against her ear, feel her shiver ripple through her whole body. I bring my hand up between us—the one still slick with her—and I press the tips to her lips. She knows what I want. I don't have to say it. Her mouth opens, soft and obedient, and I slide my fingers inside. Her eyes flutter, then stay open. Watching me. Her tongue wraps around my knuckles, slow and deliberate, and the sight of her—swollen lips stretched around my fingers, her own taste coating her tongue—sends a pulse straight to my already aching cock. She sucks them clean. Every last trace. When I pull them out, there's a soft, wet pop that hangs in the air between us.
I kiss her before she can breathe. Deep and slow, tasting her on her own lips, the cherry gloss and the salt of her mixed together into something I could get drunk on. Her mouth is warm and pliant under mine, and she makes this small, needy sound that vibrates against my tongue. I pull back just enough to let my nose nudge hers. Her breath ghosts across my lips, hitched and shallow.
"You're such a good girl for me," I whisper. My voice comes out rougher than I meant, raw at the edges.
She shuts her eyes. Her thighs press together on instinct—a reflex, the way her body responds to those words like a key turning a lock. I feel the movement against my hip, the soft pressure of her squeezing herself, and I know exactly what that does to her.
I bring my hand down slow. Deliberate. Letting her watch it happen. My palm cups her right over her mound, through the damp fabric of her pink shorts, and I press just enough for her to feel the heel of my hand against where she's still sensitive. She looks down at my hand like she can't believe it's there. Her lips part, and I see her swallow hard.
My other hand comes up. Finds her breast through the gray cotton of my shirt. God. They're so big—I can feel the full weight of her filling my palm, spilling between my fingers even through the layers of cotton and lace. The bra she's wearing is thin enough that I can feel the shape of her, the give of her flesh, and I squeeze gently, watching her reaction.
"Awh..." I let my voice go soft, almost teasing, the kind of voice you use for something precious. "Such hard nippies... You like that, baby? You like being felt up through your clothes like a little doll?"
Her face crumples. She pouts. Actual pout, lips pushing forward, her brows drawing together, and it's the most adorable thing I've ever seen. A flush spreads from her cheeks down her neck, disappearing under the collar of my shirt.
"S...stop..." Her voice is small. Breathless. She doesn't mean it. I can tell by the way her hips don't move away from my hand. I can tell by the way her nipple hardens further under my thumb.
I don't stop.
"What's wrong, pretty girl? Don't like when I talk about your little nippies? So hard for me..." I roll the pad of my thumb across the peak, feeling the stiff point through the fabric. "They're saying something different."
She whines. A frustrated, aching sound that she tries to swallow. Her hips press into my hand, seeking more pressure, and her thighs clamp together around my wrist, trapping me there.
I keep talking. Soft. Low. The kind of voice that would make anyone blush if they could hear what I'm saying. "Do you want me to keep touching you? Hm? You want me to feel how wet you're getting for me, right here on my lap?"
She shakes her head. Her body says the opposite—her back arches into my hand, her breast pushing deeper into my palm, her hips rolling against my cupped fingers. I feel the dampness spreading through her shorts, a warm patch under my hand that's getting bigger by the second.
"So needy," I murmur. My fingers walk down from her breast, over her ribs, tracing every curve through the thin cotton. "So soft. So fucking cute when you pretend you don't want it."
She buries her face in my shoulder. Her breath comes in uneven bursts, hot against my collarbone. I feel her hands curl into the fabric of my lounge pants, gripping, holding on. She's trembling again—not from an orgasm this time, but from the helpless hum of being turned on and not being allowed to fix it.
I slide my hand down her belly. Over the waistband of her shorts. I don't go inside this time. I just rest my palm flat against her mound, feeling the heat radiating through the layers, feeling her pulse thrum against my fingers. I press down. A slow, firm pressure that has her gasping against my skin.
"I can feel how wet you're getting," I breathe into her hair. "Can you feel it too?"
She doesn't answer. She just presses her thighs tighter around my hand and lets out a sound that's half sob, half moan.
"You're so small and cute, huh..." I murmur against her ear, letting my voice go soft and teasing, the kind of voice you use for something precious and breakable. "My little doll. So tiny on my lap."
She whines. Her hands come up, pressing against my jaw, trying to push my face away from her ear. But her fingers are trembling, weak, like she doesn't actually want me to stop. "S-stop..."
I let her push me back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes are wide and round, glassy, those big brown puppy eyes that make her look like she's about to get caught doing something she shouldn't. Her lips are pouted — that perfect little pout, pursed and shiny, and I want to bite it.
"Ah..." I click my tongue. "You don't like it when daddy teases you?"
Her eyes go wide. Her breath catches. And then her thighs clamp down around my hand so fast and tight I feel the muscles lock, her whole body tensing. The damp heat through her shorts intensifies under my palm, a fresh wave of warmth spreading against my fingers.
"Ohhhh..." I let the word stretch out, understanding dawning in my voice. "You do like it."
She shakes her head frantically. Her face is crimson, the flush spreading down her neck, disappearing under the collar of my shirt. Her breathing has gone shallow and heavy, her chest rising and falling against my arm.
I squeeze her breast. Full-palmed, kneading the soft weight of her through the gray cotton, feeling the hard point of her nipple press against my palm. She gasps, her back arching, and I feel her hips roll against my other hand — chasing friction even as she tries to pretend she doesn't want it.
"You're so cute," I breathe, nudging her nose with mine. "So fucking cute when you pretend you're not about to soak through my fingers."
Her shaky hands find my hand on her breast. Both of them — wrapping around my wrist, trying to grip my fingers, trying to push me away or pull me closer, she can't decide. But both of her small hands together aren't enough to move my one. I don't even have to try. I just keep squeezing, feeling her give under my palm, and she lets out this frustrated little sound.
"You like that?" I ask, my other hand moving between her thighs. I press through her shorts, feeling the soaked fabric, the heat of her. I don't push inside — just grind my palm against her mound, slow and deliberate, watching her face.
She moans. Her hips writhe against my hand, rocking into the pressure, chasing it. "Stop..." Her voice is small, breathless. "You're so mean..."
"Stop?" I chuckle. "Babygirl, you're grinding my hand right now."
I curl my fingers against her through the fabric, feeling the slick heat soak through. The sound — wet, obscene, rhythmic — fills the space between us. Squelch. Squelch. Her face goes redder, her breath hitching, and she presses her forehead against my collarbone.
"So mean, so mean, so mean..." She whispers it like a mantra, like she's trying to convince herself. But her hips don't stop moving. They get faster. Needier. The sounds getting louder as she fucks my hand through her shorts.
"Mm... You're just a little baby," I coo. "A little baby who needs daddy to take care of her. Isn't that right? You need me to make you feel good, don't you?"
She sobs. A desperate, broken sound. Her nails dig into my wrist. "Fuck..." Her voice cracks. "Fuck... Me..."
I slow my hand. Just barely. Letting her feel the pause. "What was that, baby? I couldn't hear you."
She whines. Her hips press harder, grinding against my still hand, trying to force the friction back. "F...fuck me..." Her voice is barely a whisper, trembling, ashamed.
I squeeze her mound. Not hard — just enough pressure to make her feel the weight of my hand, the promise of what I'm holding back. She moans, head falling back, throat exposed.
"F-FUCK ME!!"
The cry tears out of her. Loud. Desperate. Raw. Her whole body shakes with it, and I see tears spilling down her cheeks, catching the city light.
I catch her chin. Gentle. Inexorable. I tilt her face up until she has to look at me.
I catch her chin. Gentle. Inexorable. I tilt her face up until she has to look at me. Her eyes are glassy, her lips swollen, a single tear tracking down her cheek. "Awh..." My voice drops back into that soft, teasing tone. "You want daddy to put his cock in your little pussy? Your itty bitty pussy?"
She shudders. A full-body tremor that starts at her shoulders and rolls all the way down to where her thighs clamp together. Her lips part, and I watch her swallow hard — her throat working, a visible bob of her light Adam's apple that shouldn't be this distracting on a girl.
"Stuff your tummy with daddy's cum?" I tease.
She swallows again. A lot of drool this time — I can see her throat working, her tongue pressing against the roof of her mouth, her eyes going heavy-lidded like she's already picturing it. Her hips twitch against my hand, a small, unconscious roll that tells me everything I need to know.
I let go of her mound. Drift my hand down. Cup the plush curve of her ass through her pink shorts and squeeze.
She whines. High and needy, her back arching into the touch.
"Answer me, babydoll~"
I let the baby talk curl around the words, soft and teasing, the kind of voice you use for something precious. Her face goes redder. Her breath hitches. And then, so quiet I almost miss it —
"Yes..."
A whisper. Barely there. Like she's afraid to admit it out loud.
I squeeze tighter. My fingers dig into the soft give of her ass, feeling the heat of her through the damp fabric. "I didn't catch that, pretty girl."
She moans. Her head falls back against my shoulder, her throat exposed, and the word comes out louder this time. Broken. Desperate. Breathy. "Yes."
I kiss her.
Deep and slow, my mouth covering hers, tasting the salt of her tears and the cherry gloss she wore this morning. She melts into it — her hands coming up to frame my jaw, her fingers curling into the stubble on my cheeks, her tongue meeting mine like she's been waiting for this permission all night.
While I kiss her, I shift her. One arm around her waist, guiding her down, lowering her onto the bed until her back hits the black silk. Her hair fans out around her head like spilled ink, the city lights catching the brown strands, making them glow at the edges.
She looks up at me.
Fucking needy. Like a bitch in heat. Her thighs tremble, falling open on instinct, her pink shorts already dark at the crotch. Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, the gray shirt riding up to expose the soft curve of her belly.
I settle between her legs. My knees press into the mattress on either side of her hips, and I look down at her — spread open for me, waiting, her big brown eyes tracking my every move.
I rub her through her underwear. My palm presses flat against her mound, feeling the heat, the dampness, the way her puffy lips bulge against the thin lace. She whines, her hips lifting into my touch.
"Look at youuuuu~" I let the baby talk stretch out, soft and teasing. "Bulging through your undies~"
She whines. Her face burns, the flush spreading down her neck, disappearing under the collar of my shirt. But she doesn't look away. Her eyes stay fixed on where my hand presses against her, and I see her bite her lower lip.
I lean down. My mouth finds hers first — her parted red lips, still swollen from our last kiss, still shiny with the taste of her. I devour her. Slow and thorough, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips, dipping inside, tasting the moan that escapes her throat. When I pull back, she's breathless, her chest heaving, her eyes half-lidded and dazed.
I move down.
My lips trail over her chin. Down her throat, where her pulse flutters against my mouth. Over her collarbone. Down the center of her chest, where the gray shirt has ridden up to expose the valley between her breasts.
I keep going.
Past her belly button. Over the waistband of her pink shorts. Until my mouth is level with the damp lace of her underwear, and I can smell her — musky and sweet and so fucking her.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her shorts and pull them down. The fabric peels away from her skin, revealing the soaked lace underneath. I pull those down too, slow and deliberate, watching her face as I expose her.
She's bare. Her pussy lips are swollen and slick, glistening in the city light, her clit peeking out from its hood like it's been waiting for me. A thin string of wetness connects her to the fabric as I pull it away, and I watch her face go crimson.
I lean in.
My lips press against her left labia. Soft. Deliberate. A kiss, full and slow, like I'm kissing her mouth. She gasps, her hips jerking, and I feel her hand find my hair, fingers curling into the strands.
I kiss the other one. The same slow pressure, my lips molding to the shape of her, feeling the heat of her against my mouth. She moans — a broken, breathless sound that cuts through the quiet room.
My tongue finds her hole. I dip inside, just the tip, tasting her — salty and sweet and electric, the flavor spreading across my tongue like something I've been craving my whole life. She cries out, her back arching off the bed, her thighs locking around my ears.
I make out with her pussy. My lips on each lip, kissing them like they deserve to be kissed. My tongue tracing the seam of her, dipping into her hole, curling up to find that spot that makes her gasp. I'm slow about it. Thorough. Worshipful.
She writhes above me. Her hips rock against my face, chasing my tongue, her moans turning into desperate little whines. Her hand tightens in my hair, pulling, and I feel her start to tremble — that telltale flutter in her thighs, the way her breath catches and stutters.
I pull back.
She sobs. A broken, frustrated sound, her hips grinding against nothing, her hand trying to push my face back down. "Please—"
I don't give it to her.
I just look at her. Spread open on my black silk sheets, her thighs trembling, her pussy glistening and swollen and desperate for me. The city lights catch the wet shine on her inner thighs, and I realize my hand has found hers on the sheet — her small fingers laced through my calloused ones, neither of us deciding to do it.
"You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen," I say.
Her breath catches. Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, the need softens into something else. Something raw and unguarded that makes my chest ache.
I lean down and kiss her clit. Soft. Just once. A promise.
"P...Pwease..."
The word comes out slurred, her lips too swollen to form it right. A lisp. She sounds like a baby, drool catching at the corner of her mouth, her eyes glassy and wet. Her whole body trembles under me, her hips twitching against nothing, her pussy clenching on air. "M...make me... L...l-let me c...come..."
Something in my chest tightens. She's so far gone she can't even talk right. I lean down and press my lips to her forehead, feeling the heat of her skin, the sweat at her hairline. "Oh, I'll let you come alright."
I sit up. My hands find the waistband of my lounge pants, and I push them down. My cock springs free, hard and aching, the tip already slick with precum. The city light catches the curve of it, the veins standing out against my skin, the way it curves slightly to the left.
Her eyes go wide.
I see it happen — the recognition, the memory, the way her pupils dilate. She stares at it like she's seeing it for the first time and the thousandth time all at once. Her breath catches. Her lips part.
And then I see her pussy clench.
A gush of arousal streams out of her — not a trickle, a fucking stream — and the sound it makes is obscene. Wet. Loud. It runs down her inner thighs, darkening the black silk beneath her, and the room fills with the smell of her: salt and musk and the raw, animal scent of a woman who wants to be fucked.
I groan. Low and deep, the sound pulled out of me before I can stop it.
She whimpers. Her eyes are fixed on my cock, tracking the way it twitches under her gaze. I'm almost bigger than her thigh. I know this. I've seen it — the way my cock looks next to her pale skin, the size difference that makes her look like a doll in my hands.
I reach down. My fingers find her hole, testing, pressing just the tip inside. She's tight — so fucking tight, even after everything, even after coming twice on my fingers. The resistance makes my vision blur. I can feel her clenching around the single digit, trying to pull me deeper.
She's impatient. Her hips roll, trying to wiggle herself onto my fingers, trying to get more. Her hands find my wrist, gripping, pulling. "Please—"
I pin her.
One hand flat on her lower belly, pressing her into the mattress. The other gripping her hip, my thumb digging into the soft give of her flesh, holding her still. She struggles against my grip — a weak, desperate squirm that only makes her hotter against my fingers.
"Stay," I murmur.
She moans. But she stops moving.
I pull my fingers out. Line myself up. The head of my cock presses against her entrance, and I feel her pulse there — fluttering, desperate, waiting.
I push in.
The sound she makes — a broken cry, half sob, half moan — cuts through the quiet room. Her back arches off the bed, her head grinding into the pillows, her hands fisting the black silk on either side of her. I don't stop. I push deeper, feeling her stretch around me, feeling the resistance give way to slick heat.
I start to move.
Hard. Fast. Ruthless. My hips slam against hers, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room like a drumbeat. Wet. Rhythmic. Animal. I'm not making love. I'm not tasting, not savoring, not drawing it out. I'm fucking her. Pure fucking. The kind that leaves marks, that ruins sheets, that makes the city outside fade into nothing.
Her breasts bounce with every thrust. The gray shirt has ridden up to her collarbone, exposing the full curve of them, the way they jiggle and sway as I rail into her. Her nipples are hard, pebbled, catching the light, and I watch them move with a kind of hypnotized fascination.
"Fuck—" Her voice cracks. "Fuck—fuck—ASH—"
She's moaning loudly. Open-mouthed, uncontrolled, the sounds spilling out of her like she can't hold them back. Her head thrashes on the pillows, her hair a mess of brown strands plastered to her temples, her eyes rolled back.
I'd get a noise complaint if I had neighbours. But I don't. The penthouse is empty except for us, and the city hums far below, blind to the scene happening thirty floors up.
I drive into her. The wet sound of my cock sliding in and out of her fills the space, obscene and perfect, and she's so wet I can hear it with every thrust — a slick, slapping rhythm that matches her cries.
She's fucking adorable. Her face is a mess of tears and drool, her lips swollen and parted, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She's not even trying to be pretty anymore. She's just taking it. Letting me use her. Letting me fuck her like the cute little cock sleeve she's been begging to be.
I slam into her and hold. Buried to the hilt. Feeling her clench around me, trying to milk me, her body desperate for more. Her mouth forms a silent O, and I watch a tear trace down her cheek, catching the city light like a diamond.
I slam into her and hold. Buried to the hilt. Feeling her clench around me, trying to milk me, her body desperate for more. Her mouth forms a silent O, and I watch a tear trace down her cheek, catching the city light like a diamond.
It hits me—the way she shatters. A ripple runs through her, starting deep in her core and radiating out through her thighs, her belly, the arch of her spine. Her pussy grips me like a fist, and that grip pulls the orgasm out of me raw, a groan I can't control tearing up my throat. I thrust as deep as I can, grinding against her, pumping everything I have into her. I feel the hot pulse of my release filling her, mixing with her own, and the thought of it—her stuffed full of me—makes my hips twitch.
I collapse forward, catching myself on my forearms, caging her head between my elbows. My forehead presses against her temple. I can feel her pulse hammering against my skin. Her breath comes in ragged, wet gasps, her lips parted, drool catching the corner of her mouth.
I couldn't pull out if I wanted to. I don't move.
Then I prop myself up. Just enough to look at her face. Fuck. She's wrecked. Tears and smeared lipstick and this heavy-lidded, dazed expression that makes my chest ache. I brush a strand of brown hair from her damp cheek. She blinks slowly, struggling to focus on me.
"You like that, dolly?" My voice comes out soft. Raw. "Being stuffed with daddy's cum?"
She licks her lips. Her tongue is slow, heavy. Her throat works as she swallows. "Y...yes... D...daddy..."
The word lands somewhere deep. Not just in my groin. In my ribs. My throat. I feel her pulse flutter under my thumb.
"And what does daddy's good girl say?"
Her eyes are glassy, half-lidded, that trust so raw it makes me want to break something. "Th...thank you..."
I kiss her. Slow. Deep. I taste myself on her tongue, taste her, taste the salt of her tears. She melts into the mattress, her hands too weak to hold me, her fingers just resting on my forearms.
I feel myself harden again. Still buried inside her. Her eyes widen. Just barely.
"Daddy's not done yet, pretty thing."
I pull out slowly. She whimpers at the loss, her empty hole clenching on nothing. I grip her hips, flipping her onto her stomach. Her limbs splay out like a ragdoll's, limp and heavy, her cheek pressing into the black silk. Her back curves, the ridge of her spine visible under her skin, her ass still pink from earlier.
Fuck. The sight of her—my cum starting to leak from her, running down her inner thigh, darkening the silk beneath her.
I don't give her time to adjust. I line myself up, gripping the base of my cock, and I drive back into her in one brutal thrust. Not deep enough. I pull back and slam forward, burying myself to the hilt.
Her scream is swallowed by the pillow.
I set a punishing rhythm. Hard. Fast. Deep. My hips slap against her ass, the sound echoing through the room, wet and vicious. She's so tight from behind—the angle pressing me against a different wall, making her gasp with every stroke. I watch my cock disappear into her, watch her skin redden where my hips slap against her.
Her hands grip the sheets. Her shoulders bunch. She's trying to hold on, but her arms give out, and she collapses flat, her face pressed into the silk, her body taking everything I give her.
I lean forward. My chest presses against her sweat-slicked back. My hand finds her jaw, tilting her head back, forcing her ear close to my lips. "You're taking it so fucking well, baby. Look at you. Just a pretty little hole for daddy to use."
She moans. Loud. Unashamed. Her hand reaches back, blind, finding my hip, her nails digging in.
I fuck her harder.
The city hums below us. The light from the towers paints her trembling form in gold and shadow, her body rocking with every thrust, her hair a mess of brown strands plastered to her temples. She's drooling on my pillow. I don't care. I'd burn the whole building down before I let anyone else see her like this.
I reach around. My fingers find her clit. She screams into the pillow, her body jerking, her pussy clenching around me like a vice.
"Come for me," I growl against her ear.
She does. Her whole body seizes up, a choked cry escaping her, and I feel her gush around my cock, a fresh wave of wetness soaking us both. I fuck her through it, my rhythm getting sloppy, my breath ragged. I'm close. So fucking close.
I bury myself to the hilt. Deep. My hips stutter as I pump another load into her, the heat spreading through her, filling her up. I collapse on top of her, my weight pinning her to the mattress, my face buried in the curve of her neck.
We stay there. Breathing. Shaking. The only sound is her hitched gasps and the distant hum of the city thirty floors below.
Her hand finds mine on the silk. Her small fingers lace through my calloused ones. She squeezes. Just once.
I catch her hand before she can let it fall. Her fingers are still laced through mine, small and warm, and I guide them down—past my hip, over the jut of my pelvis, until her fingertips brush against the heavy sac between my legs.
She gasps. A sharp, surprised sound that cuts through the quiet. Her fingers curl instinctively, tracing the shape of them, the weight of them. They're thick. Heavy. Full of everything I just poured into her, everything she took so fucking well.
"Feel that?" My voice is hoarse. "That's all for you, baby. All of it."
She whimpers. Her thumb drags across the wrinkled skin, testing the texture, and I feel my balls tighten under her touch. She's still shaking—her whole body trembling with aftershocks—but she keeps playing. Squeezing. Rolling them gently between her fingers like she's memorizing the feel.
Fuck. She's so obedient even when she's half-dead.
I press my forehead to the back of her neck, breathing her in. Sweat and sex and that faint cherry from her morning gloss. "Just a bit of a break," I murmur against her skin. "You wore daddy out, you know that?"
She laughs. A broken, wet sound. Her fingers keep moving, kneading my balls like they belong to her, and I feel a fresh pulse of heat travel up my spine.
I shift my weight. Just slightly. Trying to find a better angle, a more comfortable way to lie on top of her without crushing her completely. But the movement makes my cock shift inside her—still half-hard, still buried deep—and she moans. Loud. A raw, involuntary sound that vibrates through her chest into mine.
"Sensitive?"
She nods. Her cheek rubs against the silk. "Mmnn…"
I don't pull out. I can't. The thought of leaving the warmth of her, the tight clutch of her pussy still gripping me, is unbearable. So I just rest there, letting my cock sit inside her, feeling the occasional flutter of her walls as she breathes. Each inhale makes her clench. Each exhale softens. And every time, she moans—a tiny, breathy sound that goes straight to my groin.
"My cutie little cock sleeve," I breathe into her ear. "Look at you. So full of daddy's cum and still gripping me like you're starving for more."
Another moan. Louder. Her hips twitch, trying to push back against me, but she's too weak to do anything more than tremble. Her hand on my balls squeezes harder, a reflexive motion, and I feel her fingers dig into the soft skin.
"Yeah, that's it. Squeeze 'em. You earned 'em, pretty thing."
She does. Her thumb presses into the base of my sack, rolling the contents inside, and I hiss through my teeth. Her pussy clamps down around my cock in response—a sympathetic pulse that has me gripping her hip to keep from thrusting.
"Oh, you like that? You like feeling how full daddy's balls are? How much I had for you?"
She whines. Her head turns, just enough for me to see the tear tracks on her cheek, the swollen curve of her lips. Her pupils are blown wide, dark and hungry.
"Answer me, baby."
"Y…yes…" The word is slurred, her tongue heavy. "S…so full…"
I kiss the nape of her neck. Soft. Tender. The kind of kiss that doesn't fit with the words I'm saying, but that's the point. She shivers, her whole body arching into the touch, and I feel her pussy gulp around my cock.
"You're leaking, you know that?" I whisper against her skin. "I can feel it. My cum dribbling out of you, running down your thigh. Making a mess of my sheets."
She sobs. A broken, desperate sound. Her hand on my balls tightens again, and she presses her face into the pillow, hiding. But she doesn't pull away. She never does.
I breathe deep, letting my chest expand, and the movement makes me sink deeper into her. She cries out—a high, thin sound—and her thighs clamp together, trapping me inside her. My cock twitches, hardening again at the sensation, and I feel her walls stretch to accommodate the growth.
"Daddy's getting hard again," I murmur. "You feel that, little doll? Your pussy's so good it's making daddy hard again just sitting here."
She moans. Her hips make a weak, aborted roll, just a few millimeters, but enough to make the wet sound of my cum squelch between us. Her face burns, the flush visible even in the dim light, and she hides deeper in the pillow.
"Don't hide," I say, my voice soft but firm. I catch her chin, turning her face toward me. Her eyes are glassy, her lips swollen, drool catching at the corner of her mouth. "Look at daddy when he talks to you."
She does. Her big brown eyes find mine, full of tears and trust and that raw, unguarded thing that makes my chest ache.
"Good girl. Now be a good little cock sleeve and take it. Let daddy rest inside you while he gets ready for round three."
She whimpers. But she doesn't move. Just lies there, trembling, her fingers still wrapped around my balls, her pussy still gripping my cock, her breath coming in shallow little gasps that make her clench around me with every inhale.
Outside, the city hums. The light from the towers paints her trembling form in gold and shadow. And I stay buried inside her, feeling every beat of her heart through the walls of her cunt, knowing I'll never get tired of this.