No pun intended.
His cockhead presses against my hole, pulsing and hot as I instinctively clench and twitch.
Then, he presses in, breaching me with a burning stretch. And everything around us disappears.
All I can think isI love him, I love him, I love him.
And what a beautiful thing it is that I can tell him so.
That I can say it and hear the words in return. That Ihavehim—the real him.
Atticus slams home, balls deep as he buries himself inside of me. He pauses, panting into my neck.
“You feel this, Cam?” he asks. “Do you feel how I own you, how every inch of you belongs to me, meant to crumble in my hands?”
‘Yes,” I rush out. “Yes,I feel it. God, so full. So much.”
And it is. It feels as if I’m being split open every time, like he’s ripping me apart just to have the pleasure of putting me back together again.
It’s almost as if Atticus enjoys the broken parts of me, if only because he can fix them and mold them into what he desires.
“Mm, tell me, baby. Tell me again how it feels to have my fat cock buried inside of you, owning you,” Atticus demands.
“I-it feels… it feels perfect,” I tell him. “It feels like the end of a battle hard won, a victory fought for.”
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, primal and possessive. “That’s right. We earned this. I will fight for this until I die.Forever.”
“Forever,” I choke out.
Atticus slams into me, over and over again, his hands grasping my hips in a punishing grip. My body rocks with the force, my prostate singing every time he shoves against it.
Pleasure is lighting up my body, building in the base of my spine and drawing my balls up tight and aching. But I can’t come—not until he tells me to. Not until he commands it.
“Atticus,” I whimper. “Need to come.”
“No,” he replies quickly, reaching around to take the base of my shaft in his hand, squeezing roughly. “Not yet, sweetheart.”
“Oh, fuuuuuuck,” I cry.
“Just a bit longer. Be good and let me feel you for just a bit—”
Atticus runs a hand down my spine, reaching down until he’s tracing my stretched rim with his fingertips. And it doesn’t matter how tightly he’s holding me or what the punishment might be; I come.
It’s a blinding, hot pleasure that rips through me and has me choking on a moan. I paint the sheets beneath me, wet and sloppy, and Atticus begins to stroke me quickly, pounding into me as he groans and milks my dick.
“Oh, Cameron.Oh, baby. You’re beingsobad, coming like this. So fucking filthy. I can’t, ah fuck, I can’t stand it.” He’s falling apart from behind me, just as I’m falling apart below.
Two perfect pieces, fitting so well together as I surrender my abused, spent body to him.
As soon as I stop shooting, Atticus pulls out, flipping me on my back and shoving my thighs up as he slams back home.
“F-fuck!” I shout, my hand shooting out to feel him, where he’s connected to me. Where he’s settled so deep inside.
Atticus’s eyes are trained on where my fingertips trace the base of his dick as he slides in and out, his mouth dropping open with a filthy moan of his own.
“I’m going to fill you up,” he tells me, his sweat dripping from his forehead and onto my stomach. “I’m going to bury my come so deep inside of you that you drip fordays.”
“Please,” I whine, so overstimulated and overwhelmed that all I can see, smell, or taste is him. His scent, his desire.
