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“Keep going? I haven’t even gotten started.”

And with that, he started fucking me. It was only my second time, but he didn’t go soft or easy on me.

Exactly and precisely the opposite.

His rigid cock nailed me straight into the mattress.

It was devastation.

It was heaven. It was hell. I was overcome.

Turns out, I loved fucking. Took to it like a natural whore. Oh the wonderful, bitter irony.

Once he started, he didn’t let up at all.

He had me in a tireless tempo. In a perfect, strident battering of body and wills. A giving and a taking of flesh pounding flesh.

There was a brutal, concentrated focus to the way he fucked that got to me. It was art. It was poetry. It was creation. Perverse chaos done in explicit order. It was the wonder of nature and the debasement of humanity.

Oh my body. I said goodbye to it then. It was his. He really did own me now. In law and in fact.

Was it always like this, or was this all him and I? Something that we owned alone. A private piece of paradise just for us.

He grabbed my hips, tilting me into an angle that had the plush head of his shaft rubbing me just right with every drive home.

His hips churned as he rutted in and out, in and out, his thick length pulling out until his blunt crest rimmed me before slamming back in, balls deep every time. And fast. Urgent. Frenzied.

Every single plundering lunge was satisfying and complete.

He called me a whore, but he was the one who fucked like it was his job. His very purpose in life.

I kept my eyes closed the whole time.

I never pictured his face when he was inside of me. I never said his name. I did those small things right.

Still somehow I lived and breathed for his touch. His possession.

He drummed in and wrenched out of me with a desperate, masterful rhythm, his hips oscillating in and out, drawing back and driving in, again and again with increasing tempo.

The pressurized tide inside of me built and built, finally letting loose on an upsurge right as he hit the end of me with a soft, desperate grunt.

I came in a torrent. In a deluge. My anxiety, my fear, my anger, my soul poured out of me. I tried to keep my eyes shut tight like that would keep some of it in.

My sex gripped his thickness in beating, milking pulses, sucking him deep and holding him there.

My eyes opened somewhere in the middle of it in spite of my efforts. Our gaze clashed. It was a raw, aching moment, vulnerable and naked. I wasn’t alone here. He was going through some earth shattering of his own.

I was too shaken by the moment to feel even an ounce of self-satisfaction at the reveal.

He swore harshly, yanking out of me with one sudden, savage wrench.

I looked down between our bodies and for one fleeting moment I saw that he had pulled out mid-climax. Cum was still spurting out of his tip.

In a flash he rolled me over and up onto my hands and knees then started pumping into me again, hips slamming against my ass with each forceful plunge as he rubbed out every last twitch of his orgasm, rooting his cum out deep inside of my sensitive flesh.

“What the fuck?” he panted in a rough, agitated voice.

He held me up with a strong hand fanned out against my belly, and he kept me prone like that, buried deep while he emptied himself with drawn out spasms.