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It’s working.
My confidence is growing.
With that realization in mind, I slide my hands under them hem of Desmond’s shirt, lightly dragging my fingernails up the flexing breadth of his muscles, then scoring his skin on the way back down. “Oh fuck!” Desmond growls, his hand leaving my hair to wrap around my throat. “You want to be bad, little girl?”
“Yes,” I push through my swollen lips. Halfway through croaking my answer, Desmond leans back and flips me over onto my stomach. I’m still gasping into the bedding when Desmond yanks my panties down to my knees and cracks his palm against my right buttock. Once, twice, a third time, before switching to the left cheek and giving it the same treatment, eliciting the delicious sting I didn’t know I was missing. “Oh my God, Desmond, more,” I moan, pushing my backside up like a beggar.
“Ah, Quinn. If only you could see what I see. That pussy got so wet, it soaked your virgin asshole, too. That makes me jealous. You want me jealous, sweetheart?”
“No,” I manage, rubbing my breasts on the mattress, the rough friction delivering a bolt of lightning to my clit. “No, I don’t want that.”
Desmond works the head of his shaft between my bottom cheeks, without gentleness. “Then you better let me wet up that asshole, too, huh?”
“Yes,” I sob, barely aware of what I’m agreeing to, only knowing I want Desmond to keep touching me. For hours. Days. Maybe forever. “Please!”
“Good girl. Reach down between your legs and play with your clit. I’m not coming without you.” When I can only lie there sucking wind, he falls forward onto my back, his teeth sinking into my shoulder. “I said, finger fuck yourself while I beat off into your tight ass. Do as you’re told, little girl.”
I’m so turned on I don’t know if I can survive it. This is not how I imagined physical intimacy would be. This is dirty and desperate and messy—and I love it. I don’t know how I’ll go another minute without craving it for the rest of my life. Pressing my open mouth to the bed, I reach down between my thighs and wiggle my middle fingers against my clit, crying out when a hot shudder of lust tightens up every muscle I own.
Desmond’s fist starts to move, meeting the split of my backside with every stroke of his manhood, his guttural groans filling my bedroom. I writhe beneath him, the pressure building in my belly, lower, my thighs starting to tremble. Oh my God, I’ve never orgasmed like this. It’s going to be like a bomb going off and nothing will ever be the same. I’m rocking my hips now, riding my two stiff fingers while Desmond grows thicker and thicker between my cheeks.
“Ah fuck, I’m going to blow.” He kisses the side of my neck hard, raking the spot with his teeth. “You with me?”
Am I ever.
His teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath my ear and I bear down, my thigh and stomach muscles seizing. A scream winds up my throat and I muffle the sound against the mattress, exhilaration and pleasure wracking every inch of me. Desmond grunts loud and long, his strokes going so fast and hard, I’m going to have bruises on my butt later, but I know it’ll be worth it. That belief turns even more solid when he presses the wide head of his erection right up against my back entrance and roars, hot, syrupy liquid filling the split of my bottom. It drips down and coats my femininity, my thighs, the bedding, and still he continues to climax.
At some point, he ceases fondling himself and all-out humps my buttocks again, cursing and moaning into my hair. “Jesus Christ. World’s sweetest little fuck toy right here,” he grates, his thrusts turning uneven and slowing, before he drops down on top of me, laboring the breath. “You ruined me. You ruined me.”
I want to ask what he means, but just as I open my mouth to speak, there’s a knock at my apartment door. “Quinn, darling? Open up. I want to hear all about the quaint little reality show you filmed this morning. Do I need to pay anyone to edit your speaking parts?”
My throat fills with pressure and I scramble out from beneath Desmond. “It’s my mother. Oh my God.”
His eyes heat as they look me over and I realize my panties are still around my knees and my skirt is rucked up around my waist. Not only that, but there is a significant amount of Desmond’s spend dripping down my inner thighs. Did that all just really happen? Did I really just masturbate myself while a burly fireman from Queens pleasured himself with my bottom?
Desmond’s grin tells me it did, indeed, happen.
As do the fluttering wings in my stomach.
