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My body warmed with shyness at knowing in a few seconds he’d see what I’d created.
“Well,” Franky said. “Are you going to show me?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On if you want me to show you, orshowyou,” I said.
“Aren’t they one in the same?” he asked.
“No,” I said, stalling, running my clammy hands up and down my bare thighs. It was always like this when showing my work, and I was sure every artist could relate. But this was different. This wasmore.
“It’s late, sweetheart. I don’t have the brainpower to translate that,” he said.
Why am I being annoying about this?He’d seen my work before, and he was more than fluent in all my filthy ways. This was just both of those things combined. Art and filth.
With the pad of paper in hand, I moved to stand between his knees, holding it out to him. I had to gesture twice for him to take it before he snapped his gaze away from my rising cock.
There was a reason I hadn’t needed to look at Franky as I sketched. The only thing visible on him in the drawing were his sturdy legs and the large, calloused hands he used to spread my ass cheeks as I rode him on the sofa.
I’d sketched myself from behind, the hard lines of my spine and traps prominent, feet flat on the cushions along his hips. I’d drawn one hand securely fastened to the back of the couch, the other behind me, braced on his right kneecap.
Franky’s cum spilled from me, drenching his scrotum and inner thighs, and with my head blissfully thrown back on my neck as I lowered onto his colossal cock, it was clear that I was in heaven.
Franky set the sketch aside. It tumbled off the sofa and onto the floor as he scooted lower, his legs falling open to make room for his balls and erection, his feet spreading wider in preparation of gaining the leverage needed to fuck me as hard as the picture had implied.
“I showed you,” I said, vocal cords overtaken by horniness.
“Nowshowme,” he ordered, finally understanding the two weren’t one and the same.
I lubed our cocks up for longer than needed, stretching out the torture, then gave him a view of my ass as I turned and bent over to open myself up. I quivered when he informed me with authority that his face had second dibs on my hole. His cock would breach me first.
Facing him again I settled onto him, and he gathered my ass cheeks in his hands, his first couple fingers resting along my exposed cleft, as we recreated the sketch.
I rose up and down, pushing through the balls of my feet, curling my toes into the cushions, as my cock clobbered my stomach repeatedly.
“Look at us, Franky,” I whispered, short of breath and already sweaty.
Franky’s gaze fell to where his cock disappeared inside my hole, only to reappear, and then disappear again like a fucking magic trick.
He began to fuck me harder then, his dick giving my ass a delicious beating, as if the visual of our connection had angered him. Maybe it reminded him that he’d made me no promises, and that this would all be temporary. Or maybe those reasons were projections of my own thoughts. Regardless of where his anger stemmed from, I took it. I’d always take his rage. I’d always welcome more.
“Hear the beautiful music we make when we fuck?” I asked crudely. I would make him remember this. I would engrain this sound into every fiber of his being. Any time he heard the slapping of water, the slippery, squelching sound of slickness, the hard smacking of sweaty skin colliding with sweaty skin, of wetness personified, he would think of me. I would be his ocean, and he would fucking yearn for me.
I fucked him ruthlessly, accepted every hard upward thrust with a wicked smile, which lit a match to his rage. I dug my nails into his knee as I fought to stay seated on this wild ride.
“You c-can’t hurt me, Franky. I-I told you I can t-take you,” I stammered, finding it hard to fuck, breathe, and talk at the same time. “Told you I can handle your big cock.”
“Jesus, Leland. Your mouth.” He hit my sweet spot, and I let out a symphony of moans.
“You like it when I talk shit, don’t you? Like it even better when I let you ruin me, right, Franky?”
“Yes,” he hissed. “I want to hurt you for making me feel this way.”
“Hurt me, Franky. And next round, rip me off your cock when I’m so close to the edge that the loss of your dick makes me cry. And then stuff my mouth with it. Pump my throat with so much cum that I gag on it. And don’t stop pumping, not even when I fight to get away.”
“I’m coming,” he gritted out. I slapped both hands to the sofa back, circling my hips and pounding onto his lap. I’d have bruises by sun up.
