His voice echoes in your head like a drug.
Your thighs slam down again. You weren’t even trying to move — not at first. But now your hips won’t stop. Riding his cock like it’s your goddamn purpose.
“Such a good boy for me,” he coos, a hand resting on your waist. Not pushing. Just… there. Like he doesn’t need to force anything.
You want to ask what’s happening. You want to stop. You think.
But your hole’s swallowing him deeper, again and again, slick and hungry, clenching tighter each time he praises you. Your mind’s fogged, soft around the edges, like your thoughts are slipping through your fingers. And your cock? Leaking. Bouncing untouched with every bounce.
Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.
He shifts under you, hips rolling up with a lazy thrust, and you gasp, back arching, hole fluttering around his shaft. You’re so close — so full — it’s unbearable. And all he does is smile.
“You weren’t like this before,” he murmurs, almost sweet. “Didn’t even want to touch it. But look at you now. Desperate.”
You try to think. Remember. Hadn’t he said something about relaxing? Helping you focus?
But then he says it again — “Good boy” — and your mind blanks. Your body takes over. And you bounce harder.
His cock pulses deep inside you. You cry out.
He groans. “Gonna breed my good boy. Fill him up. That what you want?"
"Yes, daddy, please." Grinding down. Begging for it.
And when he cums — hot, thick, buried deep — your own orgasm hits like a slap. No touch. No control. Just muscle and need and submission.
You collapse forward, hole still full, brain still buzzing.
And somewhere in the haze, you hear it one more time.
tangentwithtanner
2087
discoholicmusic
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
kianamaiart
