Page 63 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
“Fuck, that’s such a pretty sound. You hear that, Spitfire? That’s what I do to you. I own your pussy. All this lying to me about being dry isn’t going to fly anymore. Do I make myself clear?”
All she can do is nod, still bucking fruitlessly into the air, unsatisfied by the thickness of the two fingers already jammed in her.
“Such a greedy girl,” I tut, teasing her with the addition of a third finger, then feeling her walls dilate hollowly around the girth. She continues to let loose all kinds of sounds behind my hand, so I slowly remove the blockage from her lips.
“Need your dick,” she demands, her impatience offsetting the bliss still splayed on her features.
“I’m not hearing a ‘please.’”
She suddenly glares at me and growls. “If you don’t take it out, I’ll do it for you.”
Okay, noted. Nice Cali only lasts a few minutes.
“I haven’t even made you c?—”
“If you think you’re getting two orgasms out of me tonight, you’re wrong. You’re only getting one.”
I withdraw my wet fingers, bringing them to my mouth and sucking every last drop of her arousal off of them. “Oh, I can get two,” I quip confidently.
She grabs me by the shoulders, spins my back toward the bed, and throws my body onto it. Granted, it’s more like a shove, and I don’t know how she manhandled all one hundred and ninety pounds of me, but she did, and it was hot as fuck.
When I situate myself at the headboard, she crawls on top of me, breasts hanging and ass up in the air, bridged by the sexiest arch of her spine. Our lips mesh together, and my hands snake into her hair to grab a fistful, wrenching her neck slightly.
Kissing her never gets old. It’s a rebirth every time. It’s the equivalent of a cold glass of lemonade on a sun-scorched day; it’s the feel of silk sheets on a freshly washed body; it’s the satisfying remembrance of something you’ve forgotten; it’s the smell of petrichor in a lush green forest on a morning walk. It’s every human emotion rolled into one.
I keep my lips puckered like a fool before realizing she’s moved to my stomach, marching her lips downwards in open-mouthed kisses, and when she gets to my navel, she licks it. I moan embarrassingly loudly, and thanks to the very thin walls in this house, if anyone’s on the second floor they can probably hear what’s going on in here. My abs flex as my swollen dick weeps for a single touch, sacrificing my manhood for a morsel of mercy.
And then I feel her fingers finally reach my costume, and I’m expecting a sudden wave of release when?—
“Holy shit. No way. I’m not putting that thing inside me,” she says, immediately sitting up.
I look down at my distended cock resting against my stomach, seeing nothing but nine inches of an angry, red-hued, vein-riddled appendage. Oh, and the metal barbells piercing the underside of my shaft.
“You didn’t tell me you were pierced!” she exclaims.
“You didn’t ask!”
“Why would I—why the fuck would I ask you that?”
“I don’t know! Why are you freaking out?”
She gestures to my offending penis. “Because thatthingis going to shred my vagina like a small, medieval torture device!”
My eyebrows climb up. “Small?”
She groans, throwing her arms up in exasperation. “Decently sized.”
“Big,” I counter, propping myself on my elbows, staring her down until I get her to agree.
“Slightly above average.”
“Big.”
Dear God. Arguing with her doesn’t make the pain go away. It’s somehow inflating my cock even more, and the bulbous tip leaks more pearlescent pre-cum into my belly button.
Her face is wrought with horror. “Fine! It’s big. It’s disturbingly big. And not only will it rip me in half, but it’ll tear me up with those miniature metal stabbers!”
“I can take them out,” I reply quickly.
