Page 72 of Bad Habit
He lifted one of her feet onto the bed, exposing her sex to the camera, to me, then with a grunt, he pushed inside her again, hard and fast, pulling down on her hips as he thrust up and forward, using his legs to increase the force.
Using his entire body, he continued his rough penetration, pushing into her over and over, and the woman moaned loudly, her huge breasts bouncing as they hung above the mattress. Then he moved his hands from her hips to her breasts, using them as leverage to force himself inside her. Then he moved his hands back to her hips, and his hands had left red prints on her breasts, he’d squeezed them so tightly.
But she didn’t seem to mind and looked back at him, panting, her face flushed as she moaned.
The man pulled her leg back down to the floor, then pushed down on her shoulders, forcing her to bend forward until she was bent in half, her face down between her legs, her back against the edge of the bed as he continued to thrust, so fast, so hard.
He braced her with his arms, moving her as he wanted, as if she were a bent-over rubber doll, not a person.
The camera angle changed, a close-up on the penetration, everything so red and slippery—hard into soft—and as impossible as the act had seemed before I’d done it, it seemed even less possible now.
That huge thing pushing in and out of such a tight space, not to mention the position of her body bent over like that, trapped between him and the bed, all the blood rushing to her head, and his hands firmly on her hips, working in tandem with his punishing hips and buttocks.
I couldn’t imagine this felt good for her, but still my sex became warmer, wetter, and I continued to stroke my bathing suit, feeling wicked and suddenly wishing Mac were in the room to see this with me.
The man started to thrust more slowly, but my relief for the woman was short-lived when he struck her bottom with a hard slap. She moaned and wiggled her bottom within her small range of motion, and then he slapped her again and again as he continued to grind his penis inside her.
His spanking stopped, but the speed and power of his thrusts accelerated, seeming even more violent this time, moving so fast he didn’t seem human. The camera pulled back to show her face, red with blood, her bulbous breasts bouncing above her face with each thrust and what must be painful pressure.
Mercifully, he pulled his penis out and stepped back, letting her body unfold. Reaching around her as she straightened, he stood behind her, grabbed hold of her breasts and squeezed, kneading them like bread dough, then he pinched both of her nipples, and twisted them in a way that looked painful, but she moaned and writhed, pushing her bottom, red from his slaps, against his erect penis.
He pushed her forward, her hands landing on the edge of the bed, and then he forced her legs back and apart and pushed into her again. He slammed into her over, and over. The sound of their bodies colliding was almost as loud as when he’d spanked her, and her breasts bobbed, so huge and heavy, under so much strain they looked like the force might bounce them right off her chest.
My finger slipped under the edge of my bathing suit to meet my own hot, wet flesh, and I fought against the shame of how much I was enjoying watching this sinful display.
But along with my shame came a feeling of loss—or was it longing? I wished I’d inspired this much passion in Mac.
