I’m fucking him, but I’m thinking of you.
When I forced my way inside an hour ago, it was tight. It resisted. Now his hole is wide open. Sloppy. It’s oozing two of my loads onto his floral bedspread. Those pussy lips are stretched wide. They’re inflamed from the fucking, made puffy and swollen from the constant thrusting of my dick. He’s turned-out, worn like an old rubber band. He feels good. I could fuck this ass for days.
But I’m still thinking of you.
Maybe it’s the decor. We’re fucking on a massive torture chamber of a bed. The room is overstuffed and overdecorated. There are tapestries hanging everywhere. The wallpaper is flocked. There’s not an overhead lamp—but there is a heavy chandelier. There are lamps done up in red velvet, and chairs that look like they were lifted from the Game of Thrones set. With all the triptychs and gold-framed icons and lit votive candles and heavy furniture littering the joint, it’s like we’re fucking in the goddamned Cloisters.
Maybe it’s the guy himself. He’s a little more feminine than I remember, a little more perfumed. His grunts are more like gentle moos. He kisses well, but his breath is slightly sour. I could power through and perform regardless. Fuck, I’ve already bred him twice, despite those minor details.
Because it’s not his performance that’s at stake here. The guy’s making me feel good. He sucks without a gag reflex, so I can grab the back of his head and skullfuck him without having to worry about going too deep. Fuck, the cocksucker likes it deep. His hole is nice and clean, so I can whip it out when I’ve fucked and know he’ll clean me off like a good boy. No, it’s not his performance at all.
But a little distracted, is all. He’s kneeling on the side of his four-poster monstrosity, his head buried in one of the dozen pillows, his hard uncut cock pointing straight down to the floor. His ass is wet. Glistening. He’s a tall man, a smooth man. And I’m thinking of you, small and furry. I’m imagining it’s your hole I’m stretching. I’m imagining the sounds you would make as my head nudges against your lips, parts them, and makes it home deep inside your cum-filled hole.
I’m not usually like this. I’m usually in the moment. I don’t like for my head to be elsewhere—it’s not fair to the guy. It’s not good for me.
But damn. I wish he were you, today.
It’s you I think of when I guide him forward into the middle of the bed and assume my place behind him. When I plant soft kisses on his neck, on his shoulders, down his spine, I think of the pleasure they’d bring to your flesh, not his. I think of how you’d quiver. In my head I hear the thanks you give as my meat slithers to the base and swells at your core. I think of your sharp intake of breath, how you’d arch your back, how you’d lift your head and tilt it as if to look at me, even though your eyes are still closed.
I think of holding you in my arms and letting you know that you’re desired. That you’re beautiful. That you’re loved.
When my fingers dance down his spine, it’s your spine I feel. When I grind savagely into the hole I’ve already made mine, I’m thinking about you, sixty miles away. You’re probably still in your shorts. You’re probably still watching TV and thinking about the day ahead.
I’m wondering if you ever think about me, this way.
My third load floods him after a flurry of sharp, short thrusts into his deepest recesses. He cranes his neck, speechless, to stare at me with wide open eyes. I avoid his glance as my nuts empty into his gut. I don’t want to be in this moment, good as it feels. I want to be inside you. I want to be marking you, to be seeding you.
I’m fucking him. But god damn, am I ever thinking of you.