Last-Night Cabin Crush Takes My Ass

I’ve been crushing on Jake since sophomore year of college, and now at twenty-four I’m finally alone with him in this remote mountain cabin with nowhere to hide from it. He’s twenty-six, all lean muscle from the hikes he drags me on, dark hair that falls into his eyes when he laughs, and that easy grin that has ruined me for anyone else. We drove up yesterday for a long weekend escape from the city, just the two of us like old times, but every brush of his shoulder against mine on the trail today felt electric. By the time we stomped snow off our boots and collapsed in front of the stone fireplace, the air between us was thick enough to choke on.

I sat cross-legged on the thick rug, cheeks still flushed from the cold, watching the flames lick higher while Jake poured two glasses of the cheap whiskey we’d brought. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show the hollow of his throat, and I couldn’t stop staring. “You’re quiet,” he said, voice low, passing me the glass. Our fingers touched and stayed that way a second too long. I took a sip for courage and finally let it out. “I’ve wanted you for years, Jake. Not just as my best friend. I’ve pictured you fucking me every time I’ve gotten myself off since junior year.” His eyes darkened instantly. He set his glass down hard. “Christ, Sarah. I’ve jerked off thinking about your mouth, your tits, your tight little ass more times than I can count. I’ve been half-hard all day watching you bend over to tie your boots.” The confession hung there, raw and mutual, the fire popping like applause. We both laughed once, shaky, then the tension snapped.

He leaned in and kissed me like he’d been starving. His tongue swept into my mouth, whiskey-sweet, and I moaned into it, fists twisting in his shirt. Hands everywhere—mine shoving the flannel off his shoulders to map the hard planes of his chest, his yanking my sweater up and over my head so my bare breasts spilled free. He groaned at the sight, thumbs brushing my nipples until they pebbled tight. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he muttered, mouth trailing down my neck. We stripped in a frenzy of zippers and laughter and curses when my jeans snagged on my ankles. I pushed him back just long enough to kick them off, then I was naked on the rug in only my socks, pussy already slick. Jake shucked his pants and boxer-briefs in one go; his cock sprang free, thick and long, the head already shiny. I reached for it instinctively, but he caught my wrist and dropped to his knees instead.

He spread my thighs wide, staring at my cunt like it was the only thing in the world. “Been dying to taste this,” he said, and then his mouth was on me. Hot, open-mouthed kisses along my inner thighs, then a long slow lick right up my slit. I cried out, hips bucking, fingers spearing into his hair. He ate me like he meant it—tongue swirling over my clit in tight circles, two fingers sliding into my pussy and crooking just right. The wet sounds filled the cabin, filthy and perfect, mixed with the crackle of the fire. He sucked my clit between his lips and hummed, and I was dripping down his chin in minutes, thighs shaking. “Jake—oh god—I’m gonna—” He pulled off just enough to speak, voice rough. “Not yet. I’ve fantasized about taking your ass for years. Fucking you open back there until you scream my name. Tell me you’ve thought about it too.” I was panting, half-gone, but the words tumbled out honest. “Yes. I’ve fingered my own ass wishing it was your cock. I want you to claim it. Right now. Please.”