Bedtime Fantasies: Her Stranger's Curved Cock

The lamp threw a low amber pool across the sheets and left the rest of the bedroom dim. Anton lay on his back, twenty-eight, the long day still sitting in his shoulders, one arm folded behind his head. Ingrid, his wife, also twenty-eight, was naked against him, thigh hooked over his, the warm length of her pressed from breast to knee. They had showered and crawled into bed with no intention of getting dressed again. The apartment was quiet except for their breathing and the faint tick of the radiator.

"Your turn," Anton said, voice already lower than it had been at dinner. "Tell me something you think about when you're alone. Something dirty. Don't pretty it up."

Ingrid smiled into the hollow of his throat. She dragged her fingertips down the center of his chest, slow enough to feel the muscle jump.

"There's a stranger," she said. "No name. I don't want one. A man a few years older than us, broad through the shoulders, quiet in a way that makes my stomach drop. He looks at me like he already knows I'll say yes, and I do. Every time I picture him, I say yes before he opens his mouth."

Anton's cock thickened against her inner thigh. She felt the heat of it and left it alone on purpose. She wanted his hand on himself while she talked.

"His cock is nothing like yours," she went on, clear and unhurried. "Yours fits me. His would wreck me. Exceptionally thick. Hard the moment I think about touching it. And curved. A heavy upward curve, the kind you can see even when it's still trapped in his pants. The head rides high. The shaft bows. I get wet just imagining the shape of it."

Anton made a low sound and wrapped his fist around himself. One slow stroke, base to crown, and a shine of precum caught the lamplight. Ingrid watched it and felt her cunt pulse, empty and already slick.

"Don't stop," he said. "I want all of it."

She shifted so she could see his hand working. "We're in a hotel room. Curtains half drawn. He sits on the edge of the bed with his belt open and his pants still on, and I kneel between his knees because I asked to. I want to take it out myself. I want to be the one who makes it stand up."

Her voice roughened as she kept going, the words coming slower, thicker in her mouth. Anton stroked himself in time with her breathing, eyes half shut, listening like the story was a hand on him.

"I undo the button," Ingrid said. "I drag the zipper down. The fabric is warm from his body. I hook my fingers in the waistband of his pants and his briefs together and I pull, and it doesn't come easy. He's that thick. The head catches on the elastic and I have to work it free with my thumb, and when it finally clears, it lifts. Heavy. Curved so hard the underside shows. Veins standing out along the bow of it. The head is broad and flushed, already wet, and it points up at me like it knows where it wants to go."

Anton groaned. His fist tightened. "Both hands," he said. "You said both hands. Tell me."

"Both hands," she whispered. She slid one of her own between her thighs and found herself soaked, two fingers gliding through the slick and circling her clit without quite settling. "I can't close one fist around him. I wrap both hands around that curved cock and there's still length left. It's hot. Rigid. The curve forces my wrists to follow it, so when I stroke I have to pull up and toward his belly, not straight. I use both hands. Slow at first. Twist at the top. Squeeze the thick base until he grunts. I stroke him until it stands rigidly upright, bobbing with his pulse, the curve so pronounced it looks like it could hook inside me and stay."

"Fuck," Anton breathed. He was stroking faster now, not frantic, just honest. Precum slicked his knuckles. "Keep going. Don't you dare stop."

Ingrid's hips rocked against her own fingers. She was openly touching herself, thighs spread over his leg, the wet sound small and filthy in the quiet room. Anton watched her hand and kept working his cock, encouraging her with little nods, with the rough catch in his breath.

"He watches me do it," she said. "He likes that I need both hands. He tells me I'm going to feel every inch of that curve. I lean in and lick the head while I stroke, just the slit, just enough to taste him, and he gets harder. Straighter up. The curve doesn't flatten. It gets meaner. I can feel it fighting my grip, trying to stand even taller."

She swallowed. Her fingers dipped lower, pressing at her entrance, not pushing in yet. "Then he pulls me up onto the bed. Onto him. We lie down together, skin to skin, and he doesn't shove it in. Not yet. He fits that thick curved cock against me from the front, the head nudging my clit, the bow of the shaft riding my slit. I can feel the shape of it. I can feel exactly where that curve is going to hit when he finally puts it inside. Right on my g-spot. He rocks, just rocks, and the hardness drags over me until I'm shaking and begging him to stop teasing and fuck me with it."

Anton turned his head and looked at her, eyes dark, hand never leaving his cock. "Then he does," he said. "Tell me how he fucks you."

Ingrid's voice went husky and low, the kind of voice she only used in this bed, with this man, when the fantasy was too good to keep polite. She closed her eyes so she could see it better and let her fingers slide into her cunt, two of them, slow, imagining a thickness her hand could never fake.

"He puts me on my back," she said. "Missionary. He wants me to watch his face while that curve does its work, and I want to feel all of it. He kneels between my thighs and spreads me open with his thumbs. I'm dripping. He lines that thick curved cock up and the head alone feels huge, blunt and hot against my hole. He pushes. Just the head. It stretches me wide, a bright, aching burn that makes my toes curl, and I grab his arms and tell him yes, don't stop, I want it."

Anton matched her rhythm, stroking as she fucked herself on her fingers. The wet sounds overlapped. Ingrid kept talking through them.

"He feeds it in inch by inch. The curve drags. God, Anton, the curve. It bows up into the front wall of my cunt and rubs right over my g-spot on the way in, a thick, relentless pressure that doesn't let up. Every time he rocks forward that hard ridge strokes the same spot. I can feel it perfectly. Not glancing. Grinding. My legs shake. I moan into his mouth and he kisses me while he works deeper, and I keep saying thicker, harder, don't you dare pull back."

She curled her fingers inside herself and pressed up, chasing the ghost of that pressure. Her clit throbbed under her palm.

"Then he stops being careful," she said, breath hitching. "He braces one hand by my head and the other under my ass and he slides all the way in. All the way. That thick curved cock splits me open. I feel myself stretch around the widest part of him, a hot, obscene give, and he doesn't pause. He sinks until he bottoms out deep inside me, the head nudged up against the limit of me, his hips flush to mine, balls heavy against my ass. I'm so full I can't talk. I just make this broken sound and lock my ankles behind him because if he pulls out I might cry."

"Jesus, Ingrid." Anton's voice was wrecked. He slowed his hand so he wouldn't finish before she did. "Stay there. Tell me what it feels like when he moves."

"It feels like he's hooked in me," she said. "When he draws back, the curve scrapes my g-spot the whole way, and when he drives in again he splits me all over, bottoming out so deep I see white behind my eyes. He fucks me like that. Long, heavy strokes. Thick. Hard. The curve never misses. Every thrust rubs that spot until the pleasure stops being sharp and turns into pressure, a hot swollen ache low in my belly that keeps building. I can hear how wet I am. He can hear it. The sound of that thick cock splitting me open fills the room, slick and filthy, and he tells me to take it, to let him bottom out, to come on his cock."

Her hips jerked. She added a third finger and whimpered, fucking herself harder, palm grinding her clit. Anton watched her face, his own mouth open, stroking in long pulls that matched the thrusts she was describing.

"I come the first time with him buried to the root," she gasped. "It hits so hard my cunt clamps down on all that thickness and I gush. I squirt. Hard. All over him. It soaks his stomach, his cock, the sheets under my ass. I can't stop it. He keeps fucking me through it, that curved cock rubbing my g-spot while I spray, and every stroke makes me squirt again, messy and shameless, splashing up between us. He groans like he's proud of it. He holds me open and pounds deep, bottoming out, splitting me, making me squirt until my thighs are shaking and the bed is a wet mess under my back."

She was close in the real bed now. Anton could hear it in the break of her sentences. He reached over with his free hand and cupped her breast, thumb dragging her nipple, urging her on without interrupting.

"He doesn't pull out to finish," Ingrid said, voice raw. "He wants it inside. He fucks me faster, still deep, still curved right into that spot, and I feel him swell. He groans my name even though he shouldn't know it, and he comes. He fills me. Thick pulses of cum, hot, pumping deep where he's bottomed out, so much I feel it flood me and start to leak around that fat cock even while he's still jerking inside. He stays buried until he's empty. Until I'm stuffed with it. Until it's dripping out of me onto his balls."

She pulled her fingers free, shining, and rubbed her clit in tight circles, chasing the edge and holding it.

"And then," she said, "before I can even catch my breath, I push him onto his back. His cock is still hard, curved and glistening with my squirt and his cum. I don't care. I climb up. I swing a leg over his head and I sit on his face. Right on his mouth. My pussy is swollen and dripping, split open from that thick cock, leaking his cum and my own mess, and I grind it against his tongue."

Anton swore, low and filthy, and stroked himself harder. Ingrid's hips rolled against her hand as if the stranger's mouth were really there.

"He wants it," she said. "He grabs my ass with both hands and pulls me down harder. His tongue shoves up into me and he laps. He licks his own cum out of my cunt. He sucks my clit. I ride his face, grinding my dripping pussy against his mouth, smearing everything over his lips, his nose, his chin. And I keep cumming. I don't stop. One orgasm rolls into the next. I squirt again, weaker but filthy, right onto his tongue, and he drinks it. He groans into me and licks everything. Every drop. Cum, squirt, all of it. I hold his hair and grind and come on his face again, and again, shaking, soaking him, using his eager mouth until I can't hold myself up."

Her voice cracked. The picture had her. She rubbed faster, fingers slick, thighs trembling against Anton's leg.

"He doesn't tap out," she panted. "He keeps his tongue working while I come on his face over and over, lapping up every drop that leaks out of me, sucking my clit until I'm crying his nameless mouth into another orgasm. I sit there and flood him. I make a mess of his whole face and he thanks me for it with his tongue."

Ingrid broke.

The orgasm hit her mid-sentence, a hard clenching wave that bowed her spine off the mattress. She gasped Anton's name and then nothing coherent, hips bucking against her hand, cunt pulsing around nothing, slick coating her fingers and his thigh. She shuddered through it, riding the aftershocks, still talking in broken pieces. "On his face—fuck—I keep cumming on his face—"

Anton lasted three more strokes. He watched his wife shake apart from her own filthy story and came with a rough groan, cock jerking in his fist, cum striping his stomach and chest in hot pulses. He didn't look away from her. He stroked himself through it until he was spent and shaking, breath sawing, the last of it dripping over his knuckles.

They turned toward each other at the same time. Ingrid caught his mouth and kissed him deep, open, tasting salt and heat, her wet fingers smearing across his jaw as she pulled him in. Anton kissed her back just as hungry, one hand still loosely fisted around his softening cock, the other gripping her ass to drag her closer. They stayed like that, breathless, mouths messy, until she broke the kiss only far enough to speak against his lips.

"That fantasy makes me so fucking wet I could sit on your face right now and come again," she said.

Anton laughed once, wrecked, and licked the shine of her off his own mouth. "Then do it. Grind that soaked cunt on me until I can't breathe."

She swung a thigh over him, still trembling, and lowered her dripping pussy toward his waiting tongue, both of them too filthy and too turned on to sleep.