Climbing the Walls for His Cock

Estelle’s new apartment still smelled like cardboard and the lemon cleaner she’d used on the bathroom sink twice already, as if scrubbing could make a place feel like it belonged to her. She was nineteen, a college freshman who’d never lived anywhere but her mother’s house, and the quiet of the second-floor hallway at night still made her lock the deadbolt and check it again. The building was old, brick and worn carpet, and the unit across from hers belonged to a man she’d been trying not to think about for a month.

Julius. Twenty-eight. Construction. Shoulders that filled a doorway.

She’d seen him the day she moved in, coming up the stairs with a cooler on one shoulder and his shirt balled in his fist. Sweat had darkened the waistband of his work pants. His chest was broad and dusted with hair, his stomach hard, and the heavy shape behind his zipper had been impossible not to notice when he stopped to hold the door. He’d smiled like he knew she’d looked. “You the new one? I’m Julius. Knock if you need a screwdriver or anything.”

She’d nodded, ears burning, and spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking with her thighs pressed together.

That night she’d locked her door, turned off the light, and slid a hand into her panties for the first time with a real face in her head. She’d never touched a cock. Never seen one that wasn’t a diagram in a health class she barely remembered. Her fingers had circled her clit while she pictured the thick ridge in his pants, the way his forearm had flexed when he shifted the cooler, and she’d come so hard she’d had to bite her pillow. Every night after that she’d done it again. In the shower. In bed with the sheet pulled up. Once, shamefully, standing at her peephole after she heard his boots in the hall, rubbing herself through cotton until her knees shook. A month of it. A month of being a shy virgin who couldn’t meet his eyes in the laundry room and still went home wet.

Tonight she’d only meant to take the trash down. Oversized T-shirt, the faded one that hung to mid-thigh, and a pair of plain panties because the laundry was still in the dryer in the basement. Keys on the kitchen counter. Door swinging shut behind her because her hands were full of the bag. The lock clicked. She stood in the hallway in bare feet, trash at her side, and felt the cold air on her legs.

Midnight. No spare key under the mat. Her phone was on the charger inside.

She stared at Julius’s door for a long minute, heart hammering, nipples already tight under the thin shirt from the draft and from the stupid, helpless want that had been living in her for weeks. Then she knocked.

He opened it in gray sweatpants and nothing else. Low light behind him. Hair damp, like he’d just showered. The pants sat low on his hips, and the outline of his cock was right there, heavy and obvious, shifting when he leaned on the frame.

“Estelle.” His voice was rough. He looked her over once, slow, from her flushed face to her bare thighs. “You locked out.”

“I—yeah. Trash. I didn’t—” She swallowed. “Can I use your phone? Or just… wait? The super’s number is on my fridge.”

“Come in.” He stepped back. “You’re shaking.”

His apartment was warmer, cleaner than she’d expected, a couch and a lamp and the smell of soap. She set the trash bag by the door and stood there with her arms crossed under her breasts, which only made the shirt pull tighter. Her nipples showed. She knew they showed. She couldn’t stop looking at the front of his sweatpants.

Julius shut the door. He didn’t rush her. He just watched her eyes drop and stay there, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

“You’ve been staring at my cock since you walked in,” he said. “Same way you stared in the hall last month. Thought I imagined it. Then I kept catching you in the laundry room, red as hell, squeezing your thighs together like you were gonna come in your jeans.”

Heat flooded her face and her cunt at the same time. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” He came closer, not touching her yet. “Nineteen. College. Never had a man, have you.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway, voice small. “No. I’ve never even touched one. I just… I’ve been thinking about yours. Every night. I touch myself and I pretend it’s you.”

His cock jumped against the soft fabric. She saw it. Her mouth went dry.

“Say it clearer,” he said. “I want to hear how bad my shy little neighbor wants it.”

“This is the first time I’ve wanted a real cock,” she whispered. “Yours. I’ve never seen one. I’ve never had anything inside me. I get so wet thinking about you stretching me open I can’t sleep. Please. I want you to take it. I want you to be the one.”

Julius exhaled, slow, like he was holding himself on a leash. “You sure? Once I start, I’m not gonna treat you like glass the whole time. I’ll go easy getting in. After that I’m gonna fuck you like I’ve been thinking about fucking you.”

“I’m sure.” She nodded, desperate. “I want that. I want all of it. Please.”

“Then get on your knees.”

She dropped. The carpet was rough under her bare knees. Her shirt rode up. She looked up at him, breathing hard, and hooked her fingers in his waistband.

“Beg for it,” he said.

“Please let me taste you.” The words came out shaky and filthy and true. “Please feed me your cock. I’ve never had one in my mouth and I’m climbing the walls for yours. I want it on my tongue. I want to know what you taste like before you take my cherry. Please, Julius.”

He pushed the sweatpants down. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head already slick, veins standing along the shaft. Bigger than her fist. Bigger than anything she’d imagined while she rubbed herself in the dark. The smell of him—clean skin, soap, something muskier underneath—hit her and her pussy clenched so hard she whimpered.

“Open.”

She opened. He rested the head on her tongue first, letting her taste the salt of him, and she moaned like she’d been starved. Then he fed it in, slow, one inch at a time, his hand in her hair not forcing, just guiding.

“That’s it. Virgin mouth. Look at you. So fucking eager.”

She sucked clumsily at first, lips stretched, spit spilling down her chin, but she wanted it. She hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper until her eyes watered, pulling back to breathe and diving down again, tongue sliding under the ridge. Her hand wrapped what she couldn’t swallow. He was hot and hard and alive in her mouth, nothing like her fingers, nothing like the fantasy. Every throb against her tongue made her panties soak through.

“Fuck, Estelle. That’s a good girl. Suck it. Get it wet. You’re gonna need it wet.”

She bobbed faster, filthy little sounds filling the room, one hand between her own thighs rubbing her clit through cotton because she couldn’t help it. He let her work him until his hips started to rock, then he pulled out with a wet pop, cock shining, her lips swollen.

“Up. Shirt off. Panties off. Bend over the couch.”

She scrambled to obey. The T-shirt hit the floor. Her small breasts bounced, nipples tight and pink. She shoved her panties down and kicked them away, and the air on her soaked pussy made her gasp. She bent over the arm of the couch, ass up, cheek against the cushion, and spread her legs because she wanted him to see how ready she was.

Julius dropped behind her. His big hands spread her. “Jesus. Dripping. This little virgin cunt’s been begging for a month and I didn’t even know.”

His mouth closed over her.

Estelle cried out. His tongue was broad and sure, licking from her clit to her entrance, then pushing inside, fucking her with it while his thumb worked her clit in tight circles. No one had ever touched her there but herself. The difference was obscene. He ate her like he was hungry, nose buried, groaning into her, two fingers sliding in beside his tongue and curling until her thighs shook.

“Oh god—Julius—I’m gonna— I’ve never—”

“Come on my mouth. Then I’m putting my cock in you.”

She came with a broken sound, hips grinding back against his face, pussy fluttering around his fingers. He didn’t stop. He licked her through it until she was whimpering and pushing back for more, empty and aching.

He stood. The blunt head of his cock nudged her entrance. “You want this?”

“Yes. Please. Take it. Put it in. I need you to fuck me.”

He pushed. The stretch burned, bright and huge, her walls fighting the thickness and then giving, inch by inch. She grabbed the couch cushion and moaned, high and overwhelmed, not telling him to stop. He sank deeper, pausing when she tightened, rubbing her clit until she loosened, then feeding her another inch. When his hips finally met her ass she was stuffed full, stuffed past anything she’d imagined, shaking.

“There,” he said, voice strained. “Cherry’s mine. You feel that? That’s my cock in your tight little cunt.”

“I feel it,” she sobbed, pleasure already climbing back over the ache. “Move. Please move.”

He did. Slow at first, long strokes that dragged over every new nerve, then harder, the couch creaking, his balls slapping her clit. She screamed into the cushion, not from pain anymore but from the brutal, perfect fullness, her pussy gripping him every time he bottomed out. He fucked her like that until she was dripping down her thighs, then pulled out, flipped her onto her back on the cushions, and hooked her knees over his arms.

Missionary. His face above hers. His cock sliding back in to the hilt in one deep thrust.

“Look at me while I pound you.”

She looked. She couldn’t look away. He drove into her, deep and relentless, stretching her walls over and over, the wet sound of it filthy in the quiet apartment. Her tits bounced. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Every stroke knocked a moan out of her.

“Too big—oh fuck—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

“Not stopping. Taking this cunt. God, you’re tight. Milking me already.”

He hammered her until her eyes rolled, then hauled her up and bent her over the couch again, doggy, one hand on her hip and the other fisted gently in her hair. The new angle let him go deeper. She screamed, overwhelmed, pushing back to meet him, chasing the thick drag of his cock against that spot inside that made her vision spark. He slapped her ass once, not hard enough to hurt past the heat, and she clenched so tight he cursed.

“Greedy little virgin. You love getting used.”

“Yes—use me—fuck, Julius, I love it—”

He pulled out again, sat on the couch, cock standing up slick and enormous, and dragged her into his lap. “Ride it. I want to watch you take every inch.”

She straddled him, one hand on his chest, and sank down. The stretch from this angle made her whimper, but she didn’t stop until she was seated, full to the root, clit pressed to his pelvis. Then she moved. Awkward at first, then frantic, grinding, rolling her hips, bouncing until her thighs burned. She rubbed her clit against him on every downstroke, taking him deep, chasing the coil tightening low in her belly.

“That’s it. Ride my cock. Look at you. Nineteen and already addicted.”

“I am,” she gasped. “I’m addicted. I can’t—oh god—something’s—”

The orgasm hit different. Bigger. A pressure that broke all at once. She ground down hard and squirted for the first time in her life, a hot rush soaking his stomach and the couch, her cunt spasming around him in helpless pulses while she wailed his name. He held her hips and fucked up into the mess, groaning, not letting her escape a single inch.

“Fuck. That’s it. Squirt on me. Good girl. My good fucking girl.”

She shook through it, oversensitive and still hungry, until he lifted her off with a wet sound and stood her in front of him. His hand wrapped his cock, stroking fast, the head dark and leaking.

“On your knees. I’m gonna paint that pretty face.”

She dropped again, mouth open, tits out, flushed and sweat-slick and wrecked. He came with a rough groan, thick ropes striping her cheek, her lips, her chin, then her chest, hot and heavy across her nipples. She shook through the aftershocks, tongue out to catch what she could, tasting him while her pussy still fluttered empty.

For a minute the only sound was their breathing.

Julius stroked her hair back from the mess on her face, careful. He got a warm washcloth from the bathroom and cleaned her gently, her cheeks, her mouth, her tits, between her thighs where she was swollen and sensitive. She let him. When he was done he kissed her, deep and slow, tasting himself and her and the salt of sweat.

“You okay?” he asked against her mouth.

“Better than okay.” Her voice was hoarse. She was glowing, thighs sticky, body loose, the filthy knowledge settling in her bones that she was never going to be able to look at his door again without wanting his cock inside her. “I’ve never come like that. I’ve never squirted. I didn’t know I could.”

“You can. You will.” He kissed her again, thumb brushing her lower lip. “Every night if you want it. I’ll climb the walls for this tight little cunt. You knock, I answer. You beg, I fuck you until you can’t walk to class.”

She laughed, shaky and happy, and leaned into his chest. The apartment across the hall could wait until morning. Her keys could wait. She already knew where she was sleeping.

Julius tipped her chin up, eyes dark and sure.

“So,” he said, “you staying in my bed tonight, or do I have to carry you back over there and fuck you in yours too?”