Girlfriend Fingers My Throat While Riding Me

Errol was twenty-two, and the woman at the foot of their bed had turned twenty-four three weeks ago. Monica’s dark hair hung loose, and the look she gave him from across the rumpled sheets made his pulse kick hard against his throat. They had been circling this for months—soft commands in the kitchen of their apartment, her hand at the nape of his neck when they kissed, the way she liked him still and waiting. Tonight the flirting had teeth.

She had come home from the design studio still in her work blouse, and he had met her in the bedroom already half-hard from the text she sent on the train. Come upstairs. Strip. Wait. He had done all three. Now he stood bare beside the bed while she walked a slow circle around him, fingertips dragging across his chest, his hip, the sensitive skin just above his cock. She did not touch him there yet. She only smiled when he twitched.

“You want to be useful tonight,” she said. It was not a question.

“Yes.” His voice came out rough.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Monica.”

She tapped his sternum. “On the bed. On your back. Arms up.”

He climbed onto the mattress and stretched out the way she liked, wrists toward the posts, ankles wide. The restraints were already waiting—soft black cuffs she had bought months ago, lined so they would not mark him unless she wanted marks. She buckled his left wrist first, testing the give, then the right. The leather kissed his skin and held. When she moved to his ankles he felt the tension climb through his legs, a sweet helpless pull that left him open and displayed. She cinched the last cuff and stepped back.

Errol tested the bonds once, because she liked to see him try. They held. His cock lay thick and flushed against his stomach, already leaking at the tip. Monica’s gaze traveled the length of him, slow and proprietary, and the corner of her mouth lifted.

“Look at you,” she murmured. “Hard before I’ve even touched you. Good. Stay just like that.”

She stripped without hurry—blouse, then pants, then the plain cotton panties she wore under her work clothes. Naked, she was all warm skin and confidence, breasts full, hips generous, the dark thatch between her thighs already glistening. She climbed onto the bed and knelt between his spread legs, not sitting on him yet, just letting him feel the heat of her. One hand braced beside his ribs. The other traced his lower lip with a single finger.

“You’re mine tonight,” she said. “Every inch. You don’t come until I say. You don’t look away. Understood?”

“Understood.”

The word left him breathless. Bound at four points, cock aching, he watched her commanding face and felt the delicious tension settle into his bones—eager, helpless, and entirely willing.

Monica swung a leg over his hips and settled above him, not taking him yet. Her thighs bracketed his ribs. The wet heat of her hovered just over the head of his cock, close enough that every small shift of her weight smeared slickness along his skin. She planted her palms on his chest and looked down at him the way she looked at a sketch she meant to finish exactly as she pleased.

“You feel that?” she asked, rolling her hips so her folds dragged over him, slow and mean. “That’s mine. This cock is mine. These hands can’t do a thing about it. I own you when you’re tied like this, Errol. Say it.”

“You own me.”

“Louder.”

“You own me.”

She smiled, filthy and fond, and reached between them. Her fingers wrapped his shaft, angled him, and she sank down in one long, controlled slide. Heat closed around him inch by inch until her ass settled against his thighs and he was buried to the root. A broken sound left his throat. She stayed there, full of him, inner muscles fluttering, and watched his face while he fought not to thrust. He could not thrust. The cuffs at his ankles kept his legs spread; the ones at his wrists kept his arms useless above his head. All he could do was take what she gave.

“There,” she said softly. “Right where you belong. Under me. Stuffed inside me. Useless except for this.”

She rose until only the head remained inside her, then dropped again, a wet slap of skin on skin. Again. Again. The pace stayed cruel and unhurried, each descent grinding her clit against the base of him. Her breasts swayed. Sweat gathered in the hollow of her throat. Errol’s fingers curled into empty fists. Every bounce sent a hot shock up his spine, and the dirty certainty in her voice made it worse, better, unbearable.

“Look at you trying not to beg,” she said. “You love being used. You love that I can ride this cock as hard as I want and you just lie there and take it. My good tied-up boy. My mouth to use. My hole to fill myself with.”

She leaned forward, bracing one hand beside his head, and brought the other to his lips. Two fingers. She pressed them against his mouth until he opened.

“Suck,” she ordered.

He did. He drew her fingers in and worked his tongue along them the way she liked, obedient, thorough, tasting the faint salt of her skin. She watched his mouth with dark, hungry eyes and started to ride him harder, lifting and dropping in a steadier rhythm, the wet sound of her filling the room. His cock dragged along her walls with every stroke. Pleasure coiled tight and low. She pushed her fingers a little deeper, not all the way, just enough that he had to hollow his cheeks and breathe through his nose.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Suck them like you mean it. Show me how good you are with that mouth while I use the rest of you. You don’t get to come until I decide you’re done being my toy. You hear me?”

He made a muffled sound around her fingers and nodded as much as the angle allowed. She laughed, low and pleased, and ground down hard, circling her hips so he hit deep. The bedframe creaked. His wrists strained against the cuffs and the leather held. She was slick and hot and relentless, owning every inch of him exactly as she had promised, and the shared need between them climbed until both of them were shaking with it, balanced on the edge she refused to let them cross yet.

Monica’s rhythm broke into something hungrier. She planted her knees wider, braced her free hand on his chest, and rode him hard and fast, cowgirl in full, ass slapping his thighs, breasts bouncing, hair sticking to her damp shoulders. Every drop of her weight drove him deep. The wet sounds grew obscene. Errol’s cock throbbed inside her, swollen and oversensitive, and he could feel her tightening, chasing it, using him without apology.

Her two fingers, already wet from his mouth, pushed past his tongue.

They slid deeper. The pads of them pressed the soft back of his throat, and his body answered before his mind could. He gagged, a sharp helpless convulsion, eyes watering, shoulders jerking against the cuffs. Saliva flooded his mouth and spilled over his lower lip, shining on her knuckles. She did not pull back. She held her fingers there, lodged against the place that made him choke, and kept riding.

“There,” she said, voice rough with pleasure and command. “Right there. You can take it. Breathe through your nose. Let me feel you gag on me while I fuck myself on this cock.”

He tried. Air came in thin pulls through his nose. Each gag clenched his throat around her fingers and clenched the rest of him too, a full-body spasm that made his cock jump inside her. Drool ran down his chin and onto his neck, warm and messy. Tears blurred the sight of her above him—flushed, fierce, beautiful in the way she got when she was deep in the scene they had built together. She had checked in with a look before she pushed, the small question they used, and he had blinked twice for yes, the way they had practiced. She trusted that. He trusted her. The trust sat under the choke like a floor he could not fall through.

She ground down and bounced, relentless. Her fingers stayed buried, two of them filling his mouth and pressing his throat, choking him lightly, not enough to panic him, enough to make every breath a decision. When a gag got too hard she eased a fraction, let him suck air, then pressed back in, owning the rhythm of his throat the same way she owned the rhythm of his cock. Spit smeared her hand. His lips stretched around her knuckles. The sounds he made were wet and broken and completely hers.

“God, look at you,” she panted. “Drooling all over my fingers. Gagging like a good boy. Tied open for me. You love this. I can feel how much you love this. Your cock is so hard it hurts, doesn’t it? Don’t you dare come until I do. Hold it. Hold it while I use your throat and your dick at the same time.”

He held. His stomach jumped with every gag. His balls drew tight. The cuffs bit just enough to remind him he could not push her hand away, could not grab her hips, could not do anything but lie there and be ridden and fingered and filled. The helplessness poured heat through him until he was shaking, cock pulsing, toes curling against the ankle restraints. Monica’s pace turned frantic. She slammed down, circled, slammed again, chasing the grind of her clit against him. Her inner walls fluttered, then gripped, then fluttered harder. Sweat slid between her breasts. Her free hand dug into his chest.

“Stay,” she gasped. “Keep them. Keep my fingers down your throat. Don’t spit them out. Take it. Take all of it.”

He gagged again, harder, eyes streaming, and she moaned at the way his whole body clenched around the sensation. The choke and the fuck locked together into one relentless beat—her fingers deep, his throat working, her hips pounding, his cock buried to the hilt. Pleasure and the bright edge of not-enough-air braided until he could not tell them apart. He was nothing but the places she touched: throat, cock, the straining line of his bound arms. She was nothing but motion and heat and the filthy praise spilling out of her.

“That’s my boy. That’s my mouth. Fuck, you’re squeezing me. I’m close. You’re going to come with me. When I say. Not before.”

She drove down and stayed deep, grinding in tight circles, fingers pressed firm against the back of his throat so every swallow and gag vibrated through both of them. Her thighs trembled. A broken cry tore out of her. She clenched around his cock in hard, rhythmic pulses, orgasm hitting her in waves she rode without lifting off him, without pulling her fingers free. The sight of her coming—mouth open, eyes half-shut, still choking him on purpose because they had agreed she would—shoved him over.

“Now,” she managed. “Come. Come while I keep them there.”

He did. The climax ripped through him, cock jerking, spilling deep inside her in thick pulses that seemed to go on and on. Each spasm made him gag around her fingers again, drool sliding, throat fluttering, the choke and the orgasm tangled so tight he could not have separated them if he tried. She kept her fingers lodged exactly where they were, just as she had promised, holding him in that wet, overwhelmed place while she ground through the last of her own peak, milking him, shaking, moaning his name like a claim. They stayed locked there—her weight on his hips, her fingers down his throat, both of them coming, both of them wrecked—until the sharp edge finally began to soften and the room rushed back in around the sound of their breathing.

Monica eased her fingers out at last, slow, careful, a string of spit connecting them to his lower lip before it broke. Errol dragged in a ragged gasp, then another, chest heaving, throat raw and tingling, tears cooling on his temples. The aftershocks still twitched through his cock where she sat on him, both of them messy and shaking. She stroked his cheek once with her wet hand, a quiet check, and he nodded, dazed and glowing, unable to find words yet.

She reached for the cuffs without climbing off him right away, unbuckling his wrists first so his arms could drop, then his ankles, the leather falling away one restraint at a time. When he was free she finally lifted off, a warm spill following, and curled against his chest the way she always did when the scene let go. Her ear rested over his hammering heart. One hand found his hair and stroked, slow and steady, while their breathing stayed loud in the quiet room.

“You took everything,” she murmured, pride soft in her voice. “All of it. My good boy. I’ve got you.”

He turned his face into her hair and let the praise settle over the tremble still running through him, held and undone and exactly where he wanted to be.