My Neighbor Begs for Anal Before Dawn

Benedict lay on his back in the dark, the thin sheet stuck to his chest from the walk home. Twenty-eight, freshly divorced, and the night shift at the garage had left his shoulders knotted and his ears still ringing with the echo of impact wrenches. Four in the morning. The apartment building was supposed to be dead. Instead a soft, broken whimper drifted through the wall he shared with the unit next door.

He knew the sound. He’d heard fragments of it before—late, private, the kind of noise a woman makes when she’s trying not to be heard and failing. Tonight it didn’t stop. It climbed, cracked, started again. He stared at the ceiling for another minute, then swung his legs off the mattress, pulled on the sweatpants he’d dropped by the bed, and stepped into the hall barefoot.

The whimpering was louder outside her door. He knocked once, not hard.

The door opened six inches. Vanessa stood there in a pale tank top that ended above her navel and a black thong that disappeared between the heavy curves of her ass. Twenty-four, graphic designer, the kind of body that made grocery runs in the stairwell feel like a test. Her cheeks were flushed dark, hair stuck to her neck, and her thighs pressed together like she was holding something in. The smell of her—warm skin, slick, something sharper—hit him before she spoke.

“I can’t,” she said, voice raw. “My pussy’s been soaking for hours and it still isn’t enough. I’ve had the thick plug in my ass since midnight, pulling it out and pushing it back, edging until my hole won’t close. I need a cock. I need yours. Please.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She caught his wrist and tugged him inside, then dropped to her knees on the hallway runner before the door even clicked shut. Her fingers hooked the waistband of his sweatpants and yanked them down. His cock was already thickening from the sound of her and the sight of that thong string vanishing between her cheeks. She didn’t tease. She opened her mouth wide, spit thickly onto the head, and took him in with a wet, messy gulp that smeared saliva down his shaft and onto her chin.

“God, you’re thick,” she mumbled around him, pulling off with a string of spit connecting her lower lip to his cock. She looked up, eyes glassy and locked on his. “I want you to stretch my asshole until it gapes and won’t remember how to tighten. I want you to ruin it. Slam in and don’t stop even if I cry. Please wreck my ass before the sun comes up. Please. I’ve been fucking myself on that plug imagining exactly this—your cock splitting me open while I beg.”

She dove back down, throat working, nose brushing his stomach, slobber dripping onto his balls. One hand cupped them, the other reached back to tug the thong aside so he could see the wide black base of the plug seated between her cheeks. She moaned around his length every time she swallowed, the vibration running straight up his spine. Her eyes never left his. Every time she pulled off to breathe she said it again, voice hoarse and desperate: “Please wreck my ass before the sun comes up. I need it ruined. I need you to use me until I can’t sit tomorrow.”

Benedict’s hand found the back of her head. He didn’t push, just held, feeling the frantic bob of her mouth and the way her spit cooled on his skin. His cock was fully hard now, veins standing out, the head slick and shining every time she dragged her lips back. She gagged herself on purpose, eyes watering, then smiled around him like the mess was the point.

“Kitchen,” he said, voice low. “Now.”

She scrambled up, thong soaked through at the crotch, and led him the short distance past the couch. The kitchen light was already on, low and yellow. She bent over the counter without being told, chest flat to the laminate, ass pushed high. The plug’s base winked between her cheeks. Benedict hooked two fingers under the flange and eased it out. Her hole clung, then released with a soft, wet sound, left gaping and shiny, the rim puffy and reddened from hours of use. A thin string of lube and her own slick stretched and broke.

He spit directly onto the open ring. The saliva landed hot and ran down. She whimpered and rocked back, trying to chase it.

“Please,” she said again. “All of it. Don’t go slow.”

He lined up, the head of his cock pressing into the softened muscle, and drove forward in one long thrust. Every inch sank in until his hips met the soft give of her ass and his balls slapped her soaked pussy. She cried out, fingers scrabbling on the counter, but she pushed back harder instead of pulling away. The grip was filthy—hot, slick, still tight enough at the entrance that he felt every ridge of her as he bottomed out.

He didn’t give her time to adjust. He gripped her hips and fucked her standing, long strokes that pulled almost all the way out so the rim clung to his shaft, then slammed back in until the counter rattled. Her ass rippled with every impact. The wet sounds filled the small kitchen—skin on skin, the obscene squelch of her hole taking him, her broken little moans every time he buried himself.

“Fuck, you’re greedy,” he muttered, watching the way her rim stretched white around him on the out-stroke and swallowed him dark on the way in. “Taking every inch like you were made for it.”

“Harder,” she panted. “Ruin it. I can feel you in my stomach. Don’t stop.”

He reached around and rubbed two fingers over her clit just long enough to make her clench, then pulled his cock free. It came out glistening, coated in the mix of spit, lube, and the deeper slick her ass had worked up. He turned her by the hair, not rough enough to hurt, and pushed the shiny length against her lips.

“Clean it.”

She opened immediately, tongue out, and licked from base to tip, moaning at the taste of herself. She sucked him deep again, cheeks hollowing, eyes up, until he was clean enough that only her spit remained. Then he spun her, lifted her onto the table, and folded her in half. Her ankles ended up beside her ears, held there by his hands, her ass tilted up and completely exposed. The hole was looser now, still gaping a little, fluttering.

He spit again, watched it land inside her, and sank back in to the root in one push. Piledriver. The angle let him go deeper than before. Every thrust punched a broken sound out of her throat. Her tits bounced under the tank top; he shoved the fabric up so he could watch them. Her pussy wept onto the table beneath her, untouched except for the occasional slap of his balls.

“Look at you,” he said, voice rough. “Ass up, legs by your head, taking cock like a whore who can’t get enough. You gonna squirt just from this?”

“Yes—fuck—yes, keep going, don’t pull out, I can feel it building—”

He fucked her through it, relentless, the table creaking under them. When her moans turned high and desperate he pulled out again, dragged her off the table, and sat in the nearest chair. She climbed on facing away without being told, reverse cowgirl, and sank down until her ass rested on his thighs and his cock was buried to the hilt. She started to ride immediately, rolling her hips, the cheeks of her ass spreading and clapping against him.

Benedict brought his palm down hard on one cheek, then the other. The skin pinked fast, then redder with each slap. She yelped and ground down harder, the plug long forgotten on the counter behind them.

“Greedy anal whore,” he said against her ear, spanking her in time with her bounces. “Riding my cock like your pussy doesn’t even exist. You love having your ass ruined, don’t you?”

“I love it—I love it—please spank me harder, call me that again, I’m gonna—”

Her whole body locked. She slammed down and stayed there, ass clenching in rhythmic pulses around him, and a sudden gush of clear fluid sprayed from her pussy onto his thighs and the floor. She squirted hard, shaking, crying out his name while he kept spanking the reddening cheeks and thrusting up into the tight, milking grip of her hole. The orgasm rolled through her in waves; every time she thought it was done another spurt left her and her ass squeezed him again.

When she finally slumped, trembling, he lifted her off his cock. She slid to her knees between his feet without hesitation, mouth open, tongue out, eyes begging.

“Please,” she whispered. “On my face. In my mouth. I want to taste it while my ass is still gaping.”

He stroked himself twice, the slick from her hole making it easy, and came in thick ropes across her tongue, her lips, her cheeks, one stripe catching in her hair. She kept her tongue out the whole time, swallowing what landed in her mouth, letting the rest paint her. When he was finished she reached back, found the plug on the counter, and pressed the thick head against her loosened hole. It slid in easier than it should have. She worked it deep until the base sat flush, sealing his cum and her own mess inside her.

“Thank you,” she said, voice wrecked and sincere, cum dripping from her chin onto her tank top. “I’ve needed someone to wreck my ass like that for months. I’m going to keep your load in me all day while I work. Every time I shift in my chair I’ll feel how ruined I am.”

She was still smiling, fingers resting on the plug’s base, when the apartment door—left unlocked in their rush—swung open hard enough to bang the wall. A man’s voice, sharp and too close, cut through the kitchen.

“Vanessa? Your lights are on and I heard—what the fuck is going on in here?”