Sneaking In For Passionate Basement Sex

The backyard was black and slick with dew, and I crossed it like I had no business being there. I am Terrence, twenty-two, and I had killed the engine two streets over so my tires wouldn't crunch in her parents' driveway and give the whole night away. My pulse sat high in my throat. Every window on the second floor of the house was dark. One of those windows belonged to Ingrid's mom and dad, asleep or close enough that a laugh, a slammed door, a shoe dropped on tile would end this in the worst possible way. I kept to the grass instead of the flagstones. Wet soaked in through the sides of my sneakers. I didn't care. I had been hard since the last text, and the dark only made it worse.

Ingrid had started it hours ago, while I was still at my apartment with the television muttering and nothing in my head but her. She is twenty-one, my girlfriend, and she had sent a picture of her thighs spread on her bed, the thin gray tank top shoved up under her tits, one hand buried in pale panties. Then the words, fast and mean with want: come through the backyard. basement door. the second your shoes are off i am not waiting. i have been wet since dinner. I had sat on the edge of my mattress and read it twice, then a third time, my cock already thick against my thigh, and typed back that I was already getting in the car. She had answered with one line I could still feel: good. i want it in my mouth before you even say my name.

Now the basement door was a rectangle of weak light at the bottom of three concrete steps. I went down slow. The railing was cold enough to bite. On the other side of the wood the furnace hummed, steady and low. I lifted my hand for the knock we had used all summer — two soft, one softer — and the door opened before my knuckles touched it.

Ingrid filled the gap. Barefoot on the tile, dark hair a mess over one shoulder like she had been pacing the laundry room in circles. The tank top from the picture was the only thing on her top half, worn so thin I could see the color of her nipples through it, peaked and dark. The panties sat low on her hips. Cotton had gone a little sheer where she was wet, a darker patch right at the center that made my mouth go dry. Flush ran from her cheeks down her throat and across the top of her chest. She looked at me the way she looked at me when she was finished pretending she could wait.

"Quiet," she whispered. Her voice shook. "They're both up there. Mom wakes up if the ice maker drops. If you so much as kick something I'm going to have to explain why the basement sounds like we're filming something."

"Then get me inside before I do," I said. It came out rough.

She stepped back. Cooler air hit me, soap and concrete and the warm under-smell of the dryer vent. A single bulb burned over the washer. Against the far wall sat the old couch her dad kept swearing he would haul to the curb, cushions dented, a throw blanket half on the floor. I crossed the threshold. My heart was so loud I was sure it would carry up the stairs and through the bedroom door.

I looked at her feet, then at mine. She nodded once, sharp, already breathing faster, eyes fixed on my hands like the next ten seconds were the only thing in the world. I braced a palm on the wall and worked off the left sneaker, then the right, and set both of them side by side where I could find them if a stair creaked. Socked feet on cold tile. The second the last shoe left my heel, Ingrid pushed the basement door shut behind me. The latch caught with a small, final click. The yard disappeared. It was just the bulb, the hum, the thin ceiling between our bodies and her sleeping parents, and the look on her face.

She made a sound I had never heard her make with the lights on and a locked bedroom door — a hungry, broken moan, like the waiting had actually hurt — and she dropped straight to her knees.

Her hands were already at my belt. She yanked it open, popped the button, dragged the zipper down with a rasp that seemed too loud in the small room. I sucked in a breath and didn't let it out as a sound. She shoved my jeans and underwear down my thighs in one rough pull, and my cock sprang free, already hard, already wet at the tip from the walk across her yard and the picture still burning behind my eyes. She stared at it for half a second like she was offended it had taken this long, then wrapped her fingers around the base and took me into her mouth.

Heat. Wet. The flat of her tongue under the head, then the slide as she pushed down, greedy, not teasing. I groaned before I could stop myself and clapped a hand over my own mouth. My other hand found her hair. I threaded my fingers through it and held on, not forcing, just needing something to do with the shock of it. She moaned around me, the vibration running straight up my spine, and bobbed, cheeks hollowing, spit already slicking her fist where she stroked what she couldn't fit.

"Fuck, Ingrid," I whispered. "Jesus. You weren't kidding."

She pulled off with a wet sound and looked up, lips shiny, eyes blown dark. "I told you. I've been sitting up there soaked, listening to them snore, thinking about this. Don't you dare be gentle with my mouth. I want it."

She went back down. Deeper this time. I felt the head nudge the back of her throat and she didn't retreat; she swallowed around it, a small choke she turned into another moan, and my knees nearly buckled. The tile was hard under her. I could see the red already starting on her knees and she didn't care. She sucked me like the door might open any second and she intended to get as much of me as she could before it did. Her free hand slid up under my shirt, nails dragging over my stomach, then down to cup my balls, rolling them while her mouth worked. Every pull of her lips was filthy and sure. She knew exactly how I liked it — the twist of her wrist, the tongue pressed flat on the way up, the little suck at the tip that made my thighs jump — and she used all of it without mercy.

I looked down and almost lost it. Tank top strap slipped off one shoulder. Nipples stiff against the thin fabric. Panties darkened between her thighs because sucking me was getting her off. The risk sat in the room with us, bright as the bulb. If her mom came down for a glass of water we were finished. The thought should have softened me. It did the opposite. My cock throbbed against her tongue and she felt it and hummed, pleased, and took me deeper.

"Enough," I rasped, though I didn't mean it, not really. "I'm gonna—"

She came off me with a pop, a string of spit connecting her lower lip to the head, and surged up my body. Her mouth hit mine before I had my balance. She tasted like me and like the mint she'd chewed while she waited, and the kiss was not sweet. It was open and desperate, teeth catching my lip, her tongue pushing in like she was trying to climb inside my mouth. I grabbed her ass with both hands and hauled her against me. My cock, wet from her mouth, smeared across her stomach and the front of those ruined panties. She ground down on it and whimpered into the kiss.

"Touch me," she said against my teeth. "I've been aching. Right there. Feel it."

I shoved a hand down the front of her panties. She was soaked, swollen, hot enough that my fingers slipped straight through her folds with no resistance at all. She jerked and bit my shoulder to keep from crying out. I rubbed her clit in tight circles the way she liked when she was already too far gone to be teased, and she rocked on my hand, panting, whispering filth into my neck.

"Yes. Like that. God, Terrence, I've been clenching on nothing for hours. I almost came in the kitchen while Mom was talking about the neighbor's dog. I had to leave. I had to come down here and wait with my hand in my panties like a slut. That's what you do to me."

"Good," I said, and pushed two fingers into her. She was so wet they sank to the knuckle. Her cunt gripped me, fluttering, and she made a broken noise against my collarbone. I fucked her with my fingers, slow and deep, thumb on her clit, while she yanked my shirt up and got her mouth on my chest, biting, licking, frantic. Her tank top was rucked under her tits. I palmed one, pinched the nipple, and she shuddered so hard her knee knocked the washer.

"We have to be quiet," I said, and didn't stop.

"Then stop making me want to scream," she hissed, and kissed me again, messy, all tongue, her hand wrapping my cock and stroking it against her wrist while I worked her open. We staggered. My jeans were a trap around my thighs. I kicked at them without letting go of her and got one leg free, then the other, underwear gone with them, and stood there in my shirt and socks with her panties shoved aside under my palm and her breath breaking on every stroke of my fingers.

She pulled back just far enough to look at me. Her mouth was red. Her eyes were wild. Upstairs, something creaked — a bed frame, or the house settling — and both of us froze. My fingers were still buried in her. Her hand was still on my cock. We listened. Nothing followed. A pipe ticked. The furnace kept its low hum. Ingrid's laugh came out shaky and filthy.

"If they come down," she whispered, "they're going to find your cock in me. I'm not stopping. I've wanted this since you texted me back. Bend me over that ugly couch before I lose my mind on your fingers."

She stepped out of my hand, turned, and crossed the three feet to the old couch like she had been planning the angle all night. The throw blanket got kicked aside. She planted her hands on the back cushion, arched, and looked at me over her shoulder. The tank top had fallen back down; she didn't bother fixing it. With one hand she reached back, hooked the crotch of her panties, and pulled them aside. The fabric stretched. Her cunt was bare to the basement air, pink and shining, swollen from my fingers, and she spread her stance on the concrete so I could see all of it.

"Now," she said. "Don't make me ask twice. Put it in."

I stepped in behind her and lined up. The head slid through her folds, caught, and pushed. She was so wet I sank in halfway on the first thrust, heat clamping down around me so tight I had to grit my teeth. Ingrid's head dropped. A moan started in her chest and she bit the cushion to kill it. I grabbed her hips and drove the rest of the way in, one long stroke, until my hips met her ass and I was buried to the root.

"Fuck," she gasped into the fabric. "Fuck, that's — yes. All of it. Stay there a second. Let me feel how deep you are."

I held still, shaking, her cunt pulsing around me in little greedy flutters. The risk roared in my ears. The couch creaked under her weight and I winced, then decided I didn't care if the frame complained as long as we didn't. I drew back slow, watching my cock shine as it left her, and slammed back in. She jolted forward and shoved herself back to meet me. The sound of it was obscene — wet, sharp, the slap of skin that we both tried and failed to soften.

"Harder," she whispered. "I didn't sneak you in for polite. Fuck me like you've been thinking about it in the car."

I did. I set a pace that was too fast for caution and exactly what both of us had been holding back since the first text. Deep, pounding strokes, my hips snapping, her ass rippling every time I bottomed out. The panties stayed hooked to the side, a pale band cutting across one cheek. I reached under her and found her clit again, rubbing while I fucked her, and she had to stuff the throw blanket against her mouth. Every thrust punched a muffled sound out of her. I could feel her getting tighter, slicker, the telltale clutch that meant she was climbing and didn't want to be talked down.

"You feel that?" I said against her ear, bent over her back, still driving in. "That's me in your parents' basement. You're dripping down my balls. If your mom opens that door she's going to see her daughter bent over the couch taking cock like she was made for it."

"Good," Ingrid choked. "Let her. Don't stop. Right there — God, Terrence, right there, you're so deep, I can feel you in my stomach. Smack me. I want it. I want to feel it tomorrow when I sit at their table and try to look normal."

I brought my palm down on her ass, not a love tap, a real smack that cracked in the quiet room and left a hot print. She yelped into the blanket and shoved back harder, cunt spasming around me. I did it again, the other cheek, then gripped both hips and pounded her through the sting. The couch walked an inch across the floor. We froze for a heartbeat, listening to the house, and when nothing answered she laughed, breathless and ruined, and reached back to spread herself wider.

"Switch," she said. "I want to ride it. I want to watch you try not to come while I use you. Sit. Now."

I pulled out. The loss of her made me swear under my breath. My cock stood up flushed and shining, her wetness cooling on it. Ingrid turned, kissed me once — hard, tasting like the cushion and her own spit — and shoved me down onto the couch. The cushions sighed. I sat with my thighs spread, jeans abandoned somewhere by the washer, and she climbed on facing away from me, reverse, one knee on either side of my hips. She reached down, lined me up, and sank.

The angle was different and meaner. She took me to the base in one slow drop and her head fell back against my shoulder. I could see, over her body, the way her stomach tightened, the way her tits moved under the tank top, the way her pussy stretched around me when she lifted and dropped again. She planted her hands on my knees and started to ride. Hard. No warm-up. Her ass slapped my thighs in a steady, filthy rhythm, and every time she came down I felt the head of my cock knock deep.

"Grip me," she ordered, voice shredded. "Hold my hips and don't let me be nice about it."

I did. Both hands locked on her waist, guiding her down onto me, meeting her with upward thrusts that made her breath break. She rode like she was chasing something and was angry it hadn't happened yet. I watched my cock disappear into her over and over, the panties still wrenched aside, the elastic digging into her hip. Her ass was red where I'd smacked it. I brought my hand down again, a sharp crack on the left cheek, and she moaned so loud I had to clap my palm over her mouth.

"Quiet," I said into her hair, and smacked her again, softer only because the sound carried. "Take it. Ride me. Use that cunt. You wanted this the second the door shut. So take it."

She nodded against my hand, frantic, and fucked herself on me faster. I let her mouth go so she could breathe and she whispered, barely sound at all, a stream of filth that went straight to my balls.

"I love your cock. I love how it fills me. I'm going to come on it. I'm going to come while my parents are right above us and you're going to feel every bit of it. Smack me again. Tell me I'm your slut. Tell me you're going to pump me full and send me back upstairs with it leaking out of me."

"You're my slut," I said, and meant every word of it in that room, in that hour. I gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and slammed up into her. "My filthy girlfriend who can't wait for a bed. Who opens the door in wet panties and gets on her knees before I even speak. Come on my cock. Do it. Clench on me. I want to feel you lose it."

I smacked her ass again, then again, alternating, keeping the blows just shy of too loud, and she started to shake. Her rhythm fell apart. She ground down and stayed there, circling, rubbing her clit against nothing but the pressure of being stuffed full, and I reached around and gave her my fingers. Two tight circles. She broke.

Her whole body locked. A shudder ran through her from her shoulders to her thighs, and her cunt clamped down on me in hard, pulsing waves, milking, fluttering, so tight I saw white at the edges of my vision. She bit her own wrist to stay silent. The orgasm rolled through her in long squeezes I could count, each one dragging a helpless sound out of her throat and a fresh flood of wetness around my cock. I held her hips and fucked her through it, short deep thrusts, and the clench of her coming undid me.

"Ingrid — I'm — fuck, I'm coming, I'm coming inside you—"

"Yes," she gasped, still shaking, still tight. "Do it. Fill me. I want it. Give it to me, Terrence, all of it, deep—"

I buried myself to the hilt and let go. The first pulse was so hard it hurt, a hot spill deep in her cunt, and then another, and another, my hips jerking up off the couch as I emptied into her. She moaned at the feel of it, grinding down to take every drop, her orgasm still flickering around me in aftershocks that pulled more out of me than I thought I had. I came until my thighs trembled and my grip on her hips went slack and there was nothing left but the heavy, wet throb of being buried in her while she fluttered and leaked around the mess I'd just made.

We stayed like that. Joined. Breathing like we'd run. Her back against my chest, my cock softening slowly inside the heat and the slick of what we'd done. The basement smelled like sex and laundry soap. Upstairs, the house kept its ordinary night sounds and did not come down the stairs. Ingrid turned her face and found my mouth. The kisses were slow now, lazy, open, her tongue sliding against mine without urgency, both of us tasting the effort and the quiet. I kissed her and felt myself slip, inch by inch, still inside her, still held. She sighed into my mouth and didn't move yet. My hands rested on her thighs. Her fingers drew idle lines on my knees. For a minute the only filthy thing in the room was the wet sound when she shifted and more of me leaked out around my softening cock onto the cushion we would both pretend not to notice later.

She lifted off at last, careful, a hand between her legs. I watched my cum follow her, thick and white, sliding out of her pussy and over her fingers. She looked at it, then at me, and the smile that crossed her mouth was satisfied and a little wicked. She tugged the panties back into place. The cotton darkened immediately. She pulled the tank top down, smoothed her hair with the hand that wasn't wet, and stood over me while I found my jeans and dragged them up my shaky legs.

"Same way you came in," she whispered, close to my ear, the smile still there. "Before dawn. Shoes on at the door. Don't turn the car on until you're at the end of the block. If Mom's light is on, you wait in the bushes like a pervert until it goes off."

I nodded, still wrecked, still tasting her. She leaned in, kissed the corner of my mouth once more, and then her voice dropped into something that had no softness left in it at all.

"And when you jerk off tomorrow remembering this, know my cunt is still full of your cum and I'm going to finger it back in before I go to sleep."