Waiting for You: Stroking, Then Devouring Your Ass and Pussy

I have been sitting on the edge of our bed for almost an hour, twenty-eight years old and naked, cock heavy in my fist, stroking myself slow enough that the pleasure stays a burn instead of a break. The apartment is dim, one lamp on, the air warm and still, thick with the anticipation I have been feeding since your first text. You are twenty-six, Colette, and your late shift always empties you out and winds you tight at the same time, and tonight you spent the whole day telling me exactly how badly you needed to come home and be used. I read every message with my hand already on myself. I want it rough. I want you to take me the second I walk in. I want my wrists behind my back and your mouth on me and I want you to fuck me until I forget your name. Light, you said. Mean, you said. Ours.

So I wait the way you asked me to wait. My palm glides from base to tip in one long stroke, then back down, fingers loose, thumb catching the slick at the head and spreading it until my cock shines. I do not chase the edge. I ride just under it, hips barely moving, breath steady, imagining the door, your keys, the sound of your bag hitting the floor. I picture grabbing you before you can speak. I picture throwing you face-down on these sheets and tearing those black leggings open at the crotch so I can get my mouth on your ass and your pussy without wasting a second on politeness. You begged for that. We talked it through last weekend on this same bed, sober, clear-eyed, your hand in mine while you told me the word that stops everything and the look you give me when you want me to keep going. You have not used the word today. You have used please.

My cock throbs against my fingers. I tighten just enough to feel the pulse, then loosen again, teasing myself the way I mean to tease you before I stop teasing at all. Precome beads and spills. I smear it down the shaft and stroke slower, savoring the wet drag, the heat gathering low in my belly. I can already taste you. I can already feel the way your ass will open under my tongue, the way your pussy will clench when I lick you from behind, helpless and loud, exactly the way you get when I take what you offer me. Dominance sits in my chest like a held breath. I am going to pin you. I am going to fuck you. I am going to make you come until language fails. My fist works me in those same deliberate pulls, up and down, up and down, and I watch the door.

The lock turns.

You come through the door flushed, hair half out of its clip, work bag slung on one shoulder, those black leggings clinging to your hips the way they always do after a long shift. Your eyes find me immediately. Naked. Hard. Hand still moving on my cock in that slow stroke you have been imagining all day, if your texts are any measure of the truth. Your mouth opens. Whatever greeting you meant to give me dies there. Color rises high in your cheeks, and I watch your thighs press together like your body has already answered for you, eager and shameless and done waiting.

I drop my hand.

I do not speak. We agreed on that too, the silence, the grab, the way the night starts when I stop asking and start taking, because asking happened this morning and all afternoon and you answered yes every single time. I cross the room in three strides. Your bag hits the floor. My hands close on your waist, firm and sure, and I feel the hungry little sound you make against my chest before I turn you and walk you backward toward the bed. You are not fighting me. You are reaching, fingers scrabbling at my shoulders, breath hitching, whispering my name like a plea you do not actually want answered with words. Your body leans into the roughness. You rise onto your toes to get closer, already grinding the heat of you against my thigh through those leggings, wet enough that I feel it.

I throw you.

You land face-down on the mattress with a soft cry that breaks into a laugh, startled and starving, and you push your ass up without being told. That is consent written in the line of your spine. I hook my fingers into the seam of your leggings at the crotch and tear. The fabric gives with a sharp rip, cotton and stretch splitting wide, and cool air hits the soaked heat of you. No panties. You planned that. You told me you would. The ragged opening frames your pussy, glistening, swollen, lips parted and shining, and the tight cleft of your ass above it, and the sight of you offered like that makes my cock jump so hard I have to grip the base for a second or I will lose the control I have been nursing for an hour. You arch harder, presenting, a wrecked little whimper slipping out of you as the torn edges drag against your skin.

"Emmett," you gasp into the sheets, and it is not a stop. It is a yes with my name on it. Your hands fist the gray cotton. Your hips roll back toward me, shameless, chasing my hands, chasing my mouth, chasing the use you spent all day begging for. I spread the ruined leggings wider with both palms, baring more of you, and I kneel on the bed behind your thighs. You smell like the end of a long shift and the sweet, sharp musk of how badly you need this. I run my thumbs along the soft inner curves of your ass and pull you open, and you moan, low and wrecked, already shaking.

"Please," you say, voice muffled, urgent. "Please, I need you to—"

I do not let you finish. My mouth is already on you.

I drag my tongue from the dripping mouth of your pussy up through the cleft of your ass in one slow, filthy stroke, and the sound you make is not a word. You taste like want. Salt and sweetness and hours of sitting through a shift while you texted me filth and stayed aching. I do it again, broader, flattening my tongue so I cover you, then I seal my mouth over your pussy and suck. Your hips jerk. I hold you down with a forearm across the small of your back and lick into you, tongue-fucking that tight, wet hole in short, ruthless thrusts while you sob into the mattress and push back for more. You are soaked. Every plunge of my tongue makes a slick sound, obscene in the quiet apartment, and I drink it, greedy, nose buried against you, jaw working.

Then I move up. I spread you wider with both thumbs and lay my tongue flat against your ass, circling the tight ring until it flutters, until you gasp my name like you are afraid of how much you want it. You told me you wanted this. You told me not to be gentle with either hole. I press in. The muscle gives, hot and clutching, and I tongue-fuck your ass the same way I tongue-fucked your pussy, deep as I can get, slow at first and then meaner, spit slicking you open while you shake and curse and grind your face into the sheets. I alternate. Pussy, then ass, then pussy again, never letting you settle, fucking both holes with my tongue until your thighs tremble and your voice goes thin and high. I suck your clit from behind, awkward and hungry, then drive back into your cunt, then up again to rim you until you are dripping down my chin.

"Oh God—yes—there, right there, don't stop, please don't—"

I do not stop. I fuck your ass with my tongue while two fingers slide into your pussy and curl, and you wail, clenching around both, soaking my hand. I work you like that until your legs threaten to give, then I pull my mouth off you with a wet sound and wipe my chin on the inside of your thigh. You are open. Shining. Ruined already, and I have not even put my cock in you.

I climb over you. I straddle the backs of your thighs, my weight settling, my cock dragging through the mess between your legs, and I catch both of your wrists in one hand and draw them behind your back. Light. Firm. The hold we practiced, the one you can slip if you need to, the one that still makes you go soft and desperate under me because you like being kept. You test it once, a flex, not a fight, and then you melt, cheek to the sheet, ass tipped up as far as my weight allows.

"Stay," I say, the first word I have given you since you walked in.

You nod, frantic. I notch the head of my cock against your pussy and push. You are so wet I sink in halfway on the first stroke, and the heat of you closes around me like a fist. I groan through my teeth and drive the rest of the way, deep, until my hips meet the curve of your ass and you cry out, stuffed full, wrists trapped in my grip. I do not give you time to adjust past that first bright stretch. I pull back and slam in again. Then again. The bed jolts. Your torn leggings strain around your thighs. I fuck you prone and pinned, long hard strokes that knock the breath out of you, my free hand braced beside your shoulder, my cock opening you over and over while you take it and beg for more in broken pieces.

"That's it," I tell you, voice low against your ear. "Take it. You walked in dripping for this. You texted me all day so I would use this pussy the second you got home, and I am. Feel how deep. Feel who has you."

You moan something that might be yes. I tighten my hold on your wrists, not enough to hurt, enough to remind you, and I grind in on the next thrust, circling, then hammering again, the wet slap of my hips against your ass filling the room. You clench every time I bottom out. I angle my hips and find the spot that makes your voice crack, and I stay there, fucking it, ruthless and steady, until you are shaking under me and chanting please like the word has lost every meaning except more. Sweat slicks the small of your back. My balls draw up tight against you with every stroke. I am close, too close, the hour of stroking myself burning off all at once, and I am not ready to finish. Not until I have heard you come. Not until I have had you on your back with my mouth on you again.

I pull out. You whimper at the loss, empty and clenching on nothing, and I release your wrists only long enough to flip you. You go easily, dazed, hair stuck to your mouth, eyes blown wide and dark. I shove the ruined leggings farther down your thighs and spread you open on your back, knees bent, and I drop between them before you can catch your breath.

"Emmett—"

I eat you like I am starving. My mouth seals over your pussy and I lick you from hole to clit in one long stroke, then I suck that swollen bud between my lips and flick it with the point of my tongue, fast, merciless, two fingers sliding back into you and curling hard. You bow off the bed. Your hands fly to my hair, not pushing me away, holding me there, and I let you, because this part is mine to give and yours to break on. I tongue-fuck you again, then return to your clit, sucking, circling, pressing the flat of my tongue in slow grinds that make your thighs clamp around my ears. You taste like yourself and like me, sharp and rich, and I groan into you so you feel it. Your hips roll, chasing, losing rhythm. I pin one thigh wide with my forearm and fuck you with my fingers while my mouth stays locked on your clit, and I feel the orgasm hit before you can warn me.

You come with a shattered cry, pussy clamping down on my fingers, pulsing, flooding my tongue. I do not let up. I lick you through it, softer only for a heartbeat, then harder again, drawing it out until you are sobbing and trying to twist away and pulling me back in the same motion. When the first wave breaks I kiss the inside of your thigh, bite lightly, and go right back down, licking slow through the aftershocks until you are whimpering my name like you are not sure you can survive a second one. I give it to you anyway. Fingers crooked, tongue ruthless, and you come again, smaller and sharper, a broken wail, thighs shaking against my shoulders, hands fisted so tight in my hair it stings.

I rise over you while you are still fluttering. I catch your wrists and pin them above your head this time, both of them in one hand against the mattress, and I push my cock back into your soaked, clenching pussy in one long drive. You gasp, oversensitive, eyes wet, and you nod before I even ask, hips lifting to take me deeper.

"Again," I tell you. "You are going to come on my cock until you cannot say my name."

I fuck you. Not the measured strokes from before. This is harder, deeper, the kind of pounding you begged for in those texts, my hips snapping, the head of my cock striking that sweet spot on every thrust while I hold your wrists and watch your face come apart. The bed knocks the wall. Your breasts bounce with each impact. Your mouth falls open and stays open, sounds pouring out of you, raw and helpless, and I talk you through it because you like my voice when you are this far gone.

"Good girl. Take every inch. This pussy is mine tonight. Look at you, coming apart, so wet I can hear it. You wanted to be used. You are being used. Come for me."

You do. The third orgasm rips through you with a scream, your whole body locking, cunt gripping me so tight I have to grit my teeth to keep moving. I do not stop. I fuck you through it, through the clench and the rush and the way you try to say my name and only manage the first broken syllable. Em— and then nothing, just a sob, just the wet slap of me driving into you while you shake and gush around my cock. I release one of your wrists so I can get a hand between us, thumb on your clit, and I rub you in tight circles while I keep pounding, and you come again almost immediately, a fourth, screaming, heels digging into the mattress, back arched so hard I have to follow you up.

"Say my name," I growl, fucking you through the peak, not letting it end.

You try. Your mouth works. Your eyes find mine, glazed, wrecked, adoring, and what comes out is not Emmett. It is a moan. It is please. It is a sound with no shape at all, your voice gone, your name for me lost somewhere under the pleasure I am fucking into you. You forget it. I watch you forget it. Another climax takes you while you are still inside the last one, or maybe it is the same one that simply refuses to stop, and you thrash under my hand and my cock, wrists flexing in my grip, crying out wordlessly, pussy milking me in rhythmic pulses that drag me right to the edge.

I cannot hold it. I slam deep and stay there, grinding, and I spill inside you in long, hot pulses, groaning against your throat while you shudder through the tail of it, still clenching, still gone. My hips jerk with each spurt. I fill you until it leaks around my cock and slicks your ass, and I keep myself buried, shaking, until the last of it leaves me.

For a moment there is only breath. Yours, wrecked. Mine, ragged. The lamp hums. The sheets are a mess under us, gray cotton darkened, your torn leggings tangled at your knees. I ease my grip and let your wrists go, rubbing the faint marks with my thumbs, checking you the way I always do, and you flex your fingers and reach for me immediately, no flinch, no retreat. I gather you up against my chest, still inside you, softening, your legs hooked weakly around my hips. You cling. Your face presses into my neck. You are trembling, blissed-out, soaked with sweat and come and the proof of how thoroughly I used you, and the little sound you make is pure satisfaction.

"Mine," I whisper into your hair, possessive and quiet, praise more than anything else. "You took all of it. You were perfect. So good for me, Colette. So fucking good."

You nod against my throat, spent, already pressing closer like you are afraid I might let you go. Your mouth moves. You are trying, I can tell, to find the shape of me again, to give me back the name I fucked out of you. It does not come. You laugh once, breathless and ruined, and hold on tighter, and I know from the way your hips shift, slow and greedy even now, that you are already craving the next night I sit in this apartment and stroke myself until you walk through the door.

You will forget me every time I decide you should, and you will still come home begging for it.