It’s often very nice to perform a meticulously planned scene, with a neatly defined start point and a script for me to follow, having collaborated on a fantasy for days, if not cock-teasing weeks, with you as my devious co-conspirator. I enjoy being led to the bedroom, knowing that you’re about to play your part and I am about to play mine, line by line, blow by blow, perfectly executed and immensely satisfying…
But this fantasy is not that.
This fantasy rarely takes place in a bedroom – instead it’ll be set in a stairwell, a nightclub toilet, an alleyway, an office… anywhere, because in this fantasy, it is all but impossible to make it to the bedroom.
In this fantasy, you or I or both of us snap. There’s tension in the air, a look or a touch or a too-long hug drawing out every painful second until snap, and then our mouths are together.
We don’t stop to exchange Yes/No/Maybe lists. We barely stop to breathe. It becomes less like kissing and more like grinding our faces together, biting each other’s lips and all but fucking each other’s mouths with our tongues. Your spit, or mine, or both is somehow all over my chin.
Meanwhile, we have either found a wall or a horizontal surface to support us. At the moment, I’m favouring the version of this fantasy where you press me into a wall, your knee between my legs, pinning me as though I’m not still clinging to you, pulling you in closer by your hips or your asscheeks or the belt loops on your jeans with absolutely no intention of running away. Still, your body sandwiches me against the wall as your hands find my hair, my neck, my tits, my waist, and we still have our faces entangled.
It doesn’t take long, in this fantasy, for us to start yanking off clothes – our own or each other’s, it doesn’t really matter – and for me to feel your skin against mine. I drink it in and apparently so do you, running your hands over every inch you can reach while your torso is still flush against mine. Your mouth soon follows suit, and you finally pull away from me enough to kiss my collarbones, my neck, my tits. While my hands try out their fingernails on your back, your hands find my nipples and pinch. Everything is rough grabbing and grinding and biting and desperately, so desperately trying to envelop each other, to sate the burning hunger we both feel all over our bodies.
Obviously in this fantasy your cock is already achingly hard. It brushes against my stomach while we’re groping each other, leaving a light smear of precum behind. I run my nails across your lower back, around across one hip, and then I finally give in and grab it, hearing your breathing shift as I squeeze it lightly. Impulse leads me to start stroking it, at least as hungry for you to feel good as I am to feel good myself, and your hips follow my hand, fucking my half-closed fist.
Your fingers aren’t gentle when they replace the knee between my legs and I don’t mind at all, widening my stance to give you access to the aching, soaked slit of my cunt. You find my hardened clit with your thumb in seconds as you hook one rough finger, or even two, into the entrance of my vagina. Wherever my mouth is, against your neck or biting your shoulder or fused back onto yours, I make a small but heartfelt moaning noise. You make one back, and one or both of us escalates the matter.
Usually, this is the part in the fantasy where you manhandle me into turning 180°, grab my hair or the back of my neck and bend me, supported by the wall or over a table, a sofa, anything. Your hands are on both my hips and I can feel the wetness from my pussy on the fingers of one of them, smearing haphazardly across my skin as you line me up. You don’t savour the moment your cock enters me, instead shoving it in with such force that if it weren’t for your grip on me I’d probably fall, and you press yourself flush to me so that I feel every millimeter of your dick, from the thick shift holding the entrance of my cunt open to the reddened, taut head pressing against my cervix.
The moans and grunts and “Oh, fuck”s start in earnest from both of us as you rock back and forth, slamming into me and into me and into me as deep as you possibly can, your balls hitting my clit and your nails digging viciously into my hips. Your sweat drips onto me. You spit onto your dick without slowing down.
Maybe we switch positions, maybe we carry on like this, but you don’t stop when I announce I’m going to cum. Instead, you growl something like, “Then fucking cum for me, you dirty bitch,” knowing that hearing that will help tip me over the edge and make my cunt tighten around your dick, raising the volume of my moans as everything white-hot and intense in my pussy and abdomen amplifies into a thrumming supernova for long, long, long seconds, my legs shaking underneath me. It feels a little like that swooping sensation you feel in your stomach as you come over the peak of a rollercoaster and down again, amplified and hot and a little further down. I don’t usually squirt or drip when I cum, but sometimes in this fantasy I’m lightly embarrassed by the sound of a droplet of my cum hitting the floor.
You pause and ask, sincerely, “Are you okay?”
I nod shakily, feeling my cunt contract around your cock again. I know you feel it too, because as soon as you have my reassurance that I’m fine, the very second my head bobs affirmatively, you return immediately to pounding me with the ferocity of someone whose arousal has dismissed their coherent thoughts and is driving their hips into the source of their overwhelming pleasure: my trembling, hot cunt, attached to my trembling body, situated between my trembling legs that are streaked bright red by your fingernails.
My whole cunt is still inflamed, and I all but wail at the acuteness of the stimulation as you pump your dick in and out of me, satisfied enough with how hard I just came to start fucking me selfishly, hungrily, like you’re using my body to jerk off with. You ignore the increasing volume of the incoherent sounds coming out of my mouth and I know that you don’t care that it hurts. You like that it hurts, and so do I.
You call me a dirty bitch again. I can tell you’re close, so I beg you to fuck me harder (“please, it doesn’t matter if it hurts, I want you to ruin my cunt”). If we’re still against a wall, you reach forward to clutch my hair, still bruising the inside of my vagina nonstop as you do so. I tell you more than once how good your dick feels inside me, how much I love getting fucked by you. You slap my ass and thighs while you call me a desperate little slut with a tight, slick pussy that you’re going to cum in – and then you do. Hard, pulling me flush to you again and jerking slightly as your twitching cock fills me with your cum, and all that keeps it from dripping back out is the aforementioned hard cock.
After savouring the feeling of my cum-drenched vagina for a few moments, breathing raggedly, you slowly withdraw your dick and cum drips onto the floor, trickling over my still-hypersensitive clit in the process. The warm feeling of it gushing out of me and down my thighs is delicious, and it makes me feel like the little slut you said I was.
This fantasy can branch off in many directions from here. Maybe you ask me to lick up your cum, whether that’s the cum coating your dick, the cum dribbling out of my cunt or the cum that dripped onto the floor. Maybe I play with your ass, or you play with mine, or both. Maybe you drag me by the hair to the shower to rinse me off, or to piss on me. Whichever direction it takes, the theme is always the same: raw, rough and desperate, messy and hungry as we’re drawn together like magnets, irresistibly.
And uh, there’s usually a lot of cum.
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