Part Three: The Edge and the Fall
We’re tangled now—sweat-slick skin sliding against skin, breaths syncing in short, desperate bursts.
You’re still inside me, rocking slow and deep, drawing out every aftershock while I pulse around you in lazy, greedy ripples. But the laziness is fading fast. Your eyes have that dark, focused look again. The one that says we’re not coasting anymore.
You pull out suddenly—slow enough to make me whimper at the loss—then flip me onto my stomach with one smooth, possessive motion. Face down, ass up, silk slip bunched around my ribs like it’s given up trying to cover anything. Your hands grip my hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above my ass, spreading me open for you.
No words this time.
Just the blunt heat of you nudging back at my entrance, thicker now, harder, like the brief break only made you hungrier.
You don’t ease in.
You drive forward in one long, relentless thrust—deep enough that my breath punches out of me in a sharp, surprised moan. My fingers claw the sheets; my back arches hard. You hold there a second—fully seated, hips flush against me—letting me feel every thick inch stretching me open again.
Then you start to fuck me.
Not polite. Not teasing.
Hard. Fast. Deep. The kind of rhythm that makes the headboard knock once, twice, then settle into a steady, obscene thud-thud-thud against the wall.
Each stroke bottoms out with a wet slap that echoes louder than our breathing. Your balls tap my clit on every inward snap—sharp little shocks that make my thighs shake. I push back to meet you, greedy, shameless, chasing that pressure building low in my belly like a storm rolling in.
One of your hands slides up my spine, fingers threading into my hair. Not pulling—yet. Just holding. Controlling the angle so every thrust drags perfectly against that swollen spot inside me.
“Fuck—right there,” I gasp, voice muffled against the pillow.
You growl something incoherent—half curse, half praise—and angle your hips just a fraction higher.
Now it’s merciless.
You pound into me like you’re trying to imprint yourself permanently. My whole body jolts forward with each thrust; my breasts drag against the sheets, nipples aching from the friction. The wet sounds are filthy—slick, obscene, unmistakable. I can feel myself dripping down my thighs, coating us both.
Your free hand snakes around to find my clit.
No gentle circles this time.
Firm, fast rubs—two fingers pinching and rolling in time with your thrusts. The dual assault is devastating. My legs start to give out; you haul me back up by the hips without breaking rhythm.
“Come on,” you rasp, voice wrecked and low. “Give it to me. Let me feel you fucking soak me.”
The command hits like a spark to dry grass.
Everything tightens—my core, my thighs, my breath. The pressure coils so hard it almost hurts, then snaps.
I come with a scream I don’t recognize—raw, broken, animal. My walls clamp down on you like a vise, fluttering violently, trying to pull you deeper even as my whole body convulses. Wave after wave crashes through me; I can’t stop shaking, can’t stop clenching, can’t stop the gush of wetness that floods around you and drips onto the sheets.
You don’t slow down.
If anything you fuck me harder—chasing your own edge through the tight, pulsing grip of my orgasm. Your rhythm turns erratic, desperate. Hips slamming forward, breath coming in harsh grunts against my neck.
“Fuck—fuck—Sinnnnnnn—”
My name tears out of you like a plea.
One last brutal thrust buries you to the hilt.
You swell impossibly thicker inside me—then erupt.
The first pulse is so strong I feel it hit deep, hot and heavy. Then another, and another—thick ropes flooding me, spilling out around your cock because there’s no room left. Your whole body locks; your fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise; a long, guttural groan rips from your throat as you grind against me, milking every last shudder from both of us.
We collapse together—your weight pinning me to the mattress, still twitching inside me, still leaking the last weak pulses. My pulse thunders in my ears. My legs are jelly. My skin feels electric, oversensitive, like even the fan’s breeze is too much.
You press a sloppy, trembling kiss to the back of my neck.
“Jesus,” you mutter, voice hoarse. “I think you broke me.”
I laugh—shaky, breathless, delirious.
“Good,” I manage. “Because I’m keeping you.”
We stay like that—sweaty, wrecked, fused—while our breathing slowly syncs again.
The room smells like sex and cedar and us.
The fan keeps spinning overhead, indifferent.
Eventually you roll us to our sides, still inside me, softening but not pulling out yet.
Your arm bands around my waist.
My back to your chest.
Your lips find the shell of my ear.
“Round four?” you whisper, already stirring again.
I reach back, thread my fingers through your hair, and tug you closer.
“Only if you can still walk after this one.”
Challenge accepted.
What was your best fuck?
Our number is in my name: SINclair @ 888-750-4SIN (4746) X832