Page 137 of Butterfly Effect

The slow strokes and circles speed up with the addition of more lube and another finger, changing my muffled sounds of pleasure to those of pure, frantic need.

“How’s that feel?”

“Full, sofull,” I drone.

My cock paces the surface of the mattress, tangling itself in a sticky web. I’m already teetering on the edge, and the orgasm whips through a white-hot flash. I topple and cry out for Gabe.

“I’m here,” she coos, kissing my hip and shoulder and stroking the sweaty, barbaric strands of my hair. “Can you be a good boy and give me another?”

I groan ayeswhile drooling into the mattress.

Still half-hard, I ball the sheets while a blurry Gabe prepares the toy, notching it through the o-ring of her strap-on and then lathering a generous amount of lube over its length. Her fingers glaze with some of the excess, and she uses it to coat my insides as prep.

No words, only inhuman, primitive noises flow from me.

“Want you to be loud, Wade.” She takes a deep breath, tapping the buzzing silicone head of her dildo against my lube-covered hole. “Let everyone know how greedy you are for me, for this dick.”

One easy push in, and I’m gone again, lost in the high doled out to me.

“You’re taking it so well.”

My hips pop back in answer to the rolling motion of hers, soft, happy noises escaping from where I bite the sheets.

“So, so well.”

Inch by inch, she takes and takes and takes, every withdrawal blending relief and loss and gluttonous desire together. Each plow, she asks if it’s too much, and each time, I deny it, savoring the delicious stretch. Overwhelmed by how the line of pain and ecstasy becomes less and less clear.

The fake cock bounces off my prostate on the way in and digs against it on the way out. This time, pleasure doesn’t build brick by brick. It appears suddenly and sneaks up like a phantom, ready to devour. I wrack through it, moaning a scream until my throat goes silent.

“Fuck.” Gabe falters. “I’m gonna come.”

The constant spearing goes uneven, and I break, coming so hard I can’t see. Coming and coming andfuck, it can’t be possible for me tostillbe coming. Hot, thick cum stripes between my chest and the bed below.

Her thighs judder against mine, nails clipping the skin of my ass. But she stays vibrating inside me, panting in the wake.

A dull rush of blood in my ears mutes her low, dulcet voice.

“Making you come” — she laughs through a huff— “is better than denying you orgasms. I might be addicted.”

The sound wraps me like a warm blanket on a chilly day, and I want to live in it. Live inside that laughter.

“You think you can handle another?”

My eyes flip open to her maniacal smile.

“Can’t,” I blubber through a groan.

“I know you can do it.” She soothes me with a hush, spread palms skimming over my backside. “Let me make you come again.”

Short respite complete, my leaky cock bobs against my abs. Ready for more.

“Okay.” I agree. I must be crazy.

“That was only half. Can I fill you up?” she says. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

“I want you to.”

It’s true, and I mean it. I might be addicted, too.

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