My hand is in my jeans. In my briefs. Straightening myself out.
I slowly become aware that I am in a lit room with no curtains and it is growing dark outside. I have enough living brain cells not concentrated in my dick to get myself around the corner into the area behind the stairs so I’m not visible from the street or either of my neighbors’ houses. But that’s as far as I get before I unzip my jeans, free my erection from my briefs, and wrap my fist tight around myself.
That night, I got the condom on so fast that she was still coming when I filled her. Clenching around me, fluttering, whimpering, clutching my arms, my hair, anything she could get her hands on. She gasped at every thrust, pressing herself down on me like she couldn’t get enough.
It was the best kind of sex, the kind you want to go on for hours that has no prayer of lasting more than seconds.
I came so fast, so hard, that I figured I owed her a big apology, except when I started to regain some semblance of conscious thought I realized she was coming again, clamping down around me, biting the crap out of my arm to keep from making noise.
I yell something incoherent and christen my new house with an epic fountain of cum, coating my hands and dousing my shirt.
Laundry. Damn. Gotta install the washer and dryer.
Rookie.