Page 44 of Petrichor

“Couldn’t resist another taste of my big dick,” he hisses darkly, slapping my lower lip with the tip. Why do I like it? Why do I crave him this much?

He forces my mouth open before I can answer, pushing his thumb inside, brushing the pad on my piercing, before parting my lips even more. Then he shoves his length in. It fucks into my mouth and nudges at the back of my throat, feeding all my senses with its thickness. I gaze up, enjoying the weight of him pinning me to the bed, forcing me to take it.

Like the first time, I forget about everything else as he drives his dick and stuffs me. His thrusts start slow and hard, but soon they turn deep and fast. I tighten my grip on his legs, and in the next second, my wrists are seized and pressed against the sheet over my head by both his hands as he begins to pound inside my mouth mercilessly.

My throat will soon turn sore, but I relax it even more, wanting him to reach deeper, to hear more of his hot groans, to taste his pre-cum on my tongue again. I can hardly breathe and God, the cock abusing my mouth is the best I’ve ever had, nine inches of uncut power, which I want to feel stretching the inside of another hole.

His balls keep hitting my chin as spit drips out down to my neck. My eyes are watery, focused on the way his muscled torso flexes so close to me.

I don’t know if I can take much more. I feel like I’m going to pass out soon. My balls feel like they are about to explode, and my dick aches to be touched. I try to move my hands, but his grasp turns even tighter and he rides my face even faster. Almost choking me.

My eyes cross, and my body arches in ecstasy as cum shoots inside my panties after I hear him say threateningly, “You’re not going anywhere, pretty Butterfly. You’ll stay here and fucking take me.”

He suddenly releases me and sits up. His thumb is again in my mouth, keeping it open as he jerks off with his cockhead pushing on my tongue. I stick it out just when hot, thick cum lands on it as he throbs under my eyes, and he utters a hoarse shout. The feel of his jizz sends me over the edge untouched for the second time while he keeps shooting inside my mouth and over my cheek.

“Don’t just swallow it. Get a good taste first,” he orders. I open my mouth to show him how full he made it and then close it, enjoying the salty, musky taste before letting it roll down my throat.

I let out a garbled, obscenely muffled moan, and he holds my jaw still as he spreads his jizz over my cheeks with his long fingers. When he’s done, his eyes stay on me, and I wish there was a light on in the room to see him better.

He lifts his leg and goes back to his side, lying down over the soft sheets with a sigh. A sense of agonizing abandonment assaults me, desolation, heartache. I can’t take the suffocating feeling. So, I scramble down to the foot of the bed and stop near his legs, not caring about rejection.

I see him raise his head off the pillow as I push my hair back and take his half-hard cock into my hand. I start licking it lazily, sucking on the salty head, cleaning it. This is heaven. The feel of his body near me, the familiar taste, his citrusy scent, all of it sends a wave of relief over me, and I moan contentedly as I continue lapping at it, my piercing plays with the foreskin. I crave the smell of my saliva on him, it mixes perfectly with the intimate fragrance of his cum, forming a unique, wonderful new smell. I wish I could add my own cum to it.

I feel his heavy stare on me, but he doesn’t say a single word as I start to feel an ache in my neck and lay my head on his lower torso with his soft cock still in my mouth. I don’t want to let go of it ever again. I’ll keep it warm and comfy.

Marco is letting me do it for some obscure reason. But isn’t it always the same with him? All broody and rude, but helping me when I need it the most.

“Mynonnodied when I was nine.” His deep whisper sounds loud and clear in the stillness of the night. “I didn’t have anybody else, so I was sent to a group home. The director there liked to use physical punishments on the kids. I was one of his favorite punching bags.”

Is he telling me this because of what I said about my father? Does he know what forced me to find him tonight?

He doesn’t continue, and I don’t ask anything. But I feel somehow lighter after his confession. It’s like I have another puzzle piece of Marco.

My eyes close. My body is floating, enjoying the satisfied afterglow—I don’t even care about my messy panties. I’m giving his limp cockhead light sucks and soft licks, feeling safer than I’ve ever been.

It’s on the threshold of unconsciousness, just when sleep envelops me, that I dream of gentle, hesitant fingers caressing my face.

Marco

Merda.Merda,merda,merda!

What the actual fuck is happening to me?

Every night during the last week Fly has been coming to my bed to suck my cock raw like the most skilled whore until I come downhis throat. I could brush it off as meaningless fooling around, but then why do I let him fall asleep with my dick in his mouth?

I fucking enjoy having my personal cock blanket, so much that I keep his head near my dick after I shoot my load. I force it there—not that he complains. That hot, wet mouth of his is a sinner’s playground.

It morphed into personal pleasure, but it started as a way to comfort him. Comfort him?Me?

That first night, the way he cried out his pain. The way he begged me, trembling with fear, eyes filled with tears. I knew he wanted more than just to suck me. I could feel it how much he wanted someone near him. And I found myself unable to say no. A defenseless, pleading Fly turned out to be a fucking aphrodisiac. Those tears rolling down his face. Just thinking about it makes my dick rock hard. I can almost feel his soft lips enveloping me, never wanting to let go. The fact that he lets me finally order him around is dick-hardening. He keeps disrespecting me and fighting me at every turn, but when he slides into my bed, he’s passive and compliant.

When we are done, I wait for him to fall asleep and then take him to his room, placing him on the sleeping bag on the floor since he doesn’t seem to like any bed—I need to find out why. He always moans his displeasure when I let him go, but the next day, he smiles like nothing happened.

Cohabiting with him is easier than I thought since I’m barely at home. I leave in the morning and come back in the evening to find him working on his damn lingerie. The table in the living room has become his personal workstation, covered in fabrics, ribbons, and more colorful, silk-like stuff. It irked me at first to see his things invading my home, but I kind of got used to his low hum as he works, the swish sound the fabric makes, the clickingnoise of the sewing machine while I smoke my cigs on the balcony.

I checked his website, and his lingerie business seems to be going well. I have to admit he’s good at what he does—judging by the way my dick turns rock hard every time I see him wearing one of his lingerie sets.

Fuck!

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