Page 27 of Your Only Fan
A grumble that turns into a hiss and then into a loud moan the deeper I drive into him.
I pull out and catch the close-up. My fans love the penetration. They want to see my dick break the ring of muscles and drill a bussy like it’s a sex toy and not a person.
But I never film the close-up first. I don’t want to hurt my partners. I’m big and thick and even the ones most desperate for rough sex wouldn’t be able to handle me.
Cummings’ body tenses as I slide into him again. His neck strains, and he lifts his head with a loud cry, fisting the sheet under his hands.
I get into a rhythm, one Cummings is enjoying if his vocal performance is anything to go by. I’m not sure if he’s doing it for the cameras because he knows now the fans will eat it up, but it’s hot.
I use his hole, padding his prostate over and over again, wanting more. I resist the urge to pull his hood off and grab him by the hair, turn him around, and look into his eyes while I come inside him.
Instead, I massage his back, grab him by the waist, pin his hands. I lose myself in him and his wonderful vanilla smell drives the point home.
I have no idea what’s so different about him, what makes me so horny around him, why I feel so much need for him.
I’d like to think it’s because he’s been supporting me for so long. That he’s my superfan.
But yet, something is niggling me in the back of my mind that I’m enjoying this because of his dark skin that I can imagine it’s Professor Rivera I’m fucking instead.
But I don’t like that. That’s like fetishizing the man under me, and that’s not right. He’s hot and attractive in his own right.
Yet the niggling won’t stop… niggling. It wants to put Isaac’s image in place of Cummings’ head. It wants to picture him under me, around me. It wants to imagine taking him like there’s no tomorrow.
How my hands would wrap around his short curls. How his eyes would dig into mine through his glasses with wild abandon. How he’d smile at me, seeing me come to my undoing.
My orgasm spirals out of me, and I only have half a mind to pull out and capture it for my fans.
My body and eyes feel heavy, full with the relish of pleasure that I could die at this very moment.
I want to believe it’s not because I’ve made myself think of Rivera in place of Cummings. But that would be a big, fat lie. My orgasms when I fantasize about him are little Turkish delights. Short, sweet, but powerful.
Guiltily, I drop to my knees and attempt to give Cummings the same treatment he’s given me, but the sheets under his dick are stained with his cum, and fuck me if that doesn’t turn me on again.
I make sure to film it, more for me, something to beat off to other than Isaac Rivera’s social media profile pictures, but I’m sure my fans will go wild for it.
I drape my body over his. My mouth lingers over his ear. “You’re one sexy motherfucker,” I whisper and slap a butt cheek.
He leans back into my face, rubbing the hood to my mouth and nose as if he’s reveling in my proximity to him more now than while I was fucking him.
And there go the goosebumps on his shoulders again.
Putting my thoughts and feelings in order is impossible. Do I want Cummings? Do I enjoy the mystery he’s shrouded with? Or do I only enjoy him because I can imagine myself fucking my professor? Does it matter?
“Give me two minutes and I’ll head out,” I tell him and get off him.
Yeah, maybe it’s time to put a distance between us.
At least until I can understand what’s going on with me.
“Stay,” Cummings says, and there’s something about the way he says, the tone of his voice, that sounds familiar. But why?
I shake the thought off and look down at him. He’s turned on his back, supporting his upper body with his elbows.
“Stay?” I ask.
He nods.
Does that mean he’s ready to show me who he really is?
