Page 72 of Off the Rim
"Pretty fucking fantastic," I sigh contentedly.
"That was brutal. Your poor little hole is so fucked out."
Fingers brush over the sore area, and I gasp.
"Alright?"
"So good," I moan.
"Can I touch it?"
"It's yours to do whatever you want with, baby."
"Baby?"
"That okay?"
He answers me by pressing his lips to my hole, his wet tongue snaking over the sore flesh.
"Fucking hell, Marc. What are you doing to me?"
"I could ask you the same question," he murmurs, soothing me with his tongue some more.
"If you keep doing that, I'm going to get hard again, and as much as I'd like a repeat performance…"
"The post-nut clarity is hitting and you're a little afraid of what the fallout is going to be?"
I chuckle nervously. "Yeah, a little."
"Me too, honestly. Let's get dressed and maybe clean up a little," he says, pushing the chair back and helping me off the desk. "We can leave little traces, like a smear of cum under the desk where his pant leg might catch it."
"Ooh, spit on his toothbrush in the bathroom. Or in the soap dispenser." I snicker. "What? Don't look at me like that. Do you know how much joy I would get out of knowing that my father and all his power-abusing asshole friends washed their hands with the cum that you slurped out of my ass after putting it there in such spectacular fashion?" I pause and narrow my eyes. "You owe me more, by the way. You were supposed to fill me up and then plug me up so it couldn't escape," I pout.
"Your ass is too swollen to even consider it. I really wrecked that poor thing."
I sigh contentedly again. "So fucking good." My cock jumps a little, still hanging out the side of my jock.
"Put that thing away before I get any more ideas."
"Ideas, you say?" I wink as I fix my underwear and pull on my pants.
Marcus is almost fully dressed, buttoning up his shirt, before he answers me.
"I didn't bring enough lube for you to bendmeover any surfaces. But maybe next time we can defile that conference table?"
My mouth gapes open. Is he being serious?
I'm so in my head, imagining all the ways I would fuck Marcus, that I forget how to dress myself.
Soft and sweet. Hard and fast. I'd never be able to hate fuck him the way he does me, but I can imagine pressing his face against the conference table while I watched my cock disappear inside that delicious fucking bubble butt of his. Or maybe we could climb up on top of the table and he could ride me until the whole thing breaks and collapses to the floor. Or maybe…
Marcus buckles my pants for me, then helps me slip my jacket on, sans shirt. He finds the discarded garment on the ground and uses it to wipe up the cum, but mostly only succeeds in smearing it into the wood before tossing the shirt in the small trash can hidden under the desk. At some point, I shake myself out of my stupor and manage to pick up a few things. I'm stacking up some of the papers that flew off the desk when I see it. On the edge of the desk, face down and damp from where my face rubbed against it as I got railed. A page from a document, the rest of the pages spread out on the floor.
"What the actual fuck?"
Marcus comes to my side. "What is it?"
I hand him the paper. The one we just fucked on top of. And then scramble to pick the rest of them off the floor, setting on them on the desk. We work in silence, putting them in order, then look up at each other.
