Fucked Hard on the Counter

Then he pulled me back to the couch, flipped me onto my stomach. He yanked my hips up, spread me wide, and sank in again. This angle hit deeper, sharper, his cock dragging against every nerve. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, pulling my head back as he pounded, whispering filthy things — how tight I was, how wet, how he’d been dying for this. I shoved back against him, meeting every thrust, legs trembling, dripping down my thighs.

He came with a grunt, pulling out to finish across my back, warm and messy. But I wasn’t done. I turned, dropped to my knees, and took him in my mouth again. He was still hard, slick with me. I sucked slow this time, savoring — tongue tracing the underside, lips sealing tight around him. His hands shook in my hair as I looked up, daring him to lose it.

“Give it to me,” I murmured, pulling back just enough to let him see my open mouth.

He did — shuddering, spilling over my tongue, my lips, my chin. I dragged a finger through it, licked it off slow, holding his gaze like I’d just taken something he’d never get back.

“You good now?” I asked, smirking.

“Fuck yes.”

He flopped onto the couch. I climbed onto him, sweaty, sticky, spent. His arm curled around me, the other hand lazily cupping my breast, thumb brushing the nipple like he couldn’t stop.

“What’s your story?” he asked, voice gravelly.

I laughed, sharp and tired. “A whole damn trainwreck.”

He grinned. We stayed there, tangled up, trading dumb small talk like we hadn’t just fucked each other senseless.

“Gimme a sec,” I said, peeling off him. “Gotta grab my vape — it’s on the nightstand.”

I padded to the bedroom, bare-assed, and felt him follow. Silent, but heavy. I turned as he closed the gap, slamming me against the wall, mouth on my neck, biting soft. His cock pressed against my thigh, hard again.

He was fire against me, a promise we weren’t finished. I dragged him to the bed, and he threw me down, climbing over me. His lips trailed my stomach, lingered on my breasts, sucking marks into the skin, then up to my throat.

He pried my legs apart with rough, warm hands and thrust in — fast, relentless. He pinned my wrists above my head, the mattress creaking under us. Every stroke was deep, brutal, hitting spots that made me see stars. I squirmed, moaned, begged without words.

When he pulled out, I was gasping. I slid to the floor, knelt, and took him again — tongue lapping the length of him, slow and thorough, spit pooling as I worked. I jerked him with one hand, rubbed him against my chest with the other, slicking my skin with him.

He came hard, groaning, painting my breasts, my throat, my stomach. I scooped it up, licked my fingers clean, slow and deliberate, tasting him like a prize.

I grabbed a towel, wiped off, and said nothing. He dressed, lingering.

“See you soon?” he asked, kissing me quick, hand brushing my chest.

“Anytime, handsome,” I whispered back.

He left. Nights like that kept coming — more fucking, more late texts, more everything. (More stories for another time.) We still meet up.

It’s not romance. It’s primal, electric. He fucks me, and I’m whole for a while.

Tara caught us together outside a bar months later — flipped out, called me every name in the book. I didn’t flinch. She still glares when our paths cross.

No one does it like Mason. No labels, no future, no clue what this is — but it’s real as hell to me.

Image is illustrative. View Source.