She was with someone else again, a truth that hit me like a bittersweet wave. Lying side by side under the covers, I couldn’t hold back the question any longer. “Did you fuck him?” I asked, voice low and steady.
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She turned to me with a mixture of guilt and honesty. “Yes, I did,” she whispered. “I’m sorry… it just happened.”
A fierce blend of jealousy and desire washed over me, twisting inside in a deliciously painful way. My eyes burned into hers, envisioning the way his cock must have felt in her mouth—her soft lips wrapped around him. My heart pounded, aching and aching, but I couldn’t look away.
Then, compelled by a sudden hunger, I pressed my lips to hers, invading her mouth with my tongue. Our tongues danced, and my mind raced, imagining how good his hardness must have felt in her hand, in her mouth.
My hand slid between her legs, tracing her clit before slipping inside her. She was wetter than usual—eager, almost thrilled to confess what had happened. “Did he touch you like this?” I murmured. “Make you this wet?”
“Yes,” she gasped, breath caught between moans as she ground herself against my fingers. “Yes, he did.”
“Fuck,” I breathed, overwhelmed by the raw, twisted ache.
I hastily peeled off her pants, guiding my mouth down to taste her. The thought of him making her come filled my mind as she writhed beneath me, her clit pressing against my lips. But then she stopped me, hesitating. “Wait… maybe we shouldn’t right now,” she said softly.
“Why? Because you’re still full of his fucking cum?” I asked, heart racing.
Her eyes darted away, guilty yet powerless to lie. “He never pulls out…” she admitted.
That settled it. I sat up, kissed her deeply, and whispered in her ear, “Good. I want my cock exactly where his was. Right where his cum still lingers. That perfect spot that made you lose control.”
Gripping myself, I slid inside her, feeling the remnants of him curve inside her walls. She trembled, gripping me tightly, wetness slick between us. Her eyes locked with mine, words trembling from her lips—”Yes… oh my god… yes.”
“Did he fuck you like this?” I asked, pressing deeper.
She met my gaze with a cruel smile. “No,” she said, voice sultry and teasing. “He fucked me slower. So slow. I could feel every inch.”
I slowed my rhythm. “Like this?”
Her head tilted back as a moan tore from her throat. “Ughh, yes, just like that. It feels so good.”
“He’d say, ‘This is why you fuck me.'”
“Say it,” I urged, “just like he did.”
As I fucked her with growing fervor, I whispered, “This is why you fuck me.”
She exploded beneath me—squirting and shuddering—her body claiming me as I filled her with my own release. She gripped me as fiercely as she had gripped him.
Now, whenever I think of her, I also think of him—the shape of his cock, the way it must pulse inside her. How I ache to witness it all: to watch, to feel, to taste. To hold him in my hand as he spills into her. To watch her eyes as I stroke him. God, how I long to taste him in the very moment he fucks her.