DragonNarrative Writes

The man buried inside your pussy seizes up in shock, which unfortunately hits a spot deep within and mangles into a painful moan-gasp that hurts your throat.

The large, dark shape over his shoulder is sitting up, features illuminating in concert with the television-blue light. The man beneath you is fine bones and thick skin, pretty as a catalogue model. Full lips and expressive eyes. In contrast, the roommate now facing you is a series of scars and ridges like landscape molded into flesh, hardened. Thick corded neck, the band of his torso an intricate map of coarse hair and muscle and fat. The boxer shorts don't cover that he's fucking hung, his hard cock straining the fabric, and your first reaction should be raw terror.

But it's just not. You want it to be. It would make you halfway normal.

Maybe it's the man whose cock is twitching inside you; his reaction tells you that this is not planned and not what he had in mind. This was no trap to lure you in, and if it had, well didn't you just waltz right in, hand on his cock the whole way?

But, no. He seems desperate in the right way, the kind of wholesome that sets your teeth on edge. Not the desperate that would set a woman up into a dangerous, unknown situation. He either trusts his roommate implicitly, or he's the stupidest fucking person you've fucked…in awhile.

You hope for trust.

He lunges his arms around you like gathering you to him will…protect you from exposure? Not your first rodeo and not your first time caught in flagrante delicto, but it's high up there for you.

The roommate reclines back casually, the bed creaking under his weight. He sucks his teeth sharply, keenly, and sets his eyes to the television set.

"Don' mind me now. Keep fuckin' her 'fore she gets sick of ya," he mutters gruffly.

You do not miss, for one second, the way the man's cock surges inside you deeper, his hips driving up, when the roommate says this. You narrow your eyes, watching his face go through a shift of shock to embarrassment to poorly hidden heat. You clench back — this exchange hidden far away from the roommate's eyes — and his cock answers; a filthy call-and-response that you did not learn in church.

You grind your pelvis against his, setting the train back on the course. You lock your eyes on the roommate, your blood rushing fast and fervent as you see his thick meaty arm prop up on his hip. A tattooed hand stroking, surprisingly gentle, over his boxers. You want to see it. He doesn't look at you.

Your body begins to do the fucking now, thighs pressing hard as you wind down, and you think your teeth might rip through your bottom lip. Where you were silent, you now let your panting breath cover the soft slicks of your bodies rubbing together. A little whine ripples out when he hits the right spot and you see the roommate's hand grip his thick cock in answer.

"Fuckin' 'ell," the man beneath you mutters coarse into the crease of your neck. "I'm—I'm close, love. We gotta stop or—"

The path of the evening has already diverged. You would've crawled off his lap and been disappointed with him, letting him soak it up and make it up to you with silent pleas and and his beautiful mouth licking up the cleft of your pussy.

But here, a new path has emerged: the dead end has branched and you have new options, unforeseen and infinitely more interesting. A playful smile on your face, you let him shudder and jerk, and yank himself out at the last second to come all over your clit and stomach.

With the new challenger tensing like a bull in the corner, hand now working up under his boxer shorts — you still can't see him, for fuck's sakes — you leave no time for recovery.

You ease off the man, the cum dripping down your seam, and stand up. Feel tipsy and thick, even with one drink in your system. You wind your way around the bed; the roommate's got you in his periphery, but his elusive eyes remained fixed to the television.

You sit on the inside edge of the bed. Facing the roommate. Then you spread your legs far, far apart. Enough room for the man to kneel at your feet and feast.

You pull the bikini top off, and make yourself perfectly comfortable, leaning back to watch. You don't look at the roommate, but you hear the slick sounds of his hand working his hard flesh, fuck, and it makes you sticky wet and frustrated.

The man kneels between your legs, and sensing your mood shift, does not waste an ounce of time on a teasing play. You don't want your feet stroked or your thighs petted. You want his beautiful mouth clamped over your pussy until he gives you a long, trembling orgasm. You want to hear and see the roommate jerking himself off, hear his voice again let out grunts and groans, as he listens to the sounds of mouth over wet pussy. A feedback loop.

As his tongue licks up the hot seam of your pussy, not even hesitating to lick up his own drooling cum, you wonder how differently they'd eat pussy. This man is all enthusiasm, wanting to do right and do good, the type to spend hours trying to figure you out until he's got you learned: a natural-born student. Sulky if you don't let him. Whereas the roommate has the bullish ruthlessness who's gonna give you a tongue lashing whether you wanted one or not, an assault on the senses because it's going to be the orgasm he gives you.

The heavens shake open above, and the roommate works off his boxer shorts, to just under his cock. God almighty. You've never been with two men at the same time, and you're not even particularly sure you want to be — not yet. But, the intimidatingly hot sight of his cock dragging out over the fabric has you letting out an ugly whiny moan with the man's tongue between your pussy lips.

Both men probably think the moan is for them.

The man works at you fast, but the roommate is faster, his fist impatiently fucking himself across from you. You are surely a glazed-over, sweating creature, keening sounds pulled out of you on this motel bed, but you are not a woman who lives with regrets.

"Jesus Christ," you let yourself say.

The roommate fucks himself faster, and there it is: the only real signs, other than jerking himself off, that you're affecting him.

You're a born theatrical, so you let no sound, no whimper go buried. You grind your pussy against the man's mouth, your nails dragging down to tighten in his curls, pressing his hot mouth to you, his hollowed cheeks as he sucks at your clit a sight for the ages.

The roommate lets out a deep grunt, fast and quieter than you want.

The tongue between your thighs will absolutely tip you over the edge, but now you're frustrated with the roommate. Bold as the day is long, you move the man out of the way once more, grabbing at his neck to follow you.

You crawl between the roommate's tree trunk thighs as his fist shuttles up and down his cock. He pauses, unsure of you. You situate the man on the bed with the two of you; spine to bed, face up into your pussy as you kneel in front of the roommate.

Wanting a show while being a show. He can't look at the television anymore, but stare at your lush tits and pussy being devoured by his friend.

"Yer a fuckin' piece'a work, luvvie."

And oh, it's fucking delicious. It's perfect. You grind your weight down onto the man's tongue blissfully, placing your hands on the roommate's widened knees for leverage. His eyes are dark, flat, and hungrier than anything.

His pre-cum is leaking down over his fist, and his grip is heavenly to look at. His cock is not pretty at all, but that's just perfect for him. You think he's probably the source of the darker smell in this room and that works for you, too.

"You gonna come all over the lad's face, eh? Just li' that, yer cunt achin' for it. Yer a fuckin' sight, luvvie."

It's very obvious when he's about to come, his face wrenched, neck tendons flexing sharp out of the flesh of his throat, his big hips getting sloppy, his cock darkened and angry. "Fuck, fuck me, luv—"

You dig your cherry nails into his knees and tense your whole body, letting the muscles ripple and rush to one driving point, all to a sharp, aching orgasm, your eyes trying to take in the roommate's sounds and the man's lapping tongue beneath you before you have to shut your eyes through a partial scream and let it wash over you in the dark.

Then there is just a different game show. The air conditioner clicking off, then on again. Chests heaving, breath panting out from all three.

"Well," you say brightly, climbing off the bed and collecting your bikini. You fasten it back on and readjust yourself to make it appropriate. "Cheers."

You slip out of the room before either of them have crawled off the bed. Tiptoe barefoot and silent to your room a few doors down. You shower in your own room, and slip down between the cool sheets. Your brain races for awhile before you fall asleep, but you fall asleep after laughing to yourself.

Your alarm clock is set early to give you time to pack and get ready for your long drive. You return your room key to the front desk clerk, and head to your car, not noticing that the tires have been slashed. When you wander back in, the motel manager lets you make a call to the local roadside assistance company and suggests you walk over to the diner to wait for them to arrive.

You order a coffee with cream and a full English breakfast. You're reading your paperback when the door jingles open. Your eyes flicker up and catch the man and his roommate coming through the door. They latch eyes onto you immediately, and head over to your booth. The man wedges himself in next to you. The roommate sits across. You're hemmed in.

"'ello," the roommate says calmly.

"Leavin' so soon?" The man turns over an empty mug for himself. Makes eye contact with the waitress for service.

"Oh," you say. "Yeah, some punk fucked with my car sometime in the night, so just waiting for assistance."

"Ah, more's the pity, that," the roommate tuts.

The man hums in agreement. Nudges his leg into yours playfully. "While you wait on the tires, you up for another swim? Gonna be another scorcher."

You laugh softly. They get coffee and large breakfasts, taking their time. You keep checking the parking lot for the roadside truck, but there's no sign. Then something strums funny in your gut.

The layout of his room is identical to yours, but surprisingly tidier. Even only here for 48 hours and change, your room looks like the ass end of a strip club — earrings and hairspray left by the TV where you'd wandered from the washroom to watch some bit of a show, your clothes yanked out and draped across the extra bed.

Your smells better, like coconut and shea butter and sunscreen and vanilla.

His — their — room smells like man; sweat and musk and beer and trapped heat. The fact that your pussy clenches a little in response anyway is none of your business.

The only source of light is the flickering glow of the television, set to some station airing an old game show. The sound is low, ambient and covers the deep breathing coming from the other end of the room. Your eyes trace a large, much larger than you expect, lump curled away on the bed furthest from the door. The roommate is wearing a pair of boxer shorts and long socks. You stand and watch the body for any sign of movement, but he's just deep breathing. That can be mimicked, but you've got the tipsy sun-drunk blood keeping you too high to really care.

Steady as she goes.

The air conditioner is chugging hard in the window, blowing a brisk stream against your pebbled skin as you push the man toward his bed. He tries to curl his thick forearms around you, but you're not in the mood to be trapped right now. He steps back against the mattress, waiting for you. Expression hard to make out, but hungry even through the dark. He must be painfully hard in his shorts.

You sidle up to him then and reach down your arm, and make out the length of him. Or rather: the girth. You can't stop your eyes from flicking up to his in surprise; you weren't expecting this, but what a night of surprises. You cradle him, your nails exploring the extent of him, scraping playfully through the fabric of his shorts. His body is tense, holding itself upright, but his stomach is flexing uncontrollably at your mapping.

You smile, and pull at his waistband. Slip your forearm deep down, to find him so achingly hot and hard against your hand, his stomach and pubic hair still damp from the swim. His knees look like they're about to knock together.

Ever merciful, you tip him backwards, cherry nails to brown chest. He clambers as quietly as a dog onto the bed, his face now glowing blue-lit beautifully from the TV. He sits up against the headboard, looking a little unsure if that's what you want.

Another glance to the resident sleeper. No movement, no change.

You start from his feet, slinking your way up toward him, your hands tip-toeing across his jerking thighs as you get closer. Your breasts swaying pendulously together, that bikini string not long for this night.

His face: so, so gorgeously eager to an almost tender degree. He can't be much younger than you, but there's a youthfulness to him that hasn't faded yet.

You use your long nails to pull at his waistband, and he helps you work them down his thighs. Shuffle them further down until they're softly landing on the carpet. You roam your hands up from his knees to his hips, watching his cock jump and produce the beads of pre-cum.

He watches, enraptured, as your fingertip swirls over it. You pop the pearlescent cum into your mouth, drag it across your tongue, and you almost laugh when his face squeezes shut in absolute torture. It's beautiful. More pre-cum begins to leak out, and you stroke it down in soft painterly strokes over his shaft until you've covered the circumference.

He pulls a pillow up to his face and covers his mouth entirely, making you fight back a laugh. So dramatic.

You let the pre-cum act as your lubricant, curling your hands around his fat cock, feeling it pulse eagerly in your grip. You tighten, loosen, then tighten back up to find your sweet spot with him. Girth like his takes a slight readjustment. Your breasts jiggle together generously as your forearm works, your fist tightening on the glide down the shaft as he presses his face deeper into the pillow.

You lean up impatiently and remove it; you're the show here.

He looks frustrated and pouty. Your hand pulls at him harder, giving him a languid tug with a flourish at the end of the stroke, and his whole buddy stutters under you. His mouth is alternating between hanging open and clenching shut. Oh, he very badly wants to say something, but cannot.

Your handjobs are exquisite, so it doesn't take him long until his feet and thighs are flexing, his stomach tightening in anticipation, his balls drawing tight and close to his body.

That's when you release his cock altogether, swiping the pre-cum across his thigh hair to absorb it from your hand.

He stares dumbly at you.

Man, still asleep.

You shimmy up and easy as anything, slide your wet bikini bottoms to the side of your pussy, and hover over his cock. His face is an exclamation mark. The slip-glide onto the thick heft of him takes a bit of work, even with how wet you are and his pre-cum. He feels divine, but that's none of his business.

You play with angles, ignoring him completely, shifting your weight until you settle on a reclined position. He's a big boy, in all ways, so your thighs will burn soon for accommodating his frame under you, but it's worth it. You rest your hands back behind you on either side of his thighs, and let your hips do the work. Your pussy clenches around him experimentally and you see his eyes roll back.

Smirking, you grind down in a figure eight, teeth biting into your bottom lip in concentration.

He could so easily come like this, you see it broadcast all over his open face.

Surprising you, he swiftly sits up more and tugs at the strings of your bottoms until they give, the fabric flayed open to the side, exposing your pussy. He shoves a pillow behind him for leverage, resettles very quickly, and then grabs your hips.

At first, you assume he's trying to control your pace, slow you down, or make you change angles so it's better for him. But his thumb slides down the hinge of your hip until it's square over your aching clit.

You control your expression, just watch him curiously as his thumb begins to work at you, rubbing some slick up over it to ease the glide. He's now watching you carefully, face so beautifully determined and serious, to see what you like. You let him figure it out slowly, not making it too easy for him. When your eyes slip shut for long seconds after he flicks you fast and light, then slower and tighter circles, his mouth gets a dark smile on it.

His cock dragging so wet and perfect against your G-spot like this, and with his thumb working you, you could achieve orgasm pretty quickly. So, you slow right down. Your hips giving light rhythmic passes, and you swat his thumb away.

You slide off him completely, missing the deep full pressure, and like moving a mannequin in place, get him to sit on the side of the bed, feet on the floor. His large frame can hold you like this so easily, you almost laugh. As a bonus, behind him, you can keep an eye on his friend.

Still asleep.

You climb into his lap, straddling him until you've lowered back onto his cock, and wrap your arms around his thick neck. Those muscles are popping and flexing like crazy, trying to get himself back under control. Oh, he feels good at this angle, sliding deep and hitting you right.

Your hands climb up his head, nails dragging down his scalp, through his soft tight curls. He bites back a loud groan, and you cover his mouth with yours as a better fix to that problem. He fucks up into you, his hands now freely able to grab your ass. He really does have wonderfully large enough hands to make your lush ass feel…taken care of. Every grab and silent little slap is a jolt up to your clit.

You let him bury his face into your damp cleavage, and he makes a muffled sound while down there, his hips driving even deeper in response. His motions are getting more desperate with him pressed up into you like this, like the closeness of you is what works best for him.

You work your hand between your bodies, and play with your clit rapidly, your nails hitting your thighs. You could come. You probably will. The night's not going to be over until you've claimed at least two orgasms from him. He still hasn't gone down on you yet. But you can give yourself this first, as the apéritif before the full course. You didn't sneak into some strange man's motel room for a dissatisfactory orgasm you could've given yourself after a frantic 45 seconds.

His hands are pulling your ass cheeks apart desperately, his dominant hand sliding down deeper to the cleft, his index finger coasting over your asshole, a light curious stroke and rub before slapping the lush fat of your cheek like it answered a question he was asking. The sound is muted by the TV and air conditioner, but you stiffen.

Same position. Sleeping.

You wrap your hands around his neck, nails on nape, a dark necklace laying against his collarbone. His eyes shut heavily again, hips shuddering, his cock grinding against your softest, most sensitive tissue. He breathes out a long quiet gasp.

And then —