#cannibaltalks

Pope wanting to fuck you in front of the mirror cause he loves your ass and kneading his hands into the soft folds of your hips as you bend and bend and bend, knees shaking and sweat just beading down your legs, mixing with the slick between your thighs. But he wants to look at your face, make you look at him. He wants to see your eyes roll back, saliva dribbling between his fingers hooked in your mouth, pulling your cheek open so your choking sobs and cries are loud and clear.

He fists your hair and pulls hard enough to make you cry, arching your back and letting his thick cock bruise your insides, let him see the bulge in the reflection as he buries himself, the clapping sounds of his pelvis against your ass growing louder and losing rhythm.

He pulls your hair so he can bite at your shoulder and neck, growling against your skin, tasting salty sweat and smelling sex. “You look at me when I fuck you.”

He lets you go and you just fold over yourself, standing on your toes being held up by Pope. Every thrust in this new position lets his balls slap against your puffy clit, making you hiccup as you try to tell him your cumming. It's slow and lingering, sizzling all over your body and making your head pound as blood rushes and your walls flutter around his throbbing dick, sucking him in deeper, creating a milky rim around his base. He just loves how your hole sticks to him, not wanting to let go, how your slick spreads across his pelvis as he grinds, slapping your ass to make you yelp.

He pulls you back up and makes you brace yourself against the mirror, your breath fogging the glass, hair sticking to your cheeks. He’s fucking mesmerized by your hanging tits bouncing and slapping as he beats your cervix with his tip, balls getting tight.

He can't let himself cum without you, so he starts abusing your sensitive clit, pinching and rubbing painfully fast, making your face scrunch as you choke. The sight of you shaking, dripping sweat down your chin and back, all plush beneath his hands, thighs raw, has him in a fucking haze as he coats your insides in cum and makes you squirt, your legs just giving out.

He’ll be so sweet with the aftercare, drawing you a hot bath and brushing your hair for you, letting you turn to mush against him, trusting him entirely to be gentle with you. He’ll stay up all night watching you sleep, knowing you don't regret a moment shared.

You'd sleep around with all the Cody brothers just so you could get closer to Pope. You curate yourself into the perfect girl, all soft and baby-like for Baz and clueless for Smurf, getting drunk and partying with Craig, taking a job at the bar and keeping some secrets (blackmail), whatever needs to be done.

All so you practically live in the same house as him and do whatever you want. You sneak into Pope's room to snoop through his things, stealing clothes that you wear when you finger yourself to the thought of him, rubbing your release onto his boxers before folding them up and putting them back in his drawer. You sneak around the side of the house, using a camera to zoom in through his window and watch him get ready for bed, clenching your thighs as you watch him change—as if doing it just for you.

You eye-fuck him every chance you get, stare at the bulge in his pants, lick your lips, salivating at the thought of dropping to your knees and taking him so deep in your throat that you gag. Wearing tiny fucking shorts and cropped tanks so he can watch sweat run down your back and sunlight glisten off your belly ring. You bend over just to arch your back and imagine his tongue running along your spine, imagine him salivating to the thought of your salty skin between his teeth as he fucks you from behind.

You come out in a skimpy bikini barely holding everything in, knowing he’s just drooling at the site of you, your curves and discolorations. He’s obsessed with watching you uncross your legs, giving him the briefest view between your thighs and the little stubble peaking out beneath the bottoms. The way you turn to him with your shoulders back and face all scrunched in the sun, holding out your sunscreen and asking in a sing song voice “won't you help me? I can't reach my back”

He’s heading for you before the word “yes” even leaves his lips, watching you lie on your stomach, your eyes covered by the brim of your sun hat. “Dont be scared to touch. I need it under the straps too,” you coax him forward, and hiss a slight breath at the cold liquid contacting your spine, making you arch just a little. His big hands spread out over your back, rubbing it in, fingers sliding under the straps of your top. He’s trying not to think of how easy it would be to pull that string and undue the bow holding it together. Let you spill out, let him grope your tits and pebble those nipples heloves staring at.

“Can you get lower?” you ask in a teasing voice, watching from beneath your hat as his adams apple bobs, but he follows orders. Wet hands roam down to the small of your back, then slowly over the curve of your ass as he lets out a little “this okay?” and you hum in reply, feeling your cunt flutter to life and drench your bottoms.

And poor Pope, all he can do is rub the sunscreen in until you spread your plush thighs open a little and his finger accidentally slips between your legs against the seam of your bottoms, letting him feel the dampness, the warmth, and he has to get out of there as soon as possible, to go hide in a closet and chase the smell of you on his fingers.

You know he leaves the bathroom door slightly ajar when showering so you can peek through and watch him bathe, watch him jerk off with his back facing you, all rippling muscles and those huffing breaths as he whispers your name. You bite your lip to keep quiet as you touch yourself, wanting to go in there and taste his release. The amount of times you’ve imagined walking in on him, just to get a good look at that v-line, get a chance to touch him, let your mouth fall open and tongue go flat against him, looking up at how his abdomen tenses and his head falls back when you suck him all the way down your throat like a good girl.

You start sleeping with no panties on and shirts that ride up your abdomen, your door unlocked and window open. He's keeping a collection of photos of your sleeping form, hair tousled and legs open like you're posing for him. And maybe he stays up late into the night sometimes just staring at those photos while fisting himself, hips stuttering as he imagines what you taste like, how you’d sound with his teeth on your clit or his tongue in your pussy.

You've got your own collection of sneaky photos: him on jobs, from behind trees across the street while he's at the atm, at the end of the grocery aisle. You learn his routine and start inserting yourself in every aspect of his life. Running into him at the beach, getting the girl who smiled at him fired from the store, coming over to sunbathe while he's working on the yard, pretending not to care in your bikini and staring at him through your big sunglasses.

You got his whole routine logged in your notes app. Where he goes shopping, how many hours a day he sleeps, when he wakes up, what he usually eats for breakfast. You even bought the same soap so you could smell more like him.

And maybe one night while following him across town, wearing no panties under your tight jean shorts cause you just get so turned on while stalking, Pope catches you off-guard. Cause of course he knows you stalk him, and he's so pent up with want that he can't help but drag you by the nape of your neck to the nearest back alley, pulling down your little shorts and sticking his fingers into your cunt, making your eyes roll back. "so fucking nasty, you get off on following me around?" he's leaning in, sniffing your neck and getting your hair in his mouth, pulling on the strands and tasting your conditioner.

He'll snatch your camera and start taking flash photos of your face while finger-fucking you, "so fucking wet and disgusting, look at you. You want it? Baby, c'mon, let the whole city know," he’s knuckles deep, curling his fingers up into that sponge as his thumb rolls over your swollen clit, making you buck against him, head thrown back as you mewl. Before you can cum on his hand he’s abruptly stopping, licking your slick off his glistening fingers before unbuckling his belt with one hand.

He'll record the whole thing—the moment your sloppy cunt sucks him in, how loud you moan while he thrusts until his hips slam into yours, all the babbled, incoherent things you say while clawing at him, not caring how loud you are.

"wanna—ahh, fuck—cum inside me. I wanna feel you, all you," you want to feel him inside you for days, don't you? Dream about the thick length of him, the pulsing vein that's sliding against your folds, the head of him squishing deep and the sputtering warmth as he bucks his hips, rutting endlessly and turning your pussy raw and burning.

He takes pictures of your face as you cum around him, thighs shaking and eyes rolling back. Then his thrusts falter for a moment while he sets the camera down and reaches for you, fingers round your neck as he picks up the pace. He’s got you squealing and gurgling choked moans, biting on his thumb when the pleasure spikes with pain.

He doesn't stumble one second as hot sticky release shoots into you, fucking himself through the climax and moaning against your shoulder. “Gonna keep following me?” he’s asking, squeezing your chin and forcing you to look at him.

You can't help but smile. He likes it just as much as you do.

And that's how he got a picture of you cumming in his wallet

Pope would hate sharing you with Abbot. He’s far too possessive to even allow another man to look at you. But you asked so sweetly, all watery-eyed and soft, “pleaasseee, baby. It would make me so happy, so filled,” and he can’t say no.

He’d interrogate the hell out of Abbot and glare at him the whole time, and Jack, being so clearly devoted to you and your wants, would endure the threatening presence. He might even take a jab at Pope just for fun. 

Pope would be so obvious about his possessiveness. He’s horrible at sharing in general, but when it comes to you? He‘s like a dog guarding food. He’d have his hands all over you, eyes always tracking what Jack's doing. You’d have to keep reminding him to relax and maybe even to breathe. And fragile little Pope trusts you so much, but he just doesn’t trust anyone else. He won't even let Jack fuck you from the front, but it's no problem for the other man, who finds himself enamored with your ass. 

And can you even blame Pope? He’s so obsessed with your tits. How they’d bounce when he thrusts into your sopping core, how your nipples would harden against his chest. He’d like watching your face, too. When your eyes roll, and your mouth falls open as Jack lines himself up from behind, wetting your tight little hole with lube and pre-cum, before slowly stretching you open, hands digging into your ass.

“Relax, baby, just breathe,” Pope would say, and it would drive him absolutely insane when you’d let your head fall back against Abbot’s shoulder. Pope would be so jealous that he’d dig bruises into your thighs held up over his hips. You'd be scratching at his back, and he’d tell you to hold on tighter just so you wouldn’t lean against Jack. 

You’d take it slow and gentle, Jack pressing in just enough for you to stretch around the head of his cock, then inching it in as Pope flicked his fingers over your swollen clit. They’d both whisper praises, “fuck, you’re so tight,” and “come on, don't hide that pretty voice,” and you’d be so lost in the sensation of the men taking up space inside you, only a sensitive inner wall separating their cocks, that you wouldn’t even register who was speaking. 

God, it would be so worth all the awkwardness in the beginning, and the tension practically rippling off Pope. You’d be so full. And maybe poor overthinking Pope wouldn’t want you looking at Jack, he wouldn’t want you comparing them. So he’d have you blindfolded. Nothing too tight or uncomfortable, probably black silk that was pricey and tied with a perfect little bow. 

You'd only be able to feel them. Big strong hands all over your body, warm and rough and digging into your skin. You'd feel lips on your neck, sucking on your shoulder, drool down your back.

The sounds would be lewd too. The squelch of your pussy clenching around Pope's thick cock, fluttering and spurting. And the echo of Jack’s hips thrusting against your ass, every inch deeper making you cry louder. They’d fill you up so much that you’d feel close to splitting in two. And the spots they would hit deep inside, not quite in sync, but enough to leave you writhing in constant pleasure. 

You’d lose your senses, lost in the overflowing of it all. Caged between them unable to pull away. And maybe they’d both pull out, leaving you so horribly empty you’d be hiccuping begs for them to come back.

There’d be movement, sweaty skin slipping and sliding as they manhandled you. And only after you’d be crying with need, thighs shaking, you’d be filled again—and you’d have no idea who was fucking your cunt and who was pistoning into your ass. Who’s kissing and thrusting his tongue into your mouth, who's burying his nose in your hair. Which hands are massaging your ass and which are rubbing your clit. 

You'd start gasping, clenching muscles as your release builds in pressure. The grunts and groaning would just encourage you. Jack would whisper sweetly in your ear, "That's it, you're getting so fluttery for me. Such a good girl." And you'd moan so loud and uncontrolled that Pope would get angry. Oh, he'd fuck into you so hard, practically growling. You'd feel fingers on your clit, rubbing hard and fast to get you off, and it would be so much overwhelming stimulation that you'd orgasm with a scream, vision all white and limbs twitching uncontrollably.

And you’d know for certain that it’s Pope fucking deep into your sore core at the end, cause he’d never let another man fill you with cum. No way, you were his girl, his to fill. He'd never let anyone dirty you up like that.