MasukI’ve never been more turned on in my life.
He pushes in.
Slowly. Carefully. Inch by agonizing inch, splitting me open on a cock that’s bigger than I expected, thicker than my fingers, stretching me in ways I’ve needed for months – years – my whole life.
I feel everything.
The ridge of his head dragging against my walls. The veins along his shaft. The heat of him, the hardness, the pulsing throb that tells me he’s as desperate as I am.
Jack is taking his time, watching my face for any sign of consciousness, any indication that I’m about to scream or fight or wake up.
I give him nothing.
Just lie there, limp and pliable, my cunt stretching around his cock, my body accepting him like it was made for this.
He bottoms out.
I feel his balls press against my ass. Feel him buried to the hilt inside me, filling me completely, his cock touching places nothing has ever touched before.
"Fuck,” he breathes, and his voice cracks on the word. “Fuck, she’s so tight. So wet. So... so fucking good. This is insane. This is actually insane.”
“Does she feel good?”
“She feels like heaven.” He pulls back slightly, pushes in again, testing. “Like her pussy was made specifically for my cock. Like she’s been waiting for me.”
I have, I think. I have been waiting. For you. For all of you.
He starts to move.
Slow, gentle strokes at first. Careful not to jostle me too much, not to make the bed creak, not to do anything that might wake the supposedly sleeping girl beneath him.
But the friction is incredible.
Every drag of his cock against my walls sends sparks up my spine. Every time he pushes deep, I feel it in my stomach. My cunt is gripping him like a fist, milking him, pulling him deeper, and I can tell from his stuttering breath that he feels it too.
“Watch her face,” Ethan whispers from somewhere nearby. “Make sure she stays asleep.”
I keep my expression blank. Peaceful. The face of a girl in deep, dreamless sleep.
But inside, I’m screaming.
Jack’s thrusts get longer. Deeper. More urgent. He’s found a rhythm now, fucking me with purpose, his hands gripping my hips to hold me in place while he uses my unconscious body for his pleasure.
“She’s so fucking tight,” he pants. “Even after – even while I’m – Jesus, she’s gripping me. Like she wants it. Like her body knows what’s happening even if she doesn’t.”
“Maybe she does know,” Tyler says quietly. “Maybe she’s dreaming about it.”
“About us?”
“About being fucked. About being filled. About exactly what you’re doing to her right now.”
The thought makes Jack groan. He fucks me harder, abandoning caution, his cock slamming into me with enough force to make my tits bounce beneath my sleep shirt.
I’m going to cum.
I can feel it building – a silent orgasm coiling in my core, winding tighter with every thrust, threatening to explode. I’ve never cum without making a sound. Never cum with someone else inside me. Don’t know if I can do both at once.
“Fuck her harder,” someone whispers. “She’s not waking up. Fuck her like you mean it.”
Jack obeys.
His thrusts become brutal. Punishing. He’s pounding into my sleeping body like he’s trying to break me, like he’s been fantasizing about exactly this – exactly me – for longer than he should admit.
The bed is creaking now. The headboard is tapping against the wall. Anyone awake would know exactly what’s happening in here.
I don’t care.
I cum.
Silent. Devastating. My whole body clenches around his cock while I bite the inside of my cheek bloody to keep from screaming. Waves of pleasure crash through me, one after another after another, and I’m cumming harder than I ever have before, cumming on a cock for the first time in my life, cumming while pretending to be asleep.
“She’s – ” Jack chokes. “She’s clenching. Fuck, she’s clenching so hard – her pussy is fucking strangling me – ”
“She’s cumming,” Tyler breathes with something like awe. “Holy shit. She’s cumming in her sleep.”
“That’s so fucking hot,” Marcus adds. “She doesn’t even know it’s happening. She’s just... cumming on his cock. While she sleeps.”
"I can’t – "
Jack slams deep and holds.
I feel it. The pulse of his cock inside me, swelling, throbbing. The sudden heat flooding my cunt as he cums, spurt after spurt after spurt, filling me with his seed while I pretend to sleep through my own breeding.
He keeps cumming.
More than I expected. Warm and thick, painting my insides, claiming me in the most primal way possible. I can feel it pooling inside me, filling me up, and my pussy clenches again, milking out every drop.
“Did you just – ” Ethan sounds shocked. Maybe jealous. “Did you just cum inside her?”
“I couldn’t help it.” Jack pulls out slowly, and I feel the obscene gush of his release leaking out of me, dripping down to stain my childhood sheets. “She was cumming on my cock. Her pussy was fucking milking me. I couldn’t – ”
“Move.” Marcus’s voice is rough with need. “My turn.”
“Maybe.” I tip my chin toward the row of dark glass doors along the hotel’s face. “Or maybe the audience is out there. Somebody behind their curtain with a drink and a view of a woman riding a stranger in a chair.”I sink all the way down, and the fullness of it goes through me instantly. I roll my hips instead of bouncing, grinding him deep and keeping him there while I move in slow circles.“If they’re watching,” he says, hands finding my hips, “give them something.”So I do. Slow first, theatrical, my spine arching and my hands going up into my own hair, my breasts lifted toward the stars. Every roll of my hips is calibrated to read from a distance. I’m putting on a show for him and for whoever’s out there and mostly for the version of myself that spent four months moving through rooms without being noticed and is finished with that arrangement permanently.Then I speed up. The chair rocks under us, its legs scraping stone, and his cock drives deep on every downstroke while I grind
Two fingers push into me and curl and find the place that makes my knees stop cooperating, while his thumb keeps working from outside and his mouth fastens on the back of my neck hard enough to bruise. I’m being fingered over a railing in Positano with a restaurant full of strangers underneath me and the risk of it is pouring fuel on everything.“I’m going to cm,” I get out, hanging onto the railing, the sea glittering below me. “I’m going to cm over the entire –”“Then be loud about it. Let the coast hear.”I cm gripping a stranger’s railing on the twelfth floor with my body clenching around his fingers and my voice going out over the water. Below me a couple at one of the terrace tables lifts their heads, searching, scanning up along the face of the hotel, and I cm while they look and I never find out whether they see me, and the not-knowing turns out to be better than certainty in either direction.He pulls his hand back. Behind me I hear the rest of him going – the whisper of line
The robe opens and I keep it on my shoulders and let it frame me – stomach, hips, breasts bare in the evening air with my nipples tightening from the breeze and the exposure in equal measure, the pale bands of a bikini tan earned over years of very careful beach afternoons. The angle of my hips against the railing hides the rest.I’m standing twelve floors above Italy with my robe open and a stranger’s eyes on me, and what I feel isn’t fear. It’s power, running up through my legs into my chest. Being looked at by someone who genuinely wants to look. Choosing to be seen instead of being caught.“Don’t stop.” His voice has dropped and roughened, carrying across the gap with the intimacy of something confessed. “Whatever you’re about to do, don’t stop.”My hand goes to my breast. I cup it and circle my thumb over the nipple, slow, the way I do it alone when I’m building something on purpose, and it tightens under my thumb and his face changes and the change in his face travels straight d
The robe is hotel-issue white terry, thick as a towel, smelling faintly of industrial lavender, and I have been wearing it for nineteen minutes with no intention of putting on anything else. Seventeen hours of travel. A marriage that ended in April. A best friend who told me I needed a vacation instead of a therapist and then booked the room before I could build an argument against it.She was right, which is annoying, but the Amalfi Coast at sunset makes it hard to hold a grudge. The water runs turquoise into navy in a gradient that looks retouched, the sun bleeding orange across all of it, and Positano stacks itself up the cliff in pinks and ochres at angles no engineer would ever sign off on. My room sits on the twelfth floor with the balcony hanging out over the drop. Looking down turns my stomach over. Looking out does the opposite, opening something in my chest that’s been shut since spring, and I stand there with wet hair and bare feet on stone still warm from the day and take
I cum again bent over his kitchen island with my wrists crossed behind me and my cheek on cold granite, and the kitchen throws the sound back at us doubled.We end up on the tile because the tile is where gravity was always sending us. He goes down first and pulls me over him and then rolls us, and the floor is freezing against my shoulder blades and I don’t care.“Your floor is filthy,” I inform him.“You’re cumming on it. Seems fine to me.”I pull his hair and he retaliates by biting the side of my neck, hard, and I know exactly what that’s going to look like in the elevator tomorrow and I let him do it anyway. My nails go down his back from his shoulders to his ass, and I feel the skin rise under my fingers, and he groans and fucks me harder into his own kitchen floor, and we are both going to be a mess in daylight.His bedroom is the last room we enter, and it’s the only one that matters.It shares my wall. That’s the wall. The headboard that’s been waking me since March is bolted
Two fingers push back in while his mouth stays on my clit, and the combination undoes me faster than I’d like – under two minutes, because six months of arguing in doorways was foreplay and the first honest contact detonates everything that’s been stacking up since March.I cum against his mouth with my thigh locked over his shoulder and my hand fisted in his hair, and I’m loud enough that the downstairs neighbor is definitely awake now, and I don’t care, because for the first time in half a year I am making noise in this building on purpose.He stands up with his mouth and chin shining, looking obscenely pleased with himself.“Couch,” I say, pushing him backward by the chest.He goes down onto the cushions and I climb over him, and the springs make their specific squeak – the one I know, the one I’ve laid in the dark listening to while other women made sounds I pretended not to hear.There’s still fabric between us. I settle down onto the ridge of him through the joggers and grind, a







