Rough Handling Destroys Her Tight Holes

I’m still smiling thinking about that night—the way “tight holes” became the whole damn story before we even got comfortable. You know how it goes when the chemistry’s just there, no awkward fumbling, just this raw pull from the second the door clicked shut. She had these tattoos I couldn’t stop tracing with my fingers, little ink stories along her ribs and thigh, and every brush made her shiver like she was reading my mind. We started slow, but it didn’t take long for the energy to spike, and once we found our rhythm, it was pure instinct—her bent over the edge of the bed, me gripping her hips, that first deep push making us both gasp because it was so damn tight. The way she pushed back, matching me stroke for stroke, had me losing focus entirely; I could feel every clench, every little tremor she made when I’d pull out just to tease before slamming back in. My mind went blank, just sensation—the slap of skin, her moans getting louder, that slick heat pulling me deeper. When I finally spilled inside her, she turned around, kissed me hard, and whispered that she wanted to taste. Watching her sink down, those lips wrapped around me, still sensitive and twitching, was the hottest damn thing, and she took every drop like it was her last meal. I pulled her up after, fucked her again against the wall just to feel that tightness squeeze me dry, and we collapsed in a sweaty heap, laughing at how wrecked we both felt.