Breaking Point

"Please," she said, and this time the word came out broken, sweet, entirely without pride. "Please, I need you inside me. Please, Marcus. Please."

He stood and removed his jeans, and she saw him fully for the first time. He was hard and thick, not excessively long but substantial, the kind of thickness that made her clench in anticipation. He was veined, the head flushed dark, and she reached for him, wanting to touch, to taste, but he caught her wrist.

"Not yet."

He knelt between her legs again and rubbed the head of his cock against her slit, coating himself in her wetness, sliding over her clit, teasing her entrance without pushing in. She tried to push her hips down to take him, but he held her still with one hand on her hip.

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you inside me."

"Say it clearly."

"I want your cock inside me. I want you to fuck me. Please. I'm begging you."

He pushed in.

Slowly, inch by inch, and she felt herself stretching around him, being filled, and the fullness was so complete that it pulled another orgasm from her before he was even all the way inside. She contracted around him and he groaned, a low animal sound, and his hands gripped her hips hard enough to leave marks.

"God, you're tight," he said. "You're so wet. You feel so good."

"Don't stop. Please don't stop."

He buried himself to the hilt and held there, letting her feel him, letting her adjust, and she could feel every inch of him, every ridge, every pulse. He leaned down and kissed her, and she tasted herself on his tongue, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in that long brown hair, gripping it, holding him to her.

He began to move. Slow at first, deep, deliberate strokes, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, and each thrust ground against her clit and pressed against that spot inside her that made her see light. She was moaning continuously now, broken sounds, half words, his name mixed with please and yes and more.

He shifted, hooking one of her legs over his shoulder, and the angle changed and she felt him deeper, impossibly deep, and the pressure was different now, more intense, and she felt something building that was different from before, heavier, more dangerous.

"I'm going to cum again," she said, and her voice was thin, stretched.

"I know. I can feel you squeezing me."

"It's too much."

"Take it for me." He thrust harder, faster, and the sound of their bodies was obscene and beautiful, wet skin against wet skin, and she felt it cresting and she tried to fight it because it was too much, it was too intense, but he wasn't giving her a choice. He reached down with his thumb and pressed against her clit and she shattered.

She screamed. Not a word, just a sound, raw and uncontrolled, and she came harder than before, and she felt herself gushing around him, soaking them both, soaking the blanket, and her body convulsed and she squirted again, a hot rush that ran down between their bodies, and she was crying now, actual tears, because the pleasure was beyond what her body could contain.

He didn't stop. He kept thrusting through her orgasm, and each thrust prolonged it, sent another wave through her, and she was shaking, her teeth chattering, her nails raking his back.

"One more," he said. "Give me one more."

"I can't. I can't. I can't."

"You can." He pulled out and she whimpered at the emptiness, but then he flipped her onto her stomach and lifted her hips and entered her from behind, and the new angle hit something different, something deeper, and she clawed at the blanket and bit the fabric because the sensation was so far beyond pleasure that it had become something else entirely.

He drove into her, his hands on her hips, pulling her back onto him with each thrust. His semi-long hair fell forward, damp with sweat, sticking to his temples as he watched himself disappear into her. The sight of her, bent before him, taking him, her dark skin flushed and wet, broke the last of his restraint.

She could hear him now, the sounds he was making, grunts, groans, and she could feel him getting thicker inside her, harder, and she knew he was close.

"I'm going to cum inside you," he said, his voice ragged.

"Yes." She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, and her face was wet with tears and her eyes were blazing. "Inside me. I want you inside me. I want all of it."

"Are you sure."

"I've never been more sure of anything. Please. Please cum inside me. Please give it to me."

He thrust deep and held, and she felt him pulse inside her, once, twice, and then he groaned, a long broken sound, and she felt the heat of him flooding her, thick and hot, and the feeling of it pushed her over one final time. She came with him, clenching around him, milking him, and she felt her own release, another gush, and their fluids mixed and ran down her thighs and she was shaking and he was shaking and they collapsed together onto the blanket, still joined, still pulsing.