Page 38 of Frog

“Say it!” he snarled, and the power of his demand slammed through me.

“Just you,” I barely managed to get out, grabbing hold of my heavy, dripping cock, stroking myself.

“You trust me not to hurt you, never to hurt you.”

“Yes,” I said huskily, my voice going in and out on me.

“Remember that,” he ordered me, and I felt his hands on my cheeks, spreading me fast, roughly, even as the head of his cock pressed against my furled entrance.

The thought of what he was about to do had consumed me since the last time I had seen him. We had been so close that time. I had been on the verge of begging him for it right before I left. But he had been so angry, so possessive and frustrated, that at the end I was afraid that if I asked him he would think it was more than it was and I would regret that.

But now, he was claiming me, taking what he wanted, and I didn’t care, couldn’t be made to. It felt right, and I had no idea why.

“This will change everything,” he said, and because of that, because of his very last word, I should have said wait. I should have said no, but all that passed my lips was “please.”

Please.

And then as he pressed inside of me, “Oh God, Cyrus, please!”

But it changed so fast, and I wanted to take it back, scream at him to stop, because it started to hurt, and the pain built and burned and stung. I was full, so full, and stretched, and it was just too much. The second that I thought to yell, though, my body stopped fighting the invasion and embraced it. He pulled back a fraction, tilted his angle, and rammed in deep and hard and fast.

Until that moment, I had no idea that all my yearning, all the pressure and pain and everything else just needed Cy, inside of me, to finally be released. Knowing that I wasn’t in control, that it was all him, freed me like nothing ever had. The surrender was absolute, overwhelming, devouring bliss.

“Cy!” I gasped, lost in the undertow.

He lifted my hand to my dick, reminding me of what I should have been doing, and I took direction, squeezing and tugging, the two sensations at once all there was.

“You’re so tight, so hot. You need to come, baby, because feeling you, looking at you, I’m not…. Oh God, please, Weber.”

The last was spoken so softly, so gently, so full of tenderness but also wanting, that my body was flushed in heat.

“You’re so mine,” he chanted, and I felt him swell inside of my slick, clenching channel, felt his hand on the small of my back pushing me down, holding me still, the other clutching my hip as he thrust into me, over and over, relentless and hammering as I writhed under him. “Web!”

My body tightened, balls, muscles, everything squeezed at once, and I spurted onto the comforter, shuddering with my roaring climax as Cy fucked me through it. When he collapsed on top of me, twitching with the last of his own orgasm, I was finally able to breathe. Even his added weight was of no consideration.

Never in my life had I been filled with cum, felt it hot and slick inside of me as well as sliding down my thighs in sticky, slippery rivulets. It felt like being branded, and the smell of it, of sex and sweat mixed together, was intoxicating.

The urge to get up and run away was as powerful as the one to roll over and pull the man down into my arms.

I was terrified and sated and sore and joyful. What the hell?

He eased out of me slowly, carefully, and was gone seconds later. I heard the door open and close, and I was left alone in the room that was rapidly cooling. I couldn’t get my muscles to unclench enough to lie down, and I didn’t want to drop onto splattered semen, so I just stayed there, frozen, until I had feeling in my thighs again.

The door opened—I heard it, felt the blast of cool air—and then he was there, chuckling, crooning at the same time.

“Good, you didn’t move. You knew I’d be right back.”

“I can’t move. My muscles are locked, here.”

“That’s because your whole body tightened all at once.” He sighed, kissing my back, between my shoulder blades, the base of my spine. “You felt so good. Jesus, Weber, you were amazing.”

I grunted as his hands, as warm as the washcloth, slid over my sensitized skin.

“You were,” he told me, his touch reverent, gentle, tender as he cleaned my ass and the inside of my quivering thighs.

I moved then, crawled forward and collapsed down onto the pillow as I heard him rubbing at the comforter.

“Sorry.”