Page 22 of Mafia Queen
“All yours,” I say to urge him on.
“This is so wet,” he says with a flick, “and so tight.” He runs the head of his cock along my seam. “And all mine.”
With that, he fucks me where I’m wet, thrusting so hard I’m lifted to my toes. He pushes again, twisting to wedge himself deep as he pushes me down by the back of the head.
“Put your ass up, sexy girl.” The pressure of him is so great, I feel as though I barely move, but he groans and closes his fist on a handful of my hair. “You think I’d leave you a widow.” I’m yanked back by the hair. “When I can fuck you like this?”
“Yes. Like this.”
He pulls so hard my chest comes off the table.
“You’re a toy for my cock.” Reaching around, he puts one hand on my clit, and with the other, he handles my breasts as though he owns them, finding the hard nipples and pinching them. “You still want me to use you like this?”
“Please. Yes.”
I’m half standing, partly crouching, getting pounded against the table while his dick holds me up. From my tits, his hand moves up to my jaw, then tightens around my throat, choking me.
“You’ll crawl for my cock.” He rubs my clit harder and tightens his grip on my throat, pressing my arteries while he drives into me. I put my hand over his, but don’t pull him away. “Now show me how much you like it when I use you.”
A gentle blackness crawls at the edges of my consciousness, pushing out thought and reason, and suddenly, in a rush, I awaken in the throes of an explosion of pleasure, shuddering endlessly in his arms.
But he’s not done. I’m barely through the orgasm when he pulls my pants all the way down, lifts my ankles, and flips me onto my back. He rips off the pants and spreads my legs, pushing my knees until they’re almost touching the table. I’m exposed and helpless, and in realizing that he can hurt me, that he will hurt me, and that I want him to hurt me, the resistant part of my brain clicks into submission.
“Beg me to fuck your tight little ass.” He slaps the sensitive folds between my legs where I’m still swollen, and I yelp with the sting.
“Please fuck my ass.”
“Open it. Show me.”
Every command lands inside a desire to please him, this living man, who rose from the dead to come for me. He’s alive. I reach down and open my cheeks to expose myself to the danger of him. The risk is real because he is.
He snaps a flask of olive oil from the counter and drips it on my stomach, my pussy, my stretched-open asshole. Then sends the flow to his thick, hard cock.
“I’m going to come in your ass,” he says, putting down the bottle. “But first, you come again.” He kisses the drops of green oil on my belly, running his tongue down to my clit. He sucks off the oil.
“I just came… It’s too much.”
In answer, he slides a finger into my ass, and with a careful flick of his tongue, I’m ready again, writhing on the table as he sucks my clit and adds another finger, stretching me so I can take his cock.
“Good girl,” he mutters between flicks and sucks. “Open for me. Show me what your ass does when you come.”
He sucks again, pulling an orgasm out of me while digging his fingers deep. My muscles pulse around them, squeezing in a rhythm I don’t consciously intend.
Standing, he wipes his mouth with his wrist, then drops more olive oil on my ass.
“You ready?” he asks, putting down the bottle.
“Yes.”
“Do you believe?” He circles my anus with his cock.
“Maybe.”
He pushes in. I stretch for the head.
“Maybe?” He lets it slip out. “Does a ghost fuck you like this?”
Pushing harder, he gets the head in, and he groans, and I know he doesn’t care about my answer. He’s past the point of no return. When he thrusts deeper, it hurts, and it’s awe-inspiring, exquisite, irrationally gratifying.
