Page 175 of Sexting the Pakhan

“You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

He’s thick enough that every inch feels deliberate. My pussy takes him slowly, gripping, resisting, then giving way as I sink down farther. I can feel every pulse of him, every small twitch of control leaving his body as I seat myself over his cock.

When I finally take him fully, I let out a helpless sound and rest my forehead against his.

“There,” he says quietly.

I nod once.

I stay like that for a second, just feeling him inside me.

This. This is what I wanted when I was alone at night and pretending a hand and a phone were enough. Not just release. Not just friction. The fullness of him. The weight of a real body. The indecent comfort of sitting on a man’s cock and knowing he is exactly where I put him.

I lift my head and start to move.

The first roll of my hips is slow because it has to be. My body is still trembling from the orgasm, still sensitive enough that everyshift drags his cock against my walls in a way that makes my breath catch.

Ruslan watches my face. Not my breasts. Not the movement between us.

My face.

That does something dangerous to me.

I put both hands on his shoulders and ride him harder. His hands slide from my hips up my sides, under my blouse, over my waist and ribs until they reach my breasts. He cups them through the fabric first, squeezing once, and I gasp.

I pull the blouse open the rest of the way and push my bra down.

His expression changes immediately.

That look. Hungry enough to shame me if I had any shame left.

I take one of his hands and place it properly on my breast. “There,” I say.

He groans. The sound goes straight through me.

I keep moving on his cock, up and down now, using the back of the couch for balance while he palms my breasts like he has been denied them for years. Which, in a way, he has. Me too. I haven’t been touched like this in so long that every rough, greedy squeeze feels like my body is waking up piece by piece.

He drags his thumbs over my nipples, and I nearly lose the rhythm.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

“That’s right.”

His mouth closes over one breast as soon as I lean close enough.

He sucks hard. I cry out and arch into him, and that only gives him more of me. He buries his face in my breasts like he can’t decide which one he wants more, mouth hot and rough, tongue and teeth and breath against skin that has spent too long being practical.

Breasts for nursing.

Breasts for bras that fit under work blouses.

Breasts for children to lean against when they’re sick.

Now they are for his hands and his mouth and my own desperate need.

I rock on his cock faster, chasing the friction, and he keeps sucking and mouthing at my tits until I can barely think. One of his hands stays on my breast while the other drops between us, finding my clit with humiliating ease.