Filled until morning

It’s Monday evening, and my body still hums—no, throbs—with the memory of him. Every step reminds me of how deeply he touched me, how completely he owned me. My thighs ache from being spread wide, my hips bruised from his grip, my skin still marked with the places where his mouth devoured me. There’s soreness between my legs, raw and delicious, the kind that doesn’t fade but settles in deep and lingers, a constant echo of the way he filled me—again and again and again.

It started Friday night when he showed up at my door without warning.

The look in his eyes was feral, starved. He didn’t speak at first. Just closed the door behind him and pulled me into his arms with a force that stole my breath. His mouth crashed into mine, tongue demanding, hands sliding up beneath my shirt like he couldn’t get close enough fast enough. He kissed me like he’d been thinking about it for days—like he’d been jerking off to the memory of my voice, my curves, my scent—and now that I was here, nothing was going to stop him from taking what he needed.

He stripped me down piece by piece, slowly at first—then with growing impatience. His palms were rough on my skin, possessive, hungry. He cupped my tits, squeezed my hips, ran his fingers between my thighs and groaned when he found how wet I already was.

“Such a good girl,” he whispered as he backed me toward the bed. “So ready for me.”

I whimpered when he dropped to his knees, buried his face between my legs, and licked like a man possessed. Tongue deep, wide, slow strokes that had my thighs shaking and my fingers tangled in his hair. He groaned into me when I came, loud and hot, and he didn’t stop—just kept licking as I writhed and gasped and shattered again.

Then he stood, towering above me, and I saw it—the thick outline of his dick straining in his pants. Huge. Hard. Pulsing. He freed it slowly, eyes locked on mine, and I couldn’t look away. His dick was beautiful—long, veined, thick enough to stretch me open in the best possible way. I reached for it, but he growled low in his throat and pushed me back.

“Lie down. Open up for me. I need to feel you.”

He pushed his hard dick into me slowly, the first inch dragging a desperate moan from my lips as my body stretched to take him. I was wet enough that he slid in deep with one slow, hard thrust, and we both cried out. He filled me completely, bottoming out in a single, perfect stroke that left me gasping.

His hands pinned mine above my head as he started to move, slow and deep, every inch of him dragging along every nerve ending inside me. I clenched around him, breathless, helpless, aching for more.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, voice thick with need. “So tight. So wet. This pussy was made for me.”

He kissed me fiercely as he fucked me, hips rolling with delicious pressure, his chest pressed to mine, our bodies slick with sweat. He whispered the dirtiest things in my ear—how much he’d missed me, how he’d dreamed of filling me until I couldn’t take another drop.

“Gonna fill you, baby,” he growled, thrusting harder. “Gonna make it spill out of you. You want that, don’t you? Want me dripping down your thighs?”

I couldn’t answer—only moan and nod, my nails digging into his shoulders as I wrapped my legs around him and begged for more.

He gave it to me.

He fucked me like a man starved, like he had to make up for lost time. He flipped me over, pulled my hips back, and slammed into me from behind, his hands gripping my waist, his dick plunging deep with wet, brutal sounds that filled the room. I looked back at him, dazed and ruined, and he leaned down, biting my shoulder as he thrust even harder.

“Mine,” he said, voice low and trembling. “All mine.”

When he came, he shouted my name—loud, raw, desperate—as he spilled his cum inside me. I felt the first hot pulse, then another, and another, thick and overwhelming, his cum flooding my pussy until it dripped down my thighs, soaking the sheets beneath us.

But he didn’t stop.

He kissed me through it, held me through it, then pulled out just long enough to roll me over, slide back in, and start again.

He filled me over and over—slow, tender, then rough again, his hands on my throat, my hips, my breasts. I bit his neck in return, hard enough to leave dark marks that would bloom the next day. He moaned at the sting, hips jerking in response.

“Do that again,” he said. “Mark me. Let her see who I belong to.”

I did. Again and again.

We went all night—until my pussy was swollen and sore, until his cum was spilling out in thick streams, until my body gave in and I collapsed beneath him, shaking from too many orgasms to count. Still, he kissed me softly, whispered how beautiful I looked when I came, how much he loved hearing me beg for his dick.

In the early morning, as the sun crept in through the curtains, he pulled me close one last time. His dick was still hard, still demanding, and I couldn’t resist. I opened for him again, let him slide back inside, the stretch sweet and raw as he moved gently this time—tender, slow, aching with emotion.

When he came again, he buried his face in my neck, groaning as he filled me one last time.

After, he wrapped me in his arms, kissed my temple, and stroked my hips like he was memorizing every inch of me. The moment was quiet, too intimate to explain. But I felt it—that deep, soul-deep connection beneath all the hunger.

And then, too soon, his phone rang. He cursed, kissed my bare shoulder, and got dressed in silence. I watched him leave, sore and breathless and completely wrecked.

Now, two days later, I still feel it—the fullness, the stretch, the pulsing echo of him inside me. Sitting is a reminder. Crossing my legs floods me with heat. My pussy still aches, swollen and slick with the ghost of him.

And all I can think about is how much I want him again.

How much more I want.

How much I’d let him do anything.

Because I am his good girl.

And I crave every filthy, beautiful, thing he gives me.