“Fuck yeah,” he said. “I’m in for a treat today, huh?”
His hand, big and calloused, landed on my right ass cheek. He didn’t caress it. He pawed at it, his fingers digging into the flesh, squeezing and kneading like he was testing its ripeness. My muscles clenched under the rough appraisal, my ass jiggling with the force of his probing.
Smack.
The sound was sharp, explosive in the tight confines of the alley. My skin screamed, a stinging heat spreading across the cheek he’d struck. My hips jerked forward, my nose grinding against the mortar.
Smack. Smack.
Two more followed, harder this time, rocking my whole body. A choked gasp escaped my lips, part pain, part something else. Something dark and thrilling that made my knees weak.
A loud, wet smack echoed in the air as Brock spat into his palm.
I flinched, my breath catching in my throat.
A cold, slick wetness coated Brock's palm as he smeared it right down my crack. His fingers pried me open, an obscene gesture that exposed me completely under the single, buzzing light bulb above.
Then I felt it.
The blunt, insistent pressure of his cock head nudging against my tight entrance, against the most vulnerable part of me.
My whole body went rigid.
His voice was a low, venomous rasp against my skin, his breath hot on my neck. “You wanted this back then, didn’t you?”
The words took me back. The locker room. The steam-filled air, the casual cruelty, the way I always tried to make myself small, invisible, while my eyes betrayed me.
“Tried to catch a glimpse of my dick in the locker room, didn’t you?”
My face burned with a shame so hot it felt like it could peel the skin from my bones.
He knew.
He’d always known.
That secret I thought I’d guarded so carefully was just another weapon for him to use.
The head of his cock pushed harder, a thick, insistent probe against my clenched muscle. “I’ll do you one better.”
This was it.
The thing I feared.
The thing I secretly wanted.
A strange, sick wave of gratitude washed over me.
Thank god for Pride.
Thank god I’d spent an hour in the bathroom before I left, making sure I was pristine, empty, ready.
I’d planned to get fucked tonight.
I’d dressed for it, prepped for it, willed it into existence.
I just never imagined the universe would deliver him.
He didn’t waste another second.
There was no warning, no gentle entry.
Just a single, brutal shove.
A bolt of pain shot through me, sharp and blinding. My body arched against the wall, a strangled cry ripped from my throat. I felt myself split open, stretched beyond any limit I’d ever known. He was impossibly thick, a solid column of punishing muscle and flesh filling me completely. He buried himself half-way in one savage motion.
The rough brick scraped my cheek. My nails dug into the mortar between the stones.
He was inside me.
“Fuck, you’re tight.”
He withdrew, just an inch. My muscles tried to clench shut around the empty space. The brief relief was a cruel lie.
Then he shoved back in.
Deeper.
A searing, tearing fire ripped through me.
I screamed, a raw, ragged sound that the alley walls swallowed whole.
He was too big.
Too much.
The meager spit he’d used was a distant memory, replaced by the raw friction of his unyielding cock grinding against my insides. It felt like being split apart with a hot poker.
I bucked, a useless attempt to escape the violation. His hand clamped down on my hip, holding me pinned to the wall. He pulled out again, the stretch and scrape a unique torture, and then plunged back in.
Another scream, but this time it sounded different.
Higher.
Thinner.
It was the sound of my body betraying my mind.
With every thrust, the sharp edges of the pain began to blur. The agony didn't lessen, but something else rose up alongside it, a dark and desperate craving.
He was a merciless piston of flesh, all raw force.
My screams became moans.
He thrust again, bottoming out deep inside me.
My body trembled uncontrollably.
The brutal rhythm he set was a torment I started to welcome, to need. The tearing burn became a hot, liquid thrill. My moans grew louder, more frantic, echoing the slap of his groin against my ass.
Uninhibited.
Desperate.
My own cock throbbed in time with his relentless assault.
The slap of our bodies echoed, a wet, percussive beat against the alley’s oppressive silence. He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming a frantic rhythm. He hammered into me, each shove harder than the last.
He owned me.
Owned my ass.
“So fucking tight around my cock.”
The words were a low growl.
His fingers dug harder into the soft flesh of my hips, his nails biting down. Angry red crescents bloomed on my skin. The sting was sharp, electric, but it only fueled the fire low in my belly.
My hips bucked against him, not to escape, but to meet him.
To take more.
To take it all.
The friction was immense, a raw, glorious burn.
I wanted to be broken by it, to be torn apart and remade in this filthy, perfect moment.
“Bet you dreamt about this, huh?”
He slammed into me again.
“Me fucking you like some stupid slut in the street.”
My vision blurred, pain and pleasure mixed into an unbearable, intoxicating cocktail.
He was right.
Yes.
God, yes.
More than I’d ever admitted, even to myself. In the darkest corners of my mind, in the quiet of my bedroom late at night, this was the fantasy. Brock, my tormentor, taking me, breaking me, fucking me until I was nothing but his.
“God, that pussy feels so fucking good.” His voice cracked with raw lust. “Holy shit!”
He picked up the pace.
The brutal rhythm became an even more frantic, desperate pounding. He hammered into me, a relentless, bruising assault that shook my entire frame. My head thumped against the brick wall with every savage thrust. The world dissolved into a dizzying kaleidoscope of sensation: the scrape of brick on my skin, the burn deep inside me, the wet slap of his body against mine.
A sob tore from my lungs.
“Please,” I cried out, my voice ragged. “Don’t stop.”
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