It was a lazy Sunday, the kind where boredom clings to you like damp heat. I sprawled on my couch, thumb flicking through Grindr, chasing a spark. I craved younger dom guys—cocky, lean, with that rough edge that makes your pulse race. But the app was a desert, profiles blending into a blur of sameness. Then his message sliced through: “Hey, boy.” Simple. Direct. I checked his profile: 45, army guy from Islamabad, in town for a week at the Pearl Continental. His pic was grainy—just a broad, hairy chest. Older guys weren’t my vibe. I swiped away, unimpressed.
An hour later, another ping. An album. I opened it, and my breath hitched. There he was—massive, thick, a beast of a man. His cock was monstrous, veined and heavy, nestled in a dark, untamed bush. Tree-trunk thighs, corded arms, and silver-flecked chest hair that screamed raw experience. My cock stirred, betraying me. I was hooked. “Room 412. Now,” his next message commanded. No question, just an order. My mind resisted, but my body obeyed—keys in hand, hair fixed, cologne sharp on my neck. I was already his.The elevator ride to his floor stretched into eternity, my heart hammering. I knocked, and the door swung open. He filled the frame, a wall of power in a tight black tank top and cargo pants.
His biceps bulged, a smirk playing on his lips. His presence hit like a tidal wave—pure, unfiltered masculinity. His scent flooded my senses: musk, sweat, and something primal that made my knees weak. “Come in, boy,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly growl, thick with authority. I stepped inside, already shrinking under his gaze.We sat on the couch, small talk a thin veil over the tension. He leaned back, legs spread wide, his bulge obscene, straining against the fabric. He spoke of his week, his army days, but his eyes pinned me, stripping me bare, sizing me up like prey. My focus faltered, drawn to his thighs—thick, powerful, dusted with coarse hair. Fuck it. I inched closer, my hand grazing his leg, feeling the heat of his skin. His smirk deepened. “Eager, aren’t you, slut?” he growled, seizing my wrist and yanking me onto his lap, my body melting against his.His lips crashed into mine, rough and ravenous. His beard scraped my skin raw, his tongue claiming my mouth with ruthless hunger.
He kissed like he fucked—hard, relentless, no mercy. His hands roamed, squeezing my ass, ripping my shirt off. He bit my neck, sucking deep, leaving dark, throbbing hickeys. “You’re mine,” he snarled, moving to my chest, my stomach, branding me with every mark. We tangled like that for an hour, limbs entwined, heat building. His dominance seeped into me, softening me, making me pliant, desperate.Then he took over. Standing, he towered above me, unbuckling his belt with a slow, deliberate clink that echoed in my gut.
“On your knees, bitch,” he ordered. I dropped instantly, mouth watering as he freed his cock. It was bigger than the photos—thick, pulsing, the head slick and glistening. He gripped my hair, tilting my face up. “Beg for it,” he demanded, voice cold and cruel. My cheeks burned, but I obeyed. “Please, sir, let me suck your cock. I’m your filthy slut,” I whispered, shame and desire twisting inside me. He laughed, low and mocking. “Louder. Tell me you’re nothing without it.” I swallowed hard, voice shaking. “I’m nothing without your cock, sir. Please.” Satisfied, he shoved himself into my mouth.I sucked him, sloppy and frantic, lips stretching around his girth. He groaned, deep and guttural, but patience wasn’t his game. He tightened his grip and fucked my throat, thrusting deep, making me gag. Tears streamed down my face, spit pooling on the floor. He pulled back, smirking at my wrecked state. “Look at you, a messy little whore.” He spat in my mouth, the warm slickness coating my tongue. “Swallow it.” I did, trembling. Then he spat on the floor, a glistening pool by his boots. “Lick it up, slut.” I leaned down, tongue dragging across the carpet, tasting his spit and my own degradation. “Good boy,” he purred, voice thick with approval. He slapped my face—light at first, then harder—each sting blooming as I took him deeper.
He fucked my throat in every position: on my knees, on my back, my head dangling off the couch. Each thrust was brutal, each slap a reminder of my place.“Enough,” he barked, yanking me up. “On the bed. Face down. Now.” I scrambled to obey, heart pounding. He grabbed lube from the nightstand, but first, he strode to the window and ripped the curtains open. City lights poured in, the glass a thin barrier to the world outside. “Let’s give them a show, boy,” he growled, dragging me to the bed’s edge, my naked body exposed to the void. Fear and arousal churned in my gut—anyone could see me, submissive, owned. He lubed his fingers, working me open with rough, probing thrusts. His thick digits stretched me, curling inside until I moaned, my cock leaking onto the sheets. “Beg for it,” he commanded. “Tell me what you are.” My voice broke, a whimper. “I’m your dirty slut, sir. Please fuck me. I need your cock.” He smirked, smacking my ass, the handprint burning.
“That’s right, you’re my bitch.”He lubed his cock, positioned himself, and pushed in. The stretch was searing, a burn that melted into pleasure as he filled me completely. He started slow, letting me adjust, but soon he unleashed. He fucked me like a machine, hips slamming, the bed groaning under his power. The open window amplified every sound—my moans, his grunts, the wet slap of skin. His hands gripped my hips, bruising, yanking me back onto him. “Take it, slut,” he growled, spitting on my back, the wet heat sliding down my spine. He leaned over, chest hair grazing my skin, and whispered filth in my ear. “You’re just a hole for me. My desperate little whore.” His words ignited me, shame and need pushing me to the edge, the risk of being seen making my head spin.After twenty minutes of relentless pounding, it hit. My body seized, pleasure crashing through me like a storm. I came hands-free, my soft cock untouched, my entire being trembling as cum spilled onto the sheets. A sissygasm—my first, raw and shattering. I moaned, lost in the intensity. He laughed, cruel and triumphant. “Cumming like a bitch, huh?” He didn’t stop, fucking me through the aftershocks, chasing his own release. Five minutes later, he roared, burying himself deep, breeding me with hot, thick pulses. I felt it—claimed, owned, his.We collapsed, breathless. He dragged me to the shower, steam curling around us. I knelt on the tiles, sucking him again as water cascaded over us. He came in my mouth, his load bitter and heavy, and I swallowed every drop, greedy for him. Then he pinned me against the wall, kissing me fiercely, biting my neck and chest, layering fresh hickeys over the fading ones. “You’re marked, boy,” he growled, his voice a vow.I stumbled out of his room, dazed, my body a canvas of his dominance—aching, bruised, alive.
The next day, my friends noticed the hickeys, grinning. “Got lucky, huh?” they teased, assuming some girl. They’d never guess I’d been a bitch for a man twice my age, fucked senseless, broken open. That sissygasm rewired me. Hands-free orgasms came easily after, each one a echo of his power—the weight of his body, the sting of his slaps, the taste of his spit, the shame of begging and being seen. I crave it still, that raw surrender, his voice in my ear, claiming me as his.
