He slides inside slowly.
Inch by devastating inch, letting me feel every ridge, every vein, every centimetre of his c**k spreading me open. My walls grip him – swollen, sensitive, raw from the others – and he groans at the sensation.
"Perfect,” he breathes. “So f*****g perfect. Worth the wait.”
He enters deep. Holds there. Lets me feel the fullness, the stretch, the weight of him buried inside my c*m-filled p***y.
Then he starts to move.
Long, slow strokes at first. Pulling almost all the way out – I feel the ridge of his head dragging against my walls – then sliding back in to the hilt. Each thrust is deliberate, savouring, like he’s memorizing the way I feel.
“You’re so wet,” he murmurs. “Full of c*m. Full of them. And still your greedy little cunt is gripping me like it wants more
