He pins me against the cold wall, one hand tangled in my hair, the other sliding down my spine until his fingers hook into the damp heat between my thighs. My skin is on fire where his lips trace—first my collarbone, then the swell of my breasts, each kiss a slow, deliberate claim. I feel his cock hard against my stomach, a thick pressure that makes my knees tremble. He doesn't rush. He parts my folds with two fingers, circling my clit until I'm dripping wet, my hips bucking into his palm. Then he lifts my leg over his hip, aligns the head of his cock with my entrance, and pushes in—just an inch, just enough to make me gasp. His voice is a growl in my ear: "You're going to come for me, aren't you?" I can only nod, because every nerve is already singing, already begging for more. His thumb presses my clit as he starts to thrust, slow and deep, filling me until I forget how to breathe. This is not sex—this is being taken apart, piece by piece, until I'm nothing but moans and sweat

His thick cum spills across my belly, hot and sticky, pooling in my navel and dripping down my thighs. I smear it with my fingers, bringing it to my lips, tasting the salt of his pleasure. My pussy is still clenching around nothing, desperate for him to fill me again. I look up at him, breathless, my skin glistening. "Cum inside me next time," I whisper, spreading my legs wider. "I want to feel you pumping into my womb, feel your seed dripping out of me all day. I want you to own my cunt so completely that I can't stop thinking about your cock." He grabs my chin, tilts my face up, and I feel his thumb press against my swollen clit. "You're my little whore, aren't you?" I nod, biting my lip as his cum trickles down my ass crack. "Yes. Now fuck me again. Harder. Make me forget my own name.