Aftercare and Then Some

The taste of him was still on my tongue, a salty, musky reminder of what had just happened. My guy friend, the one I’d been fucking for months now, was lying back on his couch, a soft, almost pathetic groan escaping his lips. His cock, which had been so magnificently hard in my mouth just moments ago, was already beginning to soften against his thigh, glistening and spent.

“Coño,” he mumbled, running a hand over his face. “Luna, I’m sorry. That was… quicker than I wanted.”

I just smiled, crawling up his body to kiss his chest. I could always tell. There was a certain slump in his shoulders, a disappointed sigh he tried to hide. He thought he’d failed me, that a real man should last longer. But I found it incredibly endearing. The way he lost all control the second my lips wrapped around him, the way his whole body tensed and shuddered… it was a compliment. It told me, louder than any words, just how much he craved me.

And this man, Dios mío, he deserved a reward. Not just for the explosive orgasm, but for the way he’d been all day. Every time he passed by me in his apartment, his hand would find its way to my ass, delivering a sharp, possessive slap that made me jump and then melt inside. It was a constant, unspoken promise of what was to come. He was such a cutie, my beautiful, frustrated boy.

So, instead of getting up to clean myself off, I settled back between his legs. He looked down at me, confusion in his dark, hazy eyes. “What are you— Oh, fuck.”

I didn’t give him a chance to finish. I took his softening cock back into my mouth, not with the frantic energy from before, but with a slow, deliberate, worshipful attention. I licked him clean, tasting his own cum, my tongue tracing the sensitive veins on the underside. I felt him twitch, a tiny, involuntary spasm of surprise. Then, a low, guttural moan ripped from his throat, a sound I had never, ever heard from him before.

We had done it all. He’d taken me from behind in his kitchen, my hands braced against the cold countertop. He’d pinned me down on this very couch, my wrists held above my head. I’d ridden him until my legs shook, letting him have complete dominion over my body. But in all those months of raw, sweaty, passionate fucking, I had never witnessed this level of pure, unadulterated sexual satisfaction. His hands, which had been lying limply at his sides, flew to my head, his fingers tangling in my dark curls. Not to force me, but to hold on, as if I were the only solid thing in a spinning world.

“Luna… mi vida… I love you,” he choked out, his voice ragged. “Te amo, I love you so much.”

The words, spoken in a mix of English and the Spanish that felt like home, sent a jolt straight to my core. I was so enamored, so utterly possessed by his confessions and the way his hands were now roaming my body, finding every curve and dip that drove me wild. My pussy was throbbing, aching with a need that his first orgasm had only sharpened.

After his second orgasm—a weaker, but no less intense, release that left him trembling—I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to feel him inside me, to claim that pleasure for myself. With a hunger that surprised even me, I moved, straddling his hips. His eyes were wide, dazed, worshipful.

“My turn, papi,” I whispered, and I guided him inside me.

I sank down onto him in one slow, exquisite motion, sheathing him completely in my wet, tight heat. A broken gasp escaped his lips. His hands immediately found my hips, his grip firm, anchoring me. As I began to move, rising and falling in a rhythm that was all my own, his hands wandered. They cupped my breasts, his thumbs rubbing rough circles over my hard nipples, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. Then they were back on my hips, guiding me, helping me find the angle that made us both see stars.

I rode him like a woman possessed. I rode him until the sweat made our skin slick and our breathing was a ragged, shared symphony. I rode him until the poor boy forgot his own name, his vocabulary reduced to a litany of my name and curses and prayers. I could feel his third orgasm building, a tight, coiling tension in his body beneath mine. I leaned forward, bracing my hands on his chest, and increased my pace, my clit rubbing against him with every frantic bounce.

When he came, it was with a deep, guttural shout, his body arching off the couch. The feeling of his climax pulsing deep inside me was the final push I needed. My own orgasm crashed over me, a blinding, white-hot wave that made my vision blur and my muscles clamp down around him in violent, rhythmic spasms.

I collapsed forward, coming face-to-face with the man who had so kindly, so wonderfully, let me use his cock like my personal toy. He was breathless, his face flushed, his eyes full of a stunned, sated adoration. He didn’t say a word. He just cupped my face and kissed me, deeply, passionately, his tongue exploring my mouth with a tenderness that contrasted beautifully with the raw sex we’d just shared.

When we finally broke apart, he brushed the hair from my sweaty forehead. “You are so fucking sexy,” he breathed, his voice hoarse.

I smiled, a slow, wicked, satisfied smile. I traced his jawline with my finger. “You were a very good boy,” I purred. “Do you want me to make you cum again?”

His eyes, heavy-lidded with exhaustion and pleasure, widened just a fraction. He was utterly spent, yet the desire was still there, a flicker in the depths. He nodded, a slow, deliberate yes.

So I kissed him again. This time it was a slow, deep, exploring kiss, my tongue dancing with his. It wasn’t just about passion now; it was a strategic make-out session, designed to give his beautiful, exhausted body time to recover, time to remember its strength. I kissed him until I felt him stir inside me once more, a promising hardness beginning to grow against my sensitive flesh. A slow, wicked smile spread across my lips. The mission was not yet complete.