somerealnerd

  It all started with a dry fuck—no juice, no heat, no nothing, and hell, she didn’t even peel off a stitch of clothes.

  Britt swung a leg over John, back turned, straddling him like it was some shitty chore she couldn’t wait to scratch off. Fully dressed—skirt hiked just enough, blouse still buttoned—she barely gave him skin, just perched there.

  Inside her, it was a fucking wastend—barely slick from what John packed, the rest all forced out by her tight, grudging clench around him. He clocked it fast: she was a fortress, sealed up tight in her skull, hell-bent on keeping him out. If he wanted this to be a real win—something he could enjoy—he’d have to bust through that wall inside her head. Hey, at least I’m already inside her, halfway there, he thought, a sour grin twitching.

  Joking aside, this was garbage. No spark, no py—just her head ducked, moving like a piston on a busted engine, silent as a brick. Britt didn’t even flinch—zero vibe, just a cold, dry slog even with him shoved inside. John’s jaw clenched. She’s not even wet, and I’m stuck grinding through this?

  She hurting down there? The thought slipped in, weird and soft, catching him off guard. Women always hit him where it counted—just ’cause he loved them so much, no other reason. He shoved that sappy crap aside, zeroing back on Britt.

  Dry sex. Still dry sex. She was like some pissed-off hooker—stiff, jerky, straight up and down, no soul, just rushing to get him off and call it a day. Him inside her, yeah, but fuck—it might as well have been nothing, all tight and grudging like she was trying to squeeze him out instead of in. John’s temper fred. Here I am, pying gentle after all the shit you pulled on me, and you can’t even fucking try? This is your damn wager—loser’s supposed to deliver. If you weren’t so hot, I’d swear Stockholm’s got me fucked up.

  The irritation boiled over, and he snapped—hauled off and cracked a hard sp across her fat ass. It jiggled wild through her skirt, a loud snap slicing the quiet.

  She spun around, eyes popping wide, locking onto his with a gre that could’ve torched the pce. John met it, thinking: Gre all you want, babe—won’t change shit. Time I took over, cute little Britt. Shake that fat ass right for me.

  Wait—took over? Stockholm’s?

  Yep—I’ve got a pn.

  John’s brain kicked into gear. To flip this, he’d need her to feel him—not just take it, but get under her skin, make her click with him. That meant cracking her open with some damn empathy, and for that, she’d need to feel safe first. Safe how? Easy—give her something familiar, something she was so used to. What was Britt’s comfort zone? Strutting her queen bee shit, ruling the hive like always. Gotcha, he grinned inside. Time to py her game—his way.

  He reared back and cracked another hard sp across her juicy butt—this one heavier, sharper than before. It quivered under her skirt, a stinging whack ringing out, and she yelped, a quick, pained squeak slipping loose. She whipped around again, ready to burn him down with those eyes—but John was already shifting gears. His face softened, eyes darting with a shy, twitchy glint, like some kid caught sneaking candy. “Sorry, uh—couldn’t, uh, help it,” he mumbled, voice tripping over itself, all awkward and shaky.

  The fuck’s wrong with this guy?

  Britt’s brain scrambled, thrown off hard. Just minutes ago, he’d been all cocky, swaying his dick around like he owned the pce—now he’s back to that sniveling little wimp she used to kick around?

  “Don’t fucking do that again,” she snapped, her voice a sharp jab, eyes still burning from the gre she’d thrown him.

  “Y-yeah, sure,” John stammered, nodding like some overeager puppy, his head bobbing way too fast.

  Seriously, what the fuck’s wrong with this guy?

  But Britt’s back loosened—just a hair, not stiff as a board anymore—and John caught it. His hand crept out, sneaky as hell, fingers brushing her chest, pinching her tits through her blouse real quick. He yanked back fast, but couldn’t let go—his hand hovered there, stuck in midair, awkward as shit.

  She saw it, clocked every move, but didn’t bother opening her mouth. Fucking pussy, she cursed under her breath, rolling her eyes inward.

  No blowback? John’s gut flipped—time to push it. That dangling hand swung back, bolder now, fumbling at her blouse buttons, trying to pop one loose. Britt shot up from his p like a damn rocket, spinning around to face him, voice slicing: “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Move that hand again, and I’ll chop it off!”

  “B-but, uh, this… this angle…” John sputtered, his fake stutter kicking hard. “My hand’s got nowhere else to go—reaching out just… feels natural, y’know? I-I can’t help it!”

  “Don’t fucking touch me!” She jabbed a finger at him, her warning a growl, then swung back around, pnting herself down again, back to him.

  Stubborn as hell, John thought. Guess the “harassment” needs a little kick. This time, he didn’t mess around—both hands shot out, grabbing her breasts full-on, squeezing firm. Then he leaned in, face jamming into the back of her neck, sucking in a deep whiff of her scent—sweaty, sharp, damn near intoxicating. His lips grazed her skin, kissing slow, working up her nape.

  It tickled like hell, and Britt’s nerves frayed—she bolted up, spun, and swung a wild backhand at his face. John ducked it, head tipping back just in time, and before she could blink, he blurted, “I—I told you, I can’t fucking help it!”

  “Goddamn it—fine!” Britt barked, half-pissed, half-fed-up. To stop his grabby-ass hands from pawing her back again, she turned around, facing him now, and sank straight down onto his penis, hard and deliberate.

  John’s chest lit up—Now we’re talkin’.

  Why face-to-face? Simple as hell. Back turned, head down, shoulders hunched—she could keep him miles away, poised to bolt any second. Facing him? She’d have to lean back, but how far could she really go? To ditch him, she’d need to step off, and John could just snag her waist—trap her right there, no escape. And the kicker? After all that tussling, things were sliding smoother now—down below and up top. That backhand she’d thrown? Pure Britt—her old, fiery self. She was loosening up, getting back into her comfort zone, and he damn well felt it.

  Facing him now, Britt settled in, and John’s hands stayed put—no more wild grabs, just resting light on her waist. Fine, at least he’s not pawing me anymore, she thought, half-relieved, half-wary.

  They held that stiff, awkward pose, rocking into it for a bit. After working it a while, Britt felt it—her vagina down there was loosening up, getting wetter, slicker. No fucking way—this can’t keep going! Panic spiked. Gotta end this quick—it’s too fucking weird!

  Worst part? He was hard—very hard. Maybe shorter and thinner than Anthony, sure, but solid as a rock. A thick, fat pool noodle versus a pin old baseball bat—guess which one sms harder?

  The vibe was spiraling, way off track. Britt swore she wasn’t moving anymore—John was. His hands on her waist weren’t just holding—they were steering, yanking her down hard, crashing her onto his cock with every pull. No, no—I’ve gotta fight this. He can’t win this easy. She gripped his shoulders, nails digging in, trying to brace herself, slow the wild pace of his thrusts hammering up into her.

  Her cheeks flushed hot, breaths heaving heavier, but she cmped her jaw tight—no moans, not a damn sound slipping out. John caught every flicker—her face blooming red, her juice soaking him below—and he soaked it all in, clear as day.

  He kept up that harmless mask, eyes glinting up at her, all fake innocence ced with a sly edge, like he was some loyal subject worshipping his queen. But down low, he was a liar—each time her sweet spot dropped, he’d sneak a sharp thrust upward, meeting her halfway, spiking the heat.

  Britt wasn’t even sure she still cared about his little cheats anymore—her eyes were gzing, drifting, staring down into his from above, basking in that adoring gaze. This felt too damn weird—everything so familiar, so good, her still the queen bee, lording it over him, yet something was off, shifting. Her hands on his shoulders softened, sliding slow to his back, arms draping loose over him, resting there light and easy.

  John’s pulse jumped—almost there. Their faces inched closer, her breath—sweet and ragged—washing over him. He leaned in, chasing her lips, hungry for the kill. She dodged, pulling back quick.

  Stubborn as hell, John thought, smirking inside.

  He swerved, diving for her neck instead, lips tching on fierce. It tickled, prickled, then melted into something good—too good. She scrunched up, squirming to shove his mouth off with her cheek, but that just shoved her lips right to his. John didn’t miss a beat—caught her mouth in one swift gulp, locking her in.

  Britt twitched to pull away, but then—Fuck it, whatever. Let him have it, get it over with quick. John wasn’t half as shitty today as he used to be anyway.

  So close, John roared inside. He kept at it, tongue jamming against her sealed lips, prying at that st barricade, while his hips cranked up the sneaky upward sms, harder, bolder. .

  Screw it—just a kiss, Britt caved, letting go. Her tense shoulders sckened, arms looping soft around his neck, and for the first time, she kissed back—just a little, light and testing.

  That was it—John’s final green light.

  The mask dropped. He dove in, greedy, sucking at her tongue like a starved man, hands sliding down from her waist, roaming free across the lush expanse of her rear, fingers digging into the soft, yielding flesh. He pinched hard, twisted with a rough edge, then unleashed a flurry of ruthless spanks—each one nding with a meaty thud, painting her tan, full cheeks with a scatter of fiery red handprints that glowed against her skin. John wasn’t satisfied yet—his hands cmped onto her cheeks, thick and heavy in his grip, and yanked them apart with a fierce tug, spreading her wide open. He pinned those generous sbs in pce, forcing her entrance for him to stretch even bigger, even more vulnerable, a gaping invitation for the deeper, hungrier thrusts he was itching to deliver.

  Britt was unraveling, swept away in this relentless new rhythm—her arms coiled tighter around his neck, desperate and possessive, her kisses growing bolder, fiercer, lips chasing his with a need she couldn’t choke down. Moans tore free from her throat now, loud and raw, spilling out despite herself, but a faint thread of her mind still clung to reason, flickering through the haze: Oh John, this fucking John…

  John’s chest bzed like a wildfire—hot, itchy, damn near unbearable. His hands squeezed her ass harder, nails biting deeper into her curves, but it still wasn’t enough to scratch that gnawing ache inside him. He’d pulled every damn trick in his book to get here, and this—just fucking her like this? Simply not good enough. He wanted more, something wilder, crazier.

  With a grunt, he scooped up her legs, thick and trembling in his grasp, and hoisted her clean off the chair, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. Britt’s feet dangled helplessly in the air, swaying back and forth like she was tossing a mocking wave at the three girls frozen across the room. She clung to his neck, fingers digging in tight—if she let go, she’d topple backward, and she wasn’t risking that. Her eyes met his, cloudy with a messy swirl of dread and heat, locked on him as she realized what was coming. I’m screwed—this John’s not cutting me loose today. But the line between pissed-off and turned-on was blurring fast, and she couldn’t tell which side she was nding on anymore.

  John didn’t waste a breath on words—just raw, animal drive. He racked her legs in his arms, holding her steady, and unched into a fresh barrage of thrusts, the pace entirely his now, brutal and unrestrained. Each pull dragged his cock almost all the way out, teasing the edge, before he’d sm it back in—deep, heavy, relentless—using gravity and the full snap of his hips to bury himself to the hilt. The sp-sp-sp of his pelvis crashing into her pussy roared through the room, a deafening smack that bounced off the walls, loud enough to drown out everything else.

  Britt’s face was a bnk ste now—her thoughts scrubbed clean, nothing left but a single, looping echo: This fucking John, oh…

  The scene unfolding—over-the-top, primal, damn near pornographic—left the room stunned, jaws sck. Even the three girls who’d been dodging their eyes couldn’t tear them away anymore, locked on where John and Britt fused in a sweaty, pounding blur. They’d caught glimpses of this kind of madness in Meat King flicks, but John and Britt live? It was next-level—rawer, louder, hitting harder up close, the kind of visual gut-punch that stuck.

  John flicked his gaze to Britt—her grip strangling his neck, breath ragged and gasping, face flushed a deep, bzing red—and a thick, smug satisfaction swelled in his chest. He huffed through his own panting, voice low and taunting: “My queen, you liking how my shiny sword’s working your sweet little honey pot?”

  Shiny? Well—in a way. Her pussy was pouring now, a relentless flood that coated his thing in a slick sheen, catching the light with every thrust—glistening in and out, a wet shimmer that dazzled from the girls’ wide-eyed view across the room.

  Britt didn’t answer—couldn’t string a thought together to try. Queen? You fucking John. Her mouth stayed shut, but her gut was churning hotter, a strange, wild fire she’d never felt before licking up through her core. It was like she needed to piss, but richer, sweeter—not piss at all, something too damn good for that. Her legs, swinging loose in the air, started trembling, twitching beyond her control. She didn’t know what the hell was happening—just that she needed off, needed him to stop, needed something to give.

  But letting go wasn’t an option—drop, and she’d crash.

  John didn’t give a damn—kept pounding away, locked in his merciless rhythm, chasing his own edge. Britt hit her breaking point—screw it all—she let her hands slip, body arching back, ready to fall. John dropped her legs in a fsh, arms swooping under to catch her back mid-air, and lowered her to the ground slow and steady, almost tender.

  Her feet hit the floor, but her knees gave out—she crumpled, ass smming down, one hand braced against the floor to keep from colpsing entirely. Her whole frame shuddered, quaking hard, a low, guttural moan rumbling out from deep in her throat, soft but thick with release. The floor beneath her was a mess—a slick, spreading puddle pooling under her.

  It took a minute to pull herself together. Head bowed, staring at that wet chaos, the high crashed over her—so damn good, waves of it still tingling through her, but shame fred just as fierce, scorching her cheeks. That sharp, post-peak crity kicked in, barking stop this now, but a darker, hungrier pull cwed right back—she wasn’t ready to quit. She craved more.

  Decision locked, she lifted her head, steeling herself to stand, ready to march back to John and dive in again. But there he was—already towering over her, his manhood jutting out bold and unyielding, aimed straight at her flushed face.

  He fshed a grin she’d never seen before—wicked as sin, pyful with a razor’s edge of danger curling underneath.

  “My queen, wanna taste some of your own honey?”

  Britt jolted at his words—a searing wave of shame crashed through her, twisting with a cold stab of fear that prickled her spine, yet threaded with a sly, electric thrill she couldn’t quite kill. Anthony had begged her for this before, groveling to get filthy like that, and she’d shot him down cold every damn time—but today… today’s slipping sideways. Before she could wrestle that tangle of heat and dread into something solid, John barreled right past her hesitation.

  “Wait—John, slow down a sec,” she rasped, voice cracking, husky with a plea that wavered, “let me catch my breath, Johnny—c’mon, please?”—half pushing him off, half daring him on, her words dangling somewhere between a shove and a tease.

  No one answered—just silence, thick and unyielding, swallowing her voice whole.

  The room churned with the wet slurp of flesh sliding fast, the thick, desperate gulp of swallowed breaths, the greedy suck of lips ciming skin—and every now and then, a choked gag or two, ragged and primal, hanging heavy in the stale air.