Chapter 5: Concessions

Later that morning I ended up on my hands and knees on the living room rug because the couch was too far and the floor was right there. He took me from behind in a deep, rolling rhythm that made my arms shake. I had already come once, a good one, the kind that should have taken the edge off. It had not. Another one was building behind it, bigger, lower, the kind that made my fingers curl into the rug, and my toes curl into the air.

His hand slid over the small of my back.

Then lower.

His fingers rubbed around my asshole while he fucked me, not pushing in, just teasing the rim, a slick circle that I could feel without having to think about it. I was too lost in the other sensations to make a case about it. It felt like extra heat, extra attention, and I did not complain because I could feel the orgasm coming, and I did not want him to stop anything that was feeding it.

The circling increased.

The pressure increased.

He pushed his thumb into the first knuckle.

“No,” I moaned.

My body went rigid around the intrusion. It did not feel bad. That was the problem. It felt shockingly good in a bright, crowded way, pussy and ass both lit at once, and my brain slammed into the old rule like a doorjamb.

“Tyler, please don’t. Exit only, remember? Just fuck me.”

He did not pull out.

“I’m not doing anything you haven’t already done,” he said, voice rough but almost reasonable, which was rude of him. “My tongue has been in there more than once. Hell, you had two of your own fingers buried in your ass yesterday at work. I promise I won’t hurt you. I’m only trying to give you more pleasure. Just trust me, beautiful.”

Trust. The word from last night, reused while he did the thing I had asked him not to do.

He worked the rest of the thumb inside me instead of removing it.

I moaned. Loud. Embarrassingly loud.

It felt amazing. That was the part I could not dress up. Full in both places, stretched in a way that made the next thrust through my pussy land twice as hard. I could not assemble a second protest. I could not pretend I wanted him to stop. He began to move his thumb, a slow counter-rhythm to his cock, and the dual sensation wiped the argument off the board.