Stephanny Tricks
25.8K views
Okay so picture this—I'm face down over the kitchen table with my shorts around my knees, and he's behind me, already sliding his hand between my cheeks. No ceremony, no pause, just one slick thumb pushing against my hole until it gives. He spits in his palm, works the mess in with two fingers, and I bite my lip because it always feels a little absurd how fast my body opens for him. Feels even sillier that I push back like I'm afraid he'll change his mind. Then his cock, hot and heavy, rests there for a second. One lazy roll of his hips and he's in, slow enough that the stretch burns sweet and mean, all the way until his balls press tight against me. He grabs my hips, pulls almost all the way out, and slams back harder. The table creaks; a spoon rattles off onto the linoleum. I laugh, breathless, and the sound cracks when he grinds deep and hits the spot that turns my knees to jelly. He keeps the rhythm messy on purpose, like he's daring the neighbors to hear. Every thrust forces little huffs out of me—half gasp, half giggle—and when I reach down to stroke myself he swats my hand away, tells me to wait, says he'll get me off later if I behave. Like I'm not already dripping onto the floor, like this isn't the least behaved I've ever been.
Stephanny Tricks
Okay so picture this—I'm face down over the kitchen table with my shorts around my knees, and he's behind me, already sliding his hand between my cheeks. No ceremony, no pause, just one slick thumb pushing against my hole until it gives. He spits in his palm, works the mess in with two fingers, and I bite my lip because it always feels a little absurd how fast my body opens for him. Feels even sillier that I push back like I'm afraid he'll change his mind. Then his cock, hot and heavy, rests there for a second. One lazy roll of his hips and he's in, slow enough that the stretch burns sweet and mean, all the way until his balls press tight against me. He grabs my hips, pulls almost all the way out, and slams back harder. The table creaks; a spoon rattles off onto the linoleum. I laugh, breathless, and the sound cracks when he grinds deep and hits the spot that turns my knees to jelly. He keeps the rhythm messy on purpose, like he's daring the neighbors to hear. Every thrust forces little huffs out of me—half gasp, half giggle—and when I reach down to stroke myself he swats my hand away, tells me to wait, says he'll get me off later if I behave. Like I'm not already dripping onto the floor, like this isn't the least behaved I've ever been.