Johnny Hedonic

You hook your legs over my soft hips. I can't get my cock inside you fast enough. With the abundance of lube still inside you and smeared all around your asshole, you practically gulp me in.

I stake you deeply, not letting up, my hips grinding in short, hard strokes. I hold myself up, my hands on either side of your head, my belly enveloping your cock, my chest dangling above you.

You look up at me, and your eyes are a mix of pure animal lust and a dare--a god damn dare--to give you even more than I've already given.

Okay. Okay, you little fuck. Fair enough.

I get upright, hoist you by your legs, holding your hips up off the bed as though you weighed nothing. With my newfound leverage, I lengthen my strokes and pound you with all my might.

Your cock, weeping and half-soft, sways with the impact. Uninhibited, you begin crying out, heedless that someone in another room might hear you. Your ass makes the sexiest sloshing, squishing noises.

Once I've spent my strength and taught you a lesson, I let you down and carefully pull out. Huffing and puffing a little, I tell you, somewhere between a request and an order, to get on top of me.

My only question is, do you understand? You nod.

After you've gathered yourself, you roll out of the way. I take your place, reclining there on the pillows. You move with shaky and sore legs, first lifting one, then swinging it over, straddling my thighs.

You slide forward, just a little, your damp cock and balls dragging through my body hair, and that's all it takes for me to slip inside you. Sinking slowly, you let all your body weight settle into me.

I tell you to lie down on top of me. I intend to grip you by your hips and fuck you from underneath. My mind's eye is peppered with helpful diagrams coughed up by NeuralNet's automated image search.

Instead, you stage a damn coup on me. You lean back, arching your tight little chest. You prop yourself up with your hands on my thighs and begin to grind on me, forwards and backwards, like a whipsaw.

God, it's beautiful. Your cock, hardening again, is making little irregular elliptical movements in the air. My cock is in heaven.

I'm already on my way to my second orgasm when you switch to a less aggressive, bobbing stroke. Balancing yourself carefully, you free up one of your hands and take hold of your thickening erection.

I'm so hungry for what's next. My stumpy erection is alive with nerves, thrumming with the attentions of your slippery little asshole, the tight ring of it gliding up and down, up and down.

With your asscheeks clapping against my chubby legs, you begin to jerk off. It's hypnotizing--I watch your hand cruise up and down that big, handsome pole of yours, watch your face crinkle in ecstasy.

And that's all it takes.

My second ejaculation is unspectacular--a pleasant, spreading warmth, a few weak spurts up your warm, tight ass, then it's over. I can already feel it running out of you and soaking my pubic hair.

You let yourself come to a rest in my lap, though not releasing me from you. I feel like a powder keg of hypersensitivity. Mercifully, you keep the bottom half of your body still.

You lean forward, your abs making a lovely show of themselves, and you begin to jerk off in earnest. Your hand finds its way to my chest and kneads it compulsively, squeezing the fat and pulling at the hair.

God, it hurts. It's going to bruise so hard.

Keep doing it.

I watch your face, enthralled, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when you pass that crucial turning point.

I hope NeuralNet can aggregate enough sensory data to reconstruct this moment as a snapshot. I want to remember it forever.

Your cum, much thinner this time, lurches from your peehole onto my belly, lightweight little pinpoint strikes that make irregular cobwebs of my belly hair.

You're already almost halfway through ejaculating before the rest of you catches up, grunting and shaking in the throes of orgasm. Your weight, bucking and yawing on my middle, feels wonderful.

Your asshole is squeezing my limp dick, and though I do find it discomforting, it only lasts a few moments before you lean forward and slide off of me. My cock is a warm, sticky mess, drying in the air.

You collapse onto my torso, sweating and panting. I hold you there for a time, our bodies glued together. The air is scented with our breath and the sour perfume of anal sex. Your weight is an intimate comfort.

Later, as I stroll through the lobby and out the front door, I've already forgotten your real name. It's okay--if I need it again, it's logged somewhere in the cloud, accessible with the blink of an eye.

That night, as I fall asleep in my own bed, NeuralNet kindly puts itself into standby mode. The bombardment of advertisements, articles, messages from friends, the constant buzzing in my brain, it all stops.

It'll switch back to live mode immediately upon waking, and the aching hole in my consciousness will once again be filled.