KLucifer_123
Virgin
- Joined
- Feb 4, 2026
- Posts
- 11
The Apartment at 3:17 a.m.
The hallway light is already off when she lets him in. No small talk, no offer of water, no “so how was your night” performance. Just the soft metallic snick of the deadbolt and then her back pressing against the inside of the door while she’s still reaching behind herself to make sure it’s locked.
His mouth finds the side of her neck before the key is even out of the cylinder. Not gentle. Teeth first, then suction hard enough that she knows there will be an oval bruise the exact width of his mouth by morning. Her breath hitches sharp, involuntary and that sound seems to flip a switch in him. Hands that were framing her face drop to her hips, fingers digging in, yanking her pelvis forward so she can feel exactly how hard he already is through both layers of denim.
She doesn’t say anything clever. She just reaches down, pops the button on his jeans with one practiced flick, and shoves the zipper down far enough to get her hand inside. No preamble. No teasing strokes. She wraps her fingers around him and squeezes once, hard, the way she knows makes his knees momentarily unlock.
“Fuck—” The word leaves him on an exhale that’s almost a growl.
He doesn’t bother taking her shirt off properly. He bunches the cotton up under her armpits, bra shoved above her breasts in the same impatient motion. Then his mouth is on her again, this time lower sucking one nipple into wet heat while his thumb and forefinger pinch the other, rolling just past the edge of pain. She arches, skull knocking quietly against the door, and the little metallic sound makes him smile against her skin.
They don’t make it to the bedroom.
He spins her, presses her chest to the same door she was just leaning against. Her palms slap flat against the wood for balance. He drags her leggings and underwear down in one rough pull only to mid-thigh, just far enough. She hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper, then the quick, practiced sound of him rolling it on. No wasted seconds.
When he pushes inside her it isn’t slow. It’s one long, unrelenting slide until his hips meet her ass and they both make a sound that would embarrass them in daylight. She’s wet enough that there’s almost no resistance, just slick heat and the sudden, stretching fullness that makes her eyes roll back under closed lids.
He doesn’t give her time to adjust. He pulls almost all the way out only the head still inside then snaps forward again, hard enough that her breasts flatten against the door and her breath punches out in a startled moan. Again. Again. The rhythm is brutal, utilitarian, exactly what they both came here for. No romance, no whispered sweet nothings. Just the wet slap of skin meeting skin, his fingers bruising her hips, her nails scraping the paint off the door.
She reaches back with one hand, finds his wrist, drags his palm around to the front so he can get to her clit. He doesn’t need instructions. Two fingers frame the swollen bud, rubbing fast little circles that match the tempo of his thrusts. The combination is merciless. Within thirty seconds her thighs are shaking.
“Don’t you fucking stop,” she manages voice wrecked, half plea, half order.
He doesn’t. He leans in, teeth on the back of her neck now, free hand sliding up to collar her throat not choking, just holding, letting her feel the weight and heat of his palm while he keeps that relentless pace.
The orgasm hits her like a dropped weight. No slow build, no warning flutter just sudden, violent clenching that makes her knees buckle. He has to catch her waist with both arms to keep her upright while she comes apart, pulsing around him, gasping curses into the crook of her own elbow so the neighbors won’t hear.
He doesn’t stop moving. If anything he goes harder, chasing his own release now that she’s slicker, looser, shuddering. Four more strokes maybe five and he buries himself to the root, hips jerking in short, helpless pulses as he empties into the condom with a low, broken sound pressed against her shoulder.
For ten seconds the only noise is both of them trying to remember how lungs work.
Then he carefully pulls out, ties off the condom with practiced efficiency, and drops it into the little trash can she keeps by the door specifically for nights like this one. She stays braced against the wood, leggings still tangled around her thighs, shirt rucked up, hair a disaster.
He steps back just far enough to tug her leggings back into place almost gentlemanly if not for the fact that his fingers deliberately drag over her still-sensitive clit as he does it, making her hiss and twitch.
She finally turns around. Face flushed, pupils blown, lips swollen from biting them. He looks exactly the same: wrecked, satisfied, already calculating how many hours of sleep he can afford to lose if they go again in the shower.
She reaches up, hooks two fingers in the collar of his t-shirt, pulls him down until their foreheads touch.
“Bedroom,” she says. Not a question.
He smiles slow, filthy, promising.
“After you.”
They don’t speak again until the bedroom door closes behind them.
The hallway light is already off when she lets him in. No small talk, no offer of water, no “so how was your night” performance. Just the soft metallic snick of the deadbolt and then her back pressing against the inside of the door while she’s still reaching behind herself to make sure it’s locked.
His mouth finds the side of her neck before the key is even out of the cylinder. Not gentle. Teeth first, then suction hard enough that she knows there will be an oval bruise the exact width of his mouth by morning. Her breath hitches sharp, involuntary and that sound seems to flip a switch in him. Hands that were framing her face drop to her hips, fingers digging in, yanking her pelvis forward so she can feel exactly how hard he already is through both layers of denim.
She doesn’t say anything clever. She just reaches down, pops the button on his jeans with one practiced flick, and shoves the zipper down far enough to get her hand inside. No preamble. No teasing strokes. She wraps her fingers around him and squeezes once, hard, the way she knows makes his knees momentarily unlock.
“Fuck—” The word leaves him on an exhale that’s almost a growl.
He doesn’t bother taking her shirt off properly. He bunches the cotton up under her armpits, bra shoved above her breasts in the same impatient motion. Then his mouth is on her again, this time lower sucking one nipple into wet heat while his thumb and forefinger pinch the other, rolling just past the edge of pain. She arches, skull knocking quietly against the door, and the little metallic sound makes him smile against her skin.
They don’t make it to the bedroom.
He spins her, presses her chest to the same door she was just leaning against. Her palms slap flat against the wood for balance. He drags her leggings and underwear down in one rough pull only to mid-thigh, just far enough. She hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper, then the quick, practiced sound of him rolling it on. No wasted seconds.
When he pushes inside her it isn’t slow. It’s one long, unrelenting slide until his hips meet her ass and they both make a sound that would embarrass them in daylight. She’s wet enough that there’s almost no resistance, just slick heat and the sudden, stretching fullness that makes her eyes roll back under closed lids.
He doesn’t give her time to adjust. He pulls almost all the way out only the head still inside then snaps forward again, hard enough that her breasts flatten against the door and her breath punches out in a startled moan. Again. Again. The rhythm is brutal, utilitarian, exactly what they both came here for. No romance, no whispered sweet nothings. Just the wet slap of skin meeting skin, his fingers bruising her hips, her nails scraping the paint off the door.
She reaches back with one hand, finds his wrist, drags his palm around to the front so he can get to her clit. He doesn’t need instructions. Two fingers frame the swollen bud, rubbing fast little circles that match the tempo of his thrusts. The combination is merciless. Within thirty seconds her thighs are shaking.
“Don’t you fucking stop,” she manages voice wrecked, half plea, half order.
He doesn’t. He leans in, teeth on the back of her neck now, free hand sliding up to collar her throat not choking, just holding, letting her feel the weight and heat of his palm while he keeps that relentless pace.
The orgasm hits her like a dropped weight. No slow build, no warning flutter just sudden, violent clenching that makes her knees buckle. He has to catch her waist with both arms to keep her upright while she comes apart, pulsing around him, gasping curses into the crook of her own elbow so the neighbors won’t hear.
He doesn’t stop moving. If anything he goes harder, chasing his own release now that she’s slicker, looser, shuddering. Four more strokes maybe five and he buries himself to the root, hips jerking in short, helpless pulses as he empties into the condom with a low, broken sound pressed against her shoulder.
For ten seconds the only noise is both of them trying to remember how lungs work.
Then he carefully pulls out, ties off the condom with practiced efficiency, and drops it into the little trash can she keeps by the door specifically for nights like this one. She stays braced against the wood, leggings still tangled around her thighs, shirt rucked up, hair a disaster.
He steps back just far enough to tug her leggings back into place almost gentlemanly if not for the fact that his fingers deliberately drag over her still-sensitive clit as he does it, making her hiss and twitch.
She finally turns around. Face flushed, pupils blown, lips swollen from biting them. He looks exactly the same: wrecked, satisfied, already calculating how many hours of sleep he can afford to lose if they go again in the shower.
She reaches up, hooks two fingers in the collar of his t-shirt, pulls him down until their foreheads touch.
“Bedroom,” she says. Not a question.
He smiles slow, filthy, promising.
“After you.”
They don’t speak again until the bedroom door closes behind them.
