The first press is always the sweetest t0rture.

I feel the broad head nudging against my entrance, that moment of resistance before my body remembers how to yield. He takes his time—he always does—working himself in with slow, deliberate pressure that has my thighs trembling where they're pressed against his hips.

"Relax, baby," he murmurs, but I can hear the strain in his voice too, the way he's fighting not to just sink deep in one thrust.

I arch my back against the sheets, feeling the stretch intensify as he pushes deeper. That delicious burn as my body accommodates his thickness, the way I can feel every ridge, every vein as he slides in inch by inch. My breath hitches when he reaches that spot, the one that makes my toes curl and my fingers claw at the bedding.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, and I can feel it—the way I'm gripping him, fluttering around his length, stretched so full I can barely think.

He starts to move, and the stretch becomes a rhythm, a pulse of pressure and relief that has me gasping with every thrust. I can see where we're joined, the obscene, perfect sight of him disappearing into me again and again, my body taking everything he gives.

"More," I whimper, because even full to the brim, I want deeper. Want to feel the head of his cock kissing my cervix. Want to be ruined for anyone else.

He obliges, angling his hips, and the stretch shifts—deeper, harder, hitting places that make my vision blur at the edges. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, greedy for the stretch, for the ache that tells me exactly who I belong to.

When I come, it's with him buried to the root, my body clamping down so hard I feel him twitch, feel the pulse of his own release as he stretches me one final time, filling me with heat until I'm overflowing.

After, when he pulls out slowly, I feel the emptiness like a loss, tender and swollen and already craving the stretch all over again. 😈