Chapter 14: The Titfuck
Her jaw ached, a dull, deep throb that mirrored the pulse she felt against her tongue. The taste of him was a persistent, salty tang mixed with the faint copper of her own spit. She liked the power of it, the way his whole body tightened when she did something right, but the mechanics were exhausting.
She pulled back, releasing him with a soft, wet pop. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to his glistening tip for a second before it broke. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing heavily.
“Fuck,” Jordan gasped, his voice ragged. His hands, which had been clutching the couch, now reached for her hair, but she caught his wrists.
“Wait,” she said, and a smile touched her lips. She remembered something. An article, buried in a private browser tab, titled ‘Things He Wants But Won’t Ask For.’ One entry had made her blush and then stare at the ceiling for ten minutes, thinking.
“What?” he asked, his chest heaving.
Instead of answering, she moved. She climbed onto the sagging couch, knees on either side of his hips, and settled her weight onto his thighs. The worn denim of his jeans was rough against her inner knees. She looked down at him, at his cock standing stiff and wet between their bodies.
“Just… stay there,” she murmured.
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders. Her small breasts, freed from her bra earlier in their make-out session, hung down. She lowered herself until the warm, soft flesh of her chest made contact with the hot, hard length of him.
A shocked, guttural sound punched out of Jordan’s lungs.
Headquarters buzzed with a new kind of energy.
“Oh! Oh, creativity! Body exploration! Non-penetrative intimacy!” Joy chirped, her light glowing with a proud, rosy hue. “She’s leading! Look at her lead!”
Disgust, a new arrival cloaked in muted green, wrinkled her nose but nodded approvingly. “The saliva is a sufficient lubricant. Efficient. Cleaner than the alternative. Proceed.”
Fear, however, was apoplectic. “Friction! Skin abrasion! Nipple chafing! What if she gets a rash? What if he’s allergic to her laundry detergent? That’s a documented histamine response!”
“Shut up,” Anger growled, but he was leaning forward, watching with a grudging respect. “Kid’s got initiative. Using what she’s got. That’s it. That’s how you do it.”
Sadness watched the intimate, almost lonely concentration on Riley’s face. “She’s trying so hard to be good at this,” she whispered to the quiet room.
On the couch, Riley focused. She gathered more spit in her palm and slicked his shaft thoroughly, her fingers sliding from root to tip, making him twitch and curse softly. Then she pressed her breasts together around him, creating a warm, yielding channel. Her nipples, hard and sensitive, brushed against the sides of his cock with every movement.
She began to move, a slow, tentative up-and-down motion. The sensation was bizarre for her—the slippery heat, the intimate pressure against her sternum. For him, it was clearly something else entirely.
“Jesus Christ, Riley,” he moaned, his head falling back again. His hands came up to grip her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh above her jeans. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face a mask of tortured pleasure.
She found a rhythm, increasing her speed slightly. The wet, slick sounds were obscene, filling the basement. Her own breathing grew ragged again, not from effort but from a rising, sharp arousal. Watching him come undone was doing things to her. The coil in her belly tightened, and a fresh rush of dampness soaked through her underwear.
She leaned down closer, her lips near his ear. “You like that?” she breathed, the words foreign and bold in her mouth.
“Are you kidding me?” he groaned. “It’s… fuck… it’s insane.”
She did it harder, faster, her breasts squeezing him. His hips began to buck upward, meeting her downward strokes, his cock sliding through the tight, soft tunnel she’d made. Pre-cum leaked freely from him, mixing with her saliva, making everything glisten in the dim light.
“I’m not gonna last,” he warned, his voice strained. “Not like this.”
That was the cue. She didn’t want it to end here, not yet. She slowed, then stopped, releasing him. He shuddered, a full-body spasm of denied release.
She sat up, straddling him, and looked at his wrecked expression. A fierce, proud heat bloomed in her chest. She’d done that.
Before she could decide what was next, Jordan moved. His hands on her hips tightened, and in one fluid, strong motion, he flipped them. The world spun, and suddenly she was on her back on the couch, the old springs groaning in protest, and he was over her, caged between his arms. His eyes were wild, dark, hungry.
“My turn,” he said, and it wasn’t a request.
The shift in control was instantaneous and total. Joy gasped. Fear squealed, fumbling for his catastrophe slides. Anger muttered, “About damn time.” Sadness simply watched, knowing the vulnerable part was truly beginning.
Jordan’s mouth crashed down on hers, tasting of her, of him, of everything. His hand slid down her stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of her jeans and her soaked panties. He ripped them down her thighs in one rough, urgent pull.
The cool basement air hit her exposed skin, followed by the crushing, delicious heat of his body settling between her legs. His erection pressed against her inner thigh, a blunt, insistent demand. He broke the kiss, panting, looking down at her.
“You sure?” he asked, the words gravel.
Riley could only nod, her throat too tight for speech. She hooked her legs around his hips, pulling him closer. The moment stretched, taut and silent, broken only by their ragged breathing.
Then he reached between them. She heard the tear of foil, the frantic rustle. He sheathed himself, the process awkward and fumbling. Finally, he positioned himself at her entrance. The pressure was immense, a blunt, stretching presence unlike anything she’d ever felt.
He looked into her eyes, seeking one final confirmation. She arched her back, a silent plea.
Jordan pushed forward.
A sharp, burning tear eclipsed everything. Riley gasped, her eyes flying wide. The pain was brief but brilliant, a white-hot spike that quickly dissolved into a deep, overwhelming stretch. He was inside her. The feeling of being filled, penetrated, joined, was so profoundly strange it short-circuited all other thought.
Headquarters fell completely silent, every emotion holding its breath.
He was still, buried to the hilt, his forehead damp against hers. “Okay?” he whispered, his voice shaking.
She took a shuddering breath. The burning was fading, replaced by a deep, throbbing fullness. She moved her hips experimentally. The sensation made her gasp again, but not from pain. It was… dense. A lot. “Yeah,” she managed. “Move.”
He began to move, a slow, careful withdrawal followed by a tentative thrust. The friction was extraordinary. Every nerve ending sang. Her earlier wetness and the condom’s lubrication made the slide possible, but the sheer reality of it—the depth, the drag, the intimate collision—was almost too much.
“Faster,” she heard herself beg, the word torn from her.
He obeyed, his rhythm building, each thrust deeper, harder. The couch rocked against the wall with a steady, thumping beat. The sounds were animalistic—skin slapping against skin, their mingled grunts and moans, the creak of old furniture.
Riley clutched at his back, her nails digging into the fabric of his t-shirt. The world narrowed to the place where they were joined, to the rough heat of his breath on her neck, to the thrilling, punishing cadence of his hips. The coil inside her, tightened for so long, began to fray. A pressure built, low and insistent, with every drive of his body into hers.
He was muttering into her skin, filthy, broken phrases. “So tight… fuck, Riley… you feel so good… gonna make me come…”
His words pushed her closer to the edge. Her legs locked around him, pulling him deeper. A high, thin sound escaped her throat. The pressure broke.
It wasn’t a fireworks display. It was a seismic shift, a deep, rolling wave of sensation that started in her core and radiated outward, turning her limbs liquid and her mind blank. She cried out, a raw, unpretty sound, as her body clenched around him in rhythmic, helpless pulses.
Feeling her convulse around him was his undoing. With a final, brutal thrust and a choked roar, he stiffened, his own release slamming into him. He collapsed on top of her, his weight a solid, comforting anchor.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing, the smell of sex and sweat and dust, and the profound, echoing silence in the aftermath.