Why Do You Want to Know How Deep He Used to Fill Me?

The harsh fluorescent lights cast a cold glow on my bare skin, highlighting every curve and shadow. I stand here, half-naked, one hand firmly pressed against my pussy, the other resting on my hip. The question hangs in the air, heavy and demanding. ‘Why do you want to know how big my ex’s dick is?’ I ask, my voice dripping with a mix of defiance and arousal. ‘So you can jerk off thinking about how deep he used to fuck me?’ The words roll off my tongue, each one a taunt, a challenge. I can almost hear the click of your mouse, the rustle of your pants as you adjust yourself, imagining the depth, the thickness, the sheer power of his cock. It’s a power I know all too well, a power that left me gasping and begging for more.

His Cock Was a Weapon

His cock was a weapon, a tool of domination that left me a quivering mess. I remember the first time he took me, the way he stretched me, filled me, owned me. It was raw, primal, and utterly consuming. He didn’t just fuck me; he claimed me, marked me as his. And I loved every fucking second of it. The way his hands gripped my hips, the way his fingers dug into my flesh, the way his cock pounded into me with relentless intensity. It was a dance of power, a battle of wills, and I was his willing victim. I can still feel the echo of his touch, the phantom sensation of his cock deep inside me, pulsing, throbbing, demanding my submission. It’s a memory that haunts me, that drives me to the edge of madness, that makes me crave the raw, unbridled passion of a man who knows how to use his cock like a fucking weapon.