[START-538] My Secret Weekend: Endless Pleasure While My Partner Complains

The weekend stretches out like a promise, just me and my fuck buddy with nothing but skin and sweat between us. From the moment he walks in, the clothes come off and stay off, a raw, unspoken agreement that this is all we’re here for. My boyfriend’s voice is a distant buzz on the phone, complaining about something I can’t even hear over the sound of my own moans. I’m already wet, already aching for it, and when he pushes me against the wall, there’s no pretense, just the hard, urgent thrust of his cock filling me up. We move from room to room, leaving a trail of discarded condoms and slickness, every surface a new excuse to fuck. The compatibility is insane—he knows exactly how to angle his hips to hit that spot deep inside, and I’m screaming into the pillow, my body convulsing with wave after wave of pleasure. I lose count of how many times I cum, each one harder than the last, my mind blank except for the primal need for more.

By the second day, we’re a mess of tangled limbs and sticky skin, fucking on the couch, the floor, the kitchen counter. He slams into me from behind, his hands gripping my hips so tight I’ll bruise, and I don’t care. My boyfriend keeps calling, his complaints a faint echo as I ride my fuck buddy’s face, grinding against his tongue until I’m shuddering and dripping. The drama is all in the sweat-slicked sheets, the way he flips me over and pounds me missionary, our eyes locked as he drives deeper, faster. I can feel another orgasm building, a tight coil in my gut, and when it snaps, I arch off the bed, crying out as my pussy clenches around him, milking every last drop of sensation. He doesn’t let up, switching positions with a rough urgency, fucking me doggy style so hard the bedframe rattles, and I’m just a vessel for pleasure, reduced to gasps and whimpers.

On the final day, we’re both exhausted but insatiable, our bodies sore and used in the best way. He pins me down, his cock sliding in and out with a wet, filthy sound, and I’m begging for it, my nails digging into his back. The climax is brutal—he pulls out at the last second, painting my face with thick, hot streaks of cum, and I lick my lips, tasting him as I rub my clit to one last, shuddering orgasm. We collapse in a heap, spent and silent, the only sound our ragged breathing. My boyfriend’s complaints are forgotten, drowned out by the memory of three days of raw, unfiltered fucking, every moment a testament to how good it feels to be used and utterly satisfied.