You’re still trembling when the words spill out, your voice rough and unsteady. “Wait—just… give me a minute.” Your body hums with the ghost of his touch, your hole aching, your cock still hard and sticky against your thigh. You need a breath. Need to breathe.
Aaron stills, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. For a heartbeat, you think he’ll argue, push back, demand more. But then he exhales, a low chuckle rumbling through his chest. “Yeah, okay,” he murmurs, his voice rough but easy. He leans in, his beard scraping against the inside of your thigh, and presses one last, open-mouthed kiss to your exposed hole. The heat of his breath makes you shudder, your muscles clenching around nothing. Then his palm cracks against your ass—firm, possessive, the sound sharp in the quiet trailer. “No problem, baby.”
Before you can process the sting, he’s backing away. You collapse forward onto the bed, your chest heaving, your skin slick with sweat and your hole nice and relaxed. The mattress dips as he shifts, his movements unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world. You hear the rustle of fabric, the creak of the floorboards as he bends down. Then clothes hit you in the face—a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts bundled together, smelling like fabric softener and regret. No underwear.
“Get dressed,” he says, his voice casual, like he’s not still half-hard, like he’s not palming himself through his own release, his fingers slick with cum. You blink, stunned, as he strokes himself lazily, his bicep flexing, the silver of his piercings catching the dim light. “I ain’t got all day.”
Your brain short-circuits. You just had his mouth on you, his tongue buried in your holes, his hands all over you—and now he’s… fondling himself like it’s nothing. Like you’re nothing. The realization sits heavy in your gut, but there’s no time to dwell. You scramble for your clothes, your fingers fumbling with the fabric. The air is cool against your skin, the dampness between your cheeks a stark reminder of what just happened. Of what almost happened again.
You risk a glance over your shoulder. Aaron’s leaning against the wall, one hand wrapped around his cock, the other bringing his vape to his lips. He takes a long drag, exhales a slow cloud of smoke, his eyes dark and amused as he watches you. “You good?” he asks, his voice laced with something you can’t quite name—amusement? Indifference? “Or you need help dressing yourself?”
“I—I’m good,” you stammer, your face heating. You yank the shorts, the fabric sticking to your skin, the seam pressing against your still-sensitive hole. The sweat shirt follows, the cotton clinging to the sweat on your back.
Aaron smirks, giving himself another slow stroke. “Right then.” He tilts his head, his gaze raking over you, lingering on the way your hands shake as tug on the collar of the sweatshirt. “Just so you know, I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy. I’m finishing this myself.” He gives his cock a firm tug, his piercings glinting. “And trust me, baby, I will finish.”
Your stomach twists. You should say something. Do something. But the words die in your throat. This isn’t how you thought it would end—not with you scrambling for to dress while he jerks off like it’s no big deal. Not with the weight of his spit still slick between your cheeks, the ghost of his handprint burning on your ass.
He takes another hit off his vape, the sweet scent of it mixing with the musk of sex in the air. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, his voice already distant, like he’s already moved on. “Door’s unlocked. See yourself out.”
And just like that, he turns, his back to you, his shoulders broad and unapologetic. The dismissal is clear. You’re not part of this anymore.
You stand on shaky legs, your jeans still loose around your hips, your shirt clinging to your damp skin. The trailer feels smaller suddenly, the walls closing in. You don’t look back as you grab your shoes, your socks, your phone from where it’s half-buried in the sheets. Your fingers brush against a wet spot—his cum, your cum, you don’t even know—and you jerk your hand away, your face flushing.
The floorboards creak under your weight as you make your way to the door. Your ass aches with every step, the handprint on your left cheek a brand, a reminder. You can still feel him—his mouth, his cock, the way he owned you just minutes ago. The way he doesn’t give a damn now.
Your hand hovers over the doorknob. You should say something. Anything. But what is there to say? Thanks for the fuck? Sorry I couldn’t keep up? The words taste bitter in your mouth.
So you don’t say anything.
You pull the door open, the hinge groaning, and step out into the cool evening air. The screen door slams shut behind you, the sound final. You don’t look back.
Your car is parked a few yards away, the gravel crunching under your boots as you walk. You can still feel him between your cheeks, the slickness of his spit, the phantom press of his fingers. Your ass stings where he smacked you, the heat of it radiating through the denim.
You slide into the driver’s seat, the leather cold against your barely clad ass. The engine roars to life, but you don’t drive off right away. Instead, you sit there, your hands gripping the wheel, your body still humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.
Fuck.
You shift in your seat, the silky material of the shorts rubbing against your sensitive skin, and moan. Your cock twinges, still half-hard, still wanting. You could go back. Knock on the door. Tell him you changed your mind.
But you don’t.
You put the car in reverse and drive.
Aaron stills, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. For a heartbeat, you think he’ll argue, push back, demand more. But then he exhales, a low chuckle rumbling through his chest. “Yeah, okay,” he murmurs, his voice rough but easy. He leans in, his beard scraping against the inside of your thigh, and presses one last, open-mouthed kiss to your exposed hole. The heat of his breath makes you shudder, your muscles clenching around nothing. Then his palm cracks against your ass—firm, possessive, the sound sharp in the quiet trailer. “No problem, baby.”
Before you can process the sting, he’s backing away. You collapse forward onto the bed, your chest heaving, your skin slick with sweat and your hole nice and relaxed. The mattress dips as he shifts, his movements unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world. You hear the rustle of fabric, the creak of the floorboards as he bends down. Then clothes hit you in the face—a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts bundled together, smelling like fabric softener and regret. No underwear.
“Get dressed,” he says, his voice casual, like he’s not still half-hard, like he’s not palming himself through his own release, his fingers slick with cum. You blink, stunned, as he strokes himself lazily, his bicep flexing, the silver of his piercings catching the dim light. “I ain’t got all day.”
Your brain short-circuits. You just had his mouth on you, his tongue buried in your holes, his hands all over you—and now he’s… fondling himself like it’s nothing. Like you’re nothing. The realization sits heavy in your gut, but there’s no time to dwell. You scramble for your clothes, your fingers fumbling with the fabric. The air is cool against your skin, the dampness between your cheeks a stark reminder of what just happened. Of what almost happened again.
You risk a glance over your shoulder. Aaron’s leaning against the wall, one hand wrapped around his cock, the other bringing his vape to his lips. He takes a long drag, exhales a slow cloud of smoke, his eyes dark and amused as he watches you. “You good?” he asks, his voice laced with something you can’t quite name—amusement? Indifference? “Or you need help dressing yourself?”
“I—I’m good,” you stammer, your face heating. You yank the shorts, the fabric sticking to your skin, the seam pressing against your still-sensitive hole. The sweat shirt follows, the cotton clinging to the sweat on your back.
Aaron smirks, giving himself another slow stroke. “Right then.” He tilts his head, his gaze raking over you, lingering on the way your hands shake as tug on the collar of the sweatshirt. “Just so you know, I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy. I’m finishing this myself.” He gives his cock a firm tug, his piercings glinting. “And trust me, baby, I will finish.”
Your stomach twists. You should say something. Do something. But the words die in your throat. This isn’t how you thought it would end—not with you scrambling for to dress while he jerks off like it’s no big deal. Not with the weight of his spit still slick between your cheeks, the ghost of his handprint burning on your ass.
He takes another hit off his vape, the sweet scent of it mixing with the musk of sex in the air. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, his voice already distant, like he’s already moved on. “Door’s unlocked. See yourself out.”
And just like that, he turns, his back to you, his shoulders broad and unapologetic. The dismissal is clear. You’re not part of this anymore.
You stand on shaky legs, your jeans still loose around your hips, your shirt clinging to your damp skin. The trailer feels smaller suddenly, the walls closing in. You don’t look back as you grab your shoes, your socks, your phone from where it’s half-buried in the sheets. Your fingers brush against a wet spot—his cum, your cum, you don’t even know—and you jerk your hand away, your face flushing.
The floorboards creak under your weight as you make your way to the door. Your ass aches with every step, the handprint on your left cheek a brand, a reminder. You can still feel him—his mouth, his cock, the way he owned you just minutes ago. The way he doesn’t give a damn now.
Your hand hovers over the doorknob. You should say something. Anything. But what is there to say? Thanks for the fuck? Sorry I couldn’t keep up? The words taste bitter in your mouth.
So you don’t say anything.
You pull the door open, the hinge groaning, and step out into the cool evening air. The screen door slams shut behind you, the sound final. You don’t look back.
Your car is parked a few yards away, the gravel crunching under your boots as you walk. You can still feel him between your cheeks, the slickness of his spit, the phantom press of his fingers. Your ass stings where he smacked you, the heat of it radiating through the denim.
You slide into the driver’s seat, the leather cold against your barely clad ass. The engine roars to life, but you don’t drive off right away. Instead, you sit there, your hands gripping the wheel, your body still humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.
Fuck.
You shift in your seat, the silky material of the shorts rubbing against your sensitive skin, and moan. Your cock twinges, still half-hard, still wanting. You could go back. Knock on the door. Tell him you changed your mind.
But you don’t.
You put the car in reverse and drive.