Fireplugged

I moaned and writhed for him. I arched my back way back so that I was draped down his legs and hanging onto the legs of the iron chair with my hands. One of my legs was running up his torso and the other one hung out over the chair arm. And all the while, with those big, strong hands on my hips, he was stroking me back and forth on his fireplug. When he got tired of that, he lifted me and set my butt down on his monster cock in an ever-faster rhythm.

He was a virile stud, fast to reload, and he took me twice more, once with my knees on the chair arms and the back of the chair biting into my chest, and him standing, straddling the chair and fucking me from behind and, at last, down on all fours on the steel grated floor of the balcony, me huffing and puffing and staring down three flights of balconies to the ground and him covering me from behind and making magic between my legs.

At last, we collapsed in a heap on the balcony floor. I was breathing hard and moaning from the exertion and the stretching of my ass. He had hardly broken a sweat.

“Jesse was right,” he muttered at last. “You are one sweet fuck.”