Used

2 min readSep 7, 2022

You received my text message ordering you to position yourself. A five-minute warning, of sorts.

You’ve readied yourself as I desired, wearing nothing but a short dress, sheer stockings, and heels. Obediently, you’re now poised on the side of the bed, bent over, forearms on the pillowed mattress, waiting. You know that I will arrive very soon, but not precisely when. I want you to have the time to think, to anticipate, to savor what is about to happen… because you will not have much time to savor it as it does happen.

Your mind reels at what’s coming. You want to be used. So much so that you are already wet and will be practically dripping by the time I reach you. It’s the power of the mind.

You hear my footsteps as I approach without any words. The only thing you hear as I arrive behind you is the undoing of my belt, the lowering of my zipper, and the rustling of the fabric of my pants. My hands flip your dress up over your ass cheeks, and I position my stiff cock at your entrance. I can feel that it is, as expected, wet and ready for me. Good girl.

I shove my cock into you, grabbing your hips. I proceed to drive my cock into and out of you, taking my pleasure quickly, feeling and not thinking, just fucking and drilling. The slapping sounds of my hips slamming into yours echo throughout the room. This is no lovemaking session.

As I reach my quick, foregone conclusion, my hips start moving even faster, my cock now pile-driving your wet pussy, the pounding increasing, until I erupt my thick, warm cum straight into you. Spurt after spurt, grunting hard, I fill your cunt, still firmly grasping your hips, not letting go until I am done with my explosions.

Spent for now, I slide my cock out of you, leaving your filled pussy in place. I immediately pull up and zip my pants, then pause for a few moments to watch my cum start to seep from your used slit. I approve.

I walk away as silently as I arrived. You were instructed not to move until well after I left the room.

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Used

Written by Fifty Writes