From His Cup

NB: Due to an uploading issue, chapter 01 and chapter 02 are identical. So you may start with either, then continue directly with chapter 03.

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"I don't want coffee." Camille said with a flicker of malice, one eyebrow lifted.

Tom stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

"So what do you want then?"

Camille looked at him for half a second, chest already rising too fast, pulse hammering in her throat.

"I need you to stop talking."

She pulled him down to her at once, kissing him hard, almost violently, as if the whole week had been trapped under her skin and had finally found a way out. There was nothing tentative in it. Her mouth opened against his, hungry, demanding, her hands sliding into his hair, then around his neck, holding him there. She pressed herself against him with shameless urgency, her body already answering before either of them had said another word.

Not elegantly, rather like something that had burned too long in secret and had finally reached air.

Her hands moved over him with a kind of avid impatience, up his back, down his sides, pulling him closer as though closeness itself had become an insult. She rubbed herself against him without restraint, breath catching, then breaking altogether. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it everywhere now - in her throat, under her ribs, low in her belly where the ache had been building for days.

When she broke the kiss, both of them were breathing harder. She turned away from him, lifted her skirt, and glanced back over her shoulder.

"Please don't stand there looking at me."

For a second he did exactly that. Taking in the curve of her back, the black string of her thong tugging slightly into the flesh of her hips. The tension in her body. The unmistakable need in the way she stood there for him, no longer pretending this had surprised her, no longer hiding what she had spent the whole week carrying around.

Then his hand came to her waist, firm enough to make her feel it.

"Come here," he directed her, his voice coarse.

The sound of his command made her shudder. She arched at once, moving back against him, and when he touched her she let out a sound she had no chance of controlling. Her hands caught the wall this time, then the narrow console in the hall, fingers gripping for balance as he crowded in behind her and gave her no room to retreat even if she had wanted it.

"Make me come," she said, breathless now, past dignity, past any caution.

He gave a low, dark laugh that only made the heat in her worse.

"I've been thinking about this all week," she whispered.

"That obvious?"

She gave a broken little sound that might have been a laugh if she had had any breath to spare.

He took hold of her hard enough to make her feel it, one hand at her waist, the other higher, rough where she was already far too sensitive, far too ready. The first sound she made was half gasp, half plea. The second was worse. It escaped her without shame and seemed to ring down the hall, reckless and bright. Instead of silencing her, he only drove her further into it, pressing her forward, keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

Camille's forehead nearly brushed the wall before she caught herself. Her body had gone from heat to urgency to something sharper, almost unbearable. Every rough touch, every pause that was too short to be mercy and too long to be kind, every low word near her ear seemed to strip something else away until all that was left was pulse and impact and the humiliating need to be taken exactly the way he was taking her.

"All week for this," he murmured against her ear.

His voice made her shiver. She could only nod.

He gripped her hip with one hand, the other sliding down into her décolleté. His fingers felt up the lacy bra, caressing the softness of her flesh. In contrast to her full tits, he felt the erect nipple of her right breast. He pulled the cups down roughly until her tits spilled out, nipples already pebbled and sensitive from the friction. Rolling them between his fingers, he felt the nipples tighten even more. Gently, he started pulling on them, making her whimper.

Her neediness betrayed her. She moved her butt back to him, arching her back even more. Provocatively, she moved her firm glutes from side to side, her skirt rolled around her waist.

"Make me come," she sighed.

Tom moved closer.

The sound of the zipper cut through her sighs. She heard the belt buckle undone. The slacks dropping to the floor under the weight of the loosened belt. He freed his rigid cock from his tight boxer briefs.

Tom moved in behind her. His hand guiding the tip of his rod and gliding over her moist labia. In one slow, forceful stroke and started pushed into her tunnel. Camille let out a deep, guttural sound.

Burying his thick shaft deeply into her soaked pussy. Camille gasped, her walls clenching around him as he filled her completely. He let her adjust to the penetration, to the thickness of his cock's girth. After what felt like an eternity of her muscles releasing and tighten around his cock, he picked up speed. He started pounding her, strongly, the urgency matching her own, his hips slamming forward with raw power.

The hallway echoed with the wet, obscene sounds of his cock slapping against her slick folds, his heavy balls smacking rhythmically against her clit with every drive. Each impact sent jolts through her body, her tits swinging freely now, bouncing in time with his rhythm dominating her pleasure.

Tom's hand on her chest tightened, fingers finding her nipples and pinching them harder, twisting the tender peaks until she whimpered. The pain shot straight to her core, mingling with the building pleasure, making her push back against him greedily. He caressed them roughly next, rolling the aching buds between his thumb and forefinger before yanking again, pulling her breasts downward as they swayed.

"These tits are mine to abuse," he grunted, his breath hot against her ear, punctuating his words with deeper thrusts that made her knees buckle.

The hall was too narrow, too bright, too exposed, and that made it worse in exactly the right way. She had not even made it back to the kitchen. Had not made it anywhere. She had opened the door and gone up in flames where she stood. That was what it felt like now. Something racing out from the center of her, through her stomach, her chest, her thighs, through every place he touched, until she could no longer tell whether she was trying to hold herself together or break apart faster.

The tension coiled in Camille's belly almost instantly, her body betraying how desperately she craved this. Every slap of his cock plunging into her, every tug on her nipples, every swing of her full breasts amplified the heat flooding her veins. Her breaths came in short, ragged pants, muscles tightening like a spring wound too far. The pressure built relentlessly, a throbbing ache deep inside that spread outward, making her thighs quiver and her toes curl against the hardwood floor. She felt it rising, unstoppable. A wave of electric fire racing from her core, her pussy fluttering wildly around his pistoning length.

The pressure built brutally. She knew it and hated it and wanted it anyway. Her breathing lost all rhythm. Her legs turned uncertain under her. She could hear herself, hear the small ruined sounds she was making, hear the force of him behind her, hear the ugliness of her own need answering him without the slightest attempt at self-respect.

Then it hit her. Not gently. Not in waves. Like something in her had been pulled too tight for too long and finally snapped. Her whole body seized around it. Breath gone. Knees weak. A violent tremor running through her so suddenly that for one terrified second she thought she might simply collapse.

He kept her there through it, one hand hard on her, feeling every helpless shudder, every involuntary tightening, every convulsion she could not hide. The release tore through her and kept tearing, leaving her shaking against the wall, pulse hammering, thighs unsteady, the aftershocks still chasing each other through her body long after the worst of it should have passed.

She came hard. Harder than she wanted him to know. And when it finally began to loosen its grip on her, it did not leave her elegant or satisfied. It left her dazed. Dreamy-eyed. Open. Her skin felt too tight and too sensitive all at once. She tried to catch her breath and failed twice before any air came back properly.

"Sorry," she said too quickly, still flushed, still trembling. "I just... Christ. I hadn't even thought..."

Her voice sounded unfamiliar to her.

"I didn't think about you at all."

Tom said nothing. That was worse. She turned just enough to look at him and saw that his composure had cracks in it now. Not many. But enough. Enough to make something hot and reckless stir through the haze inside her. Her apology changed shape before it had fully left her mouth. It was no longer an apology at all.

Slowly, still unsteady, Camille lowered herself in front of him. Her skirt was still bunched up around her waist. Her bra was no longer where it had been, her full tits too visible, too pushed up now to pretend otherwise. Nipples red and swollen from his rough handling, presented like an offering as she gazed up at him.

She looked up at him with flushed cheeks and parted lips, still breathing through the last of her own release, and let her gaze travel over him with open, shameless attention.

Tom's cock stood erect before her. Veined and slick, shining with her arousal under the faint light. She licked her lips slowly, her eyes locking onto his with seductive hunger, before leaning in.

Her mouth brushed the tip first, a soft kiss that made him twitch. Then her tongue darted out to lick around the swollen head, tasting herself on him. She traced the shaft next, flat laps from base to tip, savoring the salty mix of their fluids. Her hands slid up his thighs, fingers digging into the firm muscles of his glutes, pulling him forward insistently. With a needy whimper, she took him into her mouth, sucking greedily as she pushed him deeper, her throat relaxing to swallow more of his length.

Her hands found him with a new kind of purpose now, slower than before, but no less urgent for it. Not the wild desperation of the first moments at the door. Something more deliberate. More knowing. She had taken what she needed from him the second he stepped inside. Now she wanted something else.

She wanted to affect him. To drag him out of that infuriating self-possession and make him feel even a fraction of what he had done to her all week.

She tilted her face up, eyes still dark, still slightly unfocused, and the hall seemed to narrow even further around them.

No pretense. Only this moment.