The Muse's Undoing

When he starts to roll his hips, my dick rises. The new angles he hits cause his crown to rub my prostate in a way that makes me understand why sodomy is still illegal in far too many places. Nothing should feel this good. It creates the perfect breeding ground for insanity.

“Fuck, that’s amazing…” I grunt, liking this far, far too much for a novice. It makes me feel like such a needy whore.

“No,” he sighs. “It’s better than amazing.” He keeps screwing me deep until I’m at full mast again, blood rushing between my legs. A wave of frustrated exhaustion hits me. It’s so much.

Is it possible to be gang-banged by one person? Because I can’t imagine that the woman on the bed in Gibson’s club feels all that different than I do. Matthew’s at least seven different people.

“What’s your next trick?” I pant.

He adds more lube because he’s a gentleman, I guess, and gives the bottom of my ass cheek a light slap. “Something like this,” he says before he digs his nails into my sides and bangs into me hard four or five times before settling back into his deadly roll.

I’m gasping, barely able to process what’s happening to me. “Which one makes you come?”

“The thing I do after you come.”

“What if I can’t?” It’s not an exaggeration to say there’s a flare of panic inside me at the prospect. That this could go on forever, and I’ll be the last story on the news in a few days—fucked to death. RIP Fischer Cannon Elliot.

“Then I guess you’ll never know,” he says coyly.

“Doesn’t it ever sneak up on you?”

“Sure,” he says. “I’m not a robot. But I came when I was eating your ass, so you might need to settle in for a minute.”

“Oh, shit,” I croak as he angles his crown into my prostate again. The pillow is damp with my sweat and drool. “How do you know when to switch it up?”

“You gonna keep talking?”

Maybe? No? “I feel like I’m coming undone.”

He chuckles and hits the hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves too many more times to count while I groan and bury my face in the bed. I’m not blacking out. Not quite. I don’t think.

But time folds in on itself some.

I’m at the Two E lounge, and Matthew’s staring at me with his bedroom blue gaze.

I’m drunk and running my hands under the hem of his shorts.

We’re kissing on the couch, and my ass is in his hands, and I’m close?—

Out of nowhere, I come at the memory—not a thing touching my cock but the air, and I almost choke, it blows through me so fast. “Fuck!” I shout as my asshole flutters with uncontrollable spasms.

Matthew drives into me hard from behind with quick, sharp stabs. He growls, determination in his grip. His thrusts are measured, powerful and deep, timed almost exactly to the jets of cum soaking his sheet beneath me. “More,” he says in a voice so low I wouldn’t have recognized it.

There is no more, I want to tell him, but it turns out there is, and he fucks it out of me like some all-powerful sex god until I’m mewling and desperate to get away from him. My sanity is departing my consciousness. I’m out of my mind. He’s fucking my brains out, and if I manage to survive this, I’ll either leave here grateful for my life and vowing to steer clear, or I’m going to be like one of the junkies underneath the bridge, jonesing for my next fix.

Jury’s still out.

Because he is still fucking me. The sound of his body slamming into mine echoes off the walls.

“Come, Matthew, please…” I don’t even know if the words make noise. If my lips form them. Should I have asked for a safe word? Would I use it?

It’s not like me not to suffer.

I feel like a part of a ritual. There’s no chanting, but there is rhythm. There are no spells, but I feel dizzy. He’s the leader, and I’m the sacrifice. You’re such a bottom, though…

Time passes. Seconds. Minutes. Another hour. I don’t know. But I recognize he’s no longer inside me, and I let myself sink fully into the mattress.

The sound of the condom coming off is like the crack of a whip, and I flinch. Fast, wet sounds and his low, punched groans tickle my eardrums, and then his breath has sound. “Unh…unh…ungh…fuck… ffffuuuuccckkk….”