Worshipped on the gym mat
Clay’s tongue dragged slow and worshipful through the slick heat of Morgana’s cunt, the taste of her flooding his mouth in copper and salt and the raw musk of how badly she wanted this. Every drag pulled another broken sound from her throat, and he answered with a low rasp that vibrated against her swollen flesh. “So fucking perfect like this, baby—dripping all over my face like you were made to feed me.”
Morgana’s thighs trembled around his ears, the vinyl mat cool and damp beneath her spine while the heat between her legs burned everything else away. She felt split open, exposed, worshipped down to something she couldn’t name, and the filthy reverence in his voice only made her clench harder. His hands pinned her hips to the mat, thumbs stroking the tender crease of her thighs as if he were praying through touch alone. God, the things he said. The way he said them—like she was an altar and his mouth the only sacrament he’d ever needed.
He flattened his tongue and dragged it from her entrance to her clit in one long, deliberate stroke, then circled the swollen bud with the wet point of it, slow enough to make her sob. She was soaked—soaking him, her arousal smearing his chin, his cheeks, slicking down to coat the stubble of his jaw—and every time he sealed his lips around her clit and sucked, she bucked up into his face hard enough to bruise. He let her. He wanted the bruise. He wanted her selfish with it, taking, riding his mouth like the only thing in the world that mattered was wringing herself dry against his tongue. The taste of her was a fucking drug, and he chased it with the dedication of a man starving, two fingers curling up inside her to stroke the spongy ridge that made her thighs lock against his ears.
“Clay—oh my God—oh fuck, right there, don’t you dare move—” Her voice cracked open, loud and shameless, bouncing off the cinderblock and the rusted ring posts and the slack heavy bag swaying in the dark. She heard herself echo back. She didn’t care. There was no one for miles and she let the gym have every filthy note of it.
He felt her start to climb, the flutter beginning deep, her clit going hard and frantic under the lash of his tongue, and he growled into her, “That’s it—give it to me, give me the first one—you’re gonna come on my face and then you’re gonna take my cock, you understand me? Such a good fucking girl, look how wet you get when I tell you what you are.” The praise hit her like a second tongue. She was right there, hanging on the knife’s edge, her whole body coiling tight—
And he rose over her before it could break, cock thick and leaking and dragging through the mess of her, robbing her of the orgasm an instant before it crested. She cried out in protest and then in shock as he notched against her entrance and drove home in one brutal stroke. The first thrust punched the air from both their lungs. Missionary turned frantic and feral inside a single heartbeat—no build, no mercy, his hips snapping hard enough to shove her whole body up the mat, the friction of his cock dragging against every nerve she had left raw from his mouth.
It was too much, too fast, and Clay knew it the second he was inside her. She was molten, gripping, so wet he could hear it, the slick obscene rhythm of it filling the empty room, and the heat of her clamped around him like a fist. Skin slammed skin. His chest dragged against hers, both of them slick with sweat, her nipples hard points scraping his pecs with every collision. He buried his face in her neck and ground his teeth and fought it—fought the pull dragging at the base of his spine—because he would not finish this fast, he would not, even as his balls drew up tight and traitorous and his vision swam. “Take it,” he groaned against her ear, the words shredded, “take every inch like the goddess you are—fuck, fuck, you feel too good, I can’t—I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” she gasped, her nails raking down his back, her heels locking over his ass to drive him deeper. Her curses tore free, raw and ringing off the walls. “Shit—Clay—harder, harder, don’t you dare stop, fill me up, I want all of it—” Her voice climbed into something wild and unhinged, every gasp magnified by the cavern of the gym, and the sound of her losing control was its own undoing for him. He felt her start to flutter again, that second climb, and he refused to let either of them stay still long enough to fall.
So he didn’t pull out. He never separated from her. He shoved a hand under her hip and a forearm across her ribs and turned her—rolling her up and over onto her stomach beneath him, working her with a brutal patience while he stayed rooted, his cock dragging and resettling through the molten grip of her as her body twisted under his. She ended facedown on the mat, knees scraped wide beneath her, her cheek pressed flat to the cool sweat-damp vinyl while he loomed over the curve of her back. The new angle plunged him impossibly deeper. She felt the head of him punch against a place that made her shout, the stretch suddenly bottomless, his hips already pistoning before she’d finished gasping at the change.
The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder, filthier, a relentless rhythm that bounced and doubled in the empty space until it sounded like a crowd. His chest blanketed her back, hot and slick, his weight pinning her down as he drove in from behind, and she could feel his heart slamming against her spine. He bent his mouth to her shoulder, his breath scalding, praising her between every brutal thrust. “This cunt was made for me—look how it grips, how it cries for me—my perfect, dripping girl, taking it so deep, taking it like you’ll die without it.” Her wetness ran down the inside of her thighs. Each stroke dragged out slow and slammed back fast, the friction so good it bordered on too much, the head of him scraping that aching spot over and over until she was babbling into the mat.
“Goddamn it—yes—yes—fuck me like you mean it—oh God, Clay, I can’t, it’s too—” Her palms slapped flat against the mat, scrabbling for purchase that didn’t exist, her voice unspooling into one long broken note that the concrete walls threw back at her from every direction. She could hear herself screaming for it. She was somewhere past shame, past thought, reduced to the place where his cock kept battering into her, where every nerve had gone white-hot and the only word her mouth still knew was his name.
Clay was barely holding the line. Sweat dripped off his nose onto the curve of her back. He watched himself disappear into her, watched her cunt grip and pull at him on every withdrawal like it couldn’t bear to let go, and the sheer filthy devotion of it tore a sound out of him he didn’t recognize. She was the best thing he’d ever felt, ever tasted, ever wrecked, and the worship of it burned through his chest hotter than the orgasm threatening at the base of him. He pressed his open mouth between her shoulder blades and tasted the salt of her and nearly came right there.
She moved before he could—wild, frantic, desperate to chase the peak on her own terms. He felt the buck of her hips and went with it, hooking his forearm hard across her waist to keep them sealed as he let his weight rock back and rolled, dragging her up off the mat and onto his torso as he dropped flat onto his spine beneath her. The seal held by a thread, his cock pulling and resettling deep as her back came flush to his chest, her body landing astride his hips and already facing his feet. All she had to do was push up. She planted her palms on his thighs and rose off his chest to her knees, sinking back down onto the rooted length of him with her spine to him and the long line of her thrown open. Reverse cowgirl. He was flat on his back on the mat now and she was riding him, the violent bounce of her hips stealing whatever shred of control either of them had left.
“Oh fuck—oh fuck, yes—” Her cries pitched higher, ricocheting raw and unhidden through the rafters as she slammed herself down onto him, the new angle grinding his cock against her front wall on every drop. Clay’s hands flew to her waist, gripping bruise-tight, helping fling her up and dragging her back down, the wet impact of her ass against his hips cracking through the gym like a struck bag. He could feel her starting to break apart, the flutter going frantic, her rhythm turning sloppy and desperate.
And right at the edge—right as she arched and her breath hitched into a wail—he sat up beneath her in a single brutal surge, his chest coming flush against her back, gathered both her wrists into one of his big hands, and dragged them up and back over her own head, forcing her into a helpless, exposed arch flat against him. His other arm clamped tight across her hips, anchoring her, holding her impaled. The bounce stopped. Her hips ground down and stayed, her arms stretched overhead and pinned, her whole body strung open and offered up while he fucked up into her from below in short savage jolts. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t do anything but take it. The helplessness lit the fuse.
The orgasm crashed through her like a body blow, cunt pulsing tight and frantic around him, clenching in deep rolling waves that dragged a scream out of her she’d never have recognized as her own. Her thighs shook uncontrollably. Her wrists strained against his fist and he held them, pinned them, kept her splayed and trembling and utterly his while she came apart, every pulse of her gripping his cock like a fist trying to milk him. “Good girl—that’s my good fucking girl—give it to me, come all over me, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—” His praise rasped hot against her ear, relentless, dragging her through it, drawing the climax out longer than her body should have been able to bear. She sobbed his name into the empty air and the gym threw it back at her, again and again, a chorus of her own undoing.
The clench of her dragged him over the edge with no warning. Clay’s hips jerked up hard, burying himself to the root as he emptied deep inside her with a broken shout, flooding her in hot pulses, his fist on her wrists going crushing as his whole body locked. He felt every twitch of her still rippling around him, wringing him dry, and the wreckage of the sound they made together filled the dark gym to the rafters and slowly, slowly thinned to ragged breath.
He didn’t release her wrists. He kept them gathered in the one hand, dragging them down to rest against his shoulder as the arm banded across her hips bore the slow controlled descent, lowering them both backward until his shoulders met the mat and she came down sprawled on top of him, still buried inside her, her trembling back to his sweat-slick chest, her pinned arms stretched up beside his ear. Both of them shook with the long slow aftershocks rolling through their locked bodies. Her pulse fluttered under his fingers. His grip stayed reverent and unyielding, holding her helpless and open even now, the last echoes of what they’d wrecked still bleeding off the cold concrete walls around them.