“I’m tired… Are we going to fuck or should I sort myself out?” [MF]

[first story here](https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/875jrg/or_we_could_just_yknow_fuckmf)

It’d been about a week. The first couple of days I’d masturbated so much to the memories while they were fresh in my mind that my cock was sore. I didn’t have her number, but I knew I could get it. Everytime I thought about doing so I found an excuse not to. Beer. Weed. Sleep. Pizza. Nerves. Inadequacy. The next couple of days I was in my own private existential hell, worried doing something would be worse than not doing anything, but convinced any decision I made would be the wrong one. I sulked. By the fifth day I’d accepted it was a one night thing. Nothing more. A memory that faded slightly with every puff. I got over myself and dragged myself out and taught the world how to drink.
I was hungover. The kind of hangover that lingers all day.

It was around midnight when the doorbell rang. I literally had my cock in my hand and some olden time internet porn on the computer screen. Back in the days where anything more than isdn was spaceman shit. When porn had music.

At first I ignored it. Kids. A random drunk. Someone else’s pizza. But then it rang again, so I turned off the screen with the actual physical button they had on desktop monitors in medieval times, tucked my half worked erection into my sweatpants, cursed at the god who’d made me stop mid stroke and stumbled lifelessly to the intercom.

It was her. Grace is what we were calling her. It was Grace. In the twenty seconds it took her to climb up the stairs I managed to hide the lotion, which in itself was a challenge. In case I didn’t mention it, I was quite stoned. It took days to find. It was in the crisper. I’m sure I had a valid thought process at the time. Salad dressing? I digress.

I opened the door and there she stood, with her real eyes and real lips and all that cleavage. A real, unpixelated female person. I invited her in and she started to babble about how sorry she was to bother me because it was so late and how she’d missed her bus and how she couldn’t find a cab. An endless steam of words while I fetched her a beer. It was white noise to me.
She was tipsy and a bit wired. I was stoned and half drunk, having decided beer and weed was the best cure for a hangover. I rolled yet another joint.

Yada yada yada….

“Can I crash here tonight?”. The words, and the possibilities that came with them, made me start to swell. I nodded and offered her the bed. She called me her saviour, took another puff and disappeared.

So I waited. And waited. The joint died. I was swirling the dregs of my beer about in the bottle, dejected by the fact that crash meant crash, disappointment setting in. And right then, when I’d all but resigned myself to resuming my self satisfaction in the bathroom, she appeared. Completely fucking naked. I let out an audible gulp as I stared at her, pale and perfect, hands on her hips, a scowl in her face.

“I’m tired… Are we going to fuck or should I sort myself out?”

Disappointment turned to delight in the blink of an eye. I want to say I played it cool. That I was like “ yeah, whatever…”. That I took my time and succeeded in acting like I didn’t give much of a fuck. But that would be a lie. I nodded, leapt to my feet and followed her to bed. Moth to flame. Autopilot. I can’t be sure but I’d assume there was an idiotic grin on my face.

She sat on the edge of my bed, smiling, looking at me with her big eyes. I stood there, like an idiot, a tent in my sweats, trying not to drool at the sight of her breasts. Unhindered by a bra, dangling free, just big enough to droop, so perky they seemed to point upward. Defying gravity.

“It’s easier if you take your clothes off…” she giggled, acutely aware of the effect she had on me, and most other warm blooded mammals. There’s no dignified way to undress in a situation like that. I pulled off my t-shirt and maneuvered my erection out of the elastic waistband of my sweatpants. The socks were a challenge that made her laugh.

I was naked, trembling, as hard as I’d ever been. She hiked her feet up onto the bed, lay back and slowly spread her legs. “ Don’t cum inside me…” was her invitation and her rule in four little words. I approached slowly, my eyes incapable of looking at anything but her pink, glistening lips. I was standing between her thighs with my cock in my hand. She raised her hips, saving me from that akward low-IKEA-bed knee bend that fucks up your back and messes with your balance.

She was so wet I slipped right in. She pushed her hips towards mine, burying me inside her on the first stroke. The view was incredible. Her eyes looking up at me as she bit her lip. Those perky breasts, nipples so hard they could cut glass. I grabbed her ass, holding her as I bravely attempted a stroke. Easy. I had this. That’s what I told myself.

The thing about masturbatus interruptus is that it leaves it’s victims in one of two states –

1.) Invincible: incapable of completion without strenuous effort; or

2.) Fucked: primed and ready to explode.

It would be great to tell you a story about how I fucked her brains out. About how I ruined her for other guys. About how I woke up the neighbours and broke my bed and saved the world. But that would be a lie.

I was fucked.

The sight of her lips clinging to my shaft as I pulled back almost finished me. She had to be a fucking clinger. I went back in. Her doing, not mine. I survived.

Her hips were grinding against mine, my cock swishing about the puddle that was her vagina. I took sanctuary in relative safety of her depths. I started to believe. But then she started to touch herself, giving me a perfect view of her fingers literally strumming her clit. My belief vanished.
I managed another stroke, a calculated withdrawal, slowly navigating her folds, watching as my soaking shaft emerged from those incredible, clinging lips. It was creamy. Fuck me. She was a creamer and a clinger. I was truly fucked.

I retreated back to base with a desperate thrust that made her yelp. She kept writhing. And strumming. And whimpering. And then, she said something like “your cock feels so good inside me…”

I was pulling out. Going for the winner, the third stroke, the one that would elevate me above the rank of two-pump chump. “ yes.. fuck me…. Please….” she groaned. Evil, unforgiving words. My shaft was frothy with her cream. Those lips, gripping desperately, like I was trying to escape. I was fucked. Truly fucked. It was terminal.

I bit my lip and thrust. I almost shouted “three”, the world’s most pathetic victory cry. Almost. I didn’t hang about. I thrust again. And then again. That final desperate flurry, when you’ve fallen off the cliff but haven’t yet hit the ground.

Five. There was no six. I shouted something suave like “imma cuuummmm” as I yanked free. She groaned that disappointed groan that every man fears and I growled that undignified growl of pleasure mixed with shame that every woman knows. They both went something like “ fuuucccccckkkkkk”.

I erupted. The first spurt was the stuff of legend – powerful, thick and viscous, a rope of goo that stretched from her neck, down between her breasts, all the way to her belly button. The second was a bit of a sputter, like shrapnel, a couple of blobs and a little string on her stomach. The rest oozed out onto her strumming fingers. My head was spinning. My cock was limp.

Sex – five thrusts.
Cum – four days worth.
That mess – priceless.

I stood there, cock in hand, staring. Never blinking. Watching her strum her clit with her slimy, glistening fingers. Watching my cum on her body, the river breaking off into streams. The pools quivering. Moaning and writhing as her other hand joined in, two fingers replacing me inside her.

I was hard again. Not properly hard, but hard enough. The immaculate resurrection. I bent my knees and shoved my cock back inside her, desperately graceless, alongside her fingers. She squealed in surprised delight. Her fingers stayed in there, wriggling about, her bony knuckles digging into me as I pumped and grunted. Getting tighter as I got harder.

“Please… yes…. please… “ I never new how sexy politeness could be.

She came. I want to say I made her cum, but she did most of the work herself. I felt her spasm. I watched her eyes roll back. Everything was creamy and sticky and gooey and so fucking awesome. She went limp. I was still hard. Still thrusting, with newfound confidence. Her creamy fingers slipped out and she stopped strumming.

I was grunting and pumping. She was spent and still, lying there, letting me do what I was doing. So wet I could hear it. I tried rubbing her clit with my thumb and she pulled my hand away. I tried thrusting harder and all I got was a little yelp. I went faster and I got a whimper. My superhero pornstar stamina was wasted. It was a lost cause.

Instead of “fuck me” and “please” and possibly imaginary shit like “your cock feels so good inside me” the only words I got were “I need to pee”. So I pulled out, she climbed to her feet and stumbled away. It was a bit of a head fuck. I wasn’t sure what to do, standing there naked with a creamy, soaking erection. I thought about getting into the bed but I was worried that would be presumptuous, that I would look like I had expectations. I thought about sitting, but I doubted I’d be able to so without seeming rapey, for want of a better word. I was starting to wilt, so I gave it a squeeze and a tug and then I heard a giggle.

“You look ridiculous.” She said, still naked but no longer glazed, hands on her hips. I nodded in agreement as I stared unashamedly.

“I’m tired.” She said. Goddammit. My world came crashing down. “So let’s make this quick.” She continued, likely out of pure sympathy. I frowned and then smiled and then nodded pathetically as I stammered something like “I can be quick”. My stupid brain making my stupid mouth say stupid words.

“I know”. Bitch. It was true. I set myself up for it. But still… bitch.

She climbed on to the edge of the bed, on her hands and knees. Fuck yes. Doggy style. My shit. I’ll show her. I’ll last till dawn. That’s what I told myself as I stepped toward her. “Don’t cum inside me”, that strange fucking rule that made no sense but I was not stupid enough to question. I shoved myself back inside her and she grunted. She was not as wet, but wet enough. As I started thrusting she started moaning what I’m pretty sure we’re fake moans with “oh yeah” and “fuck me” and all that pornstar noise. She was trying to kill me. Bitch.

I grabbed her buttocks, kneading, spreading, studying the sight of her tiny, puckered ring. And as I was thinking of a way to casually slip a finger in there like it was a normal thing, she did just that. Fuck me. Suddenly I wasn’t so confident. The sight of her fingertip wriggling about in her asshole was a body blow. Not quite a knockout, but I was on the ropes. I slowed down. I know she knew she was winning.

She looked back at me over her shoulder and smiled a knowing smile. “I want you to cum in my ass…”. Goddammit. Just the words almost finished me off. I yanked free and she wrapped her fingers around my shaft. My eyes were bulging out of my skull at the sight of my oozing, engorged tip as she slid it along her crack. Target acquired.

“Don’t move. Let me do it”. Her tone was stern, like a teacher. A teacher I was about to sodomize.

She exhaled and pushed back with a little wriggle. I held my breath and bit my lip and never once blinked as I watched her ring slowly stretch open. She made this phenomenal noise, a grunt mixed with a squeal laced with a groan as I slowly crept in. Really fucking slowly. My tip was halfway in when she stopped.

“Okay. Okay…. Okay?” she said or asked, I don’t know. Whatever it was, I grunted something like “jesusfuckingchristholyfuckingshit” as she inhaled and pushed back. My tip plunged in. I was in her ass, quite possibly the tightest place on earth. It was a thing of beauty, my shaft with her ring digging into it, the ridge of my tip making her bulge from the inside. I was in her ass. Anal sex mental self high-five.

She tugged my shaft and whimpered “cum…” and clenched her sphincter and that was that. “FUCK!” I shouted in pleasure, defeat, shame and a hint of pain. It took seconds. I was done. My head spun. My knees went weak. I watched my shaft pulse and she giggled a giggle I could feel from inside her as I emptied whatever I had left into her ass.

“That was easy” she said, looking back at me with a cheeky grin as I shrivelled inside her. “Grace…. Fuck… wow… Jesus…” were the only words I could make work. My limp, lifeless cock slipped out and I just stood there, holding her cheeks apart, staring as my dregs oozed out of her puckered ring. I stared for as long as she let me, which was just long enough to be perverted but not quite long enough to be creepy.

“Now fuck off. I need to get some sleep.” She said as she crawled away and climbed under the blanket. I nodded and almost said “I love you” but instead I walked away. Naked. Limp. With a grin that honestly made my face hurt, and memories that I’ve pleasured myself to countless times.

I rolled a joint and drank a beer and passed out on the couch. When I woke up she was gone.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/8db765/im_tired_are_we_going_to_fuck_or_should_i_sort