Amadi—remember him? Me too. He’s the 6’1 definitely-not-single stud who belted and bred me in my first story. Now we move to the third—and, sadly, final—chapter of our sexual story. Text split below for when the sexy shit starts happening, for impatient readers out there. It’s a long one, so buckle up.
For the curious among you, the visuals for the two players in this scene. Myself: 5’2, dark hair, green eyes, olive skin, mixed race (Arab and Caucasian, for those wondering) and what’s known as a Phat Ass White Girl (think big enough for people to ask me if it’s real). Amadi: 6’1, Nigerian, shaved head, broad-shouldered, big arms, sitting nicely at the point where he’s muscled but with a minor, comfy layer of squidge. The kind of body where you know he can bench press you—in fact, he had once before, when we were very drunk and being stupid—but he’s still comfortable to cuddle with.
Before we get to the fucking, however, we’ve got to go back in time. It’s a sunny Wednesday afternoon in West London and I’m at work, killing time until I can go for my customary four o’clock cigarette break with my unbearably sexy colleague-turned-fuckbuddy. In the middle of writing a dull email to an equally dull client, my phone buzzes: it’s Amadi, with an uncharacteristically serious message. It’s the sentence everyone dreads seeing: *Can we talk?*
I was pretty certain it was going to be one of two things: he was either going to declare his undying love to me, or get cold feet and cut things off. He could be a bit of a drama queen, so there wasn’t going to be an inbetween. When I slip outside to give him a call, I find out my guess had been correct, but he’d plumped for the latter: the guilt of going behind his girlfriend’s back was eating him up; he was catching feelings for me and it was too much; and so on. I hate to admit it now, but I remember feeling only mild disappointment at the fact I’d get less cock now, just as we were getting on so nicely. If my at-the-time girlfriend was my main dish and my colleague-turned-fuckbuddy was the side salad, Amadi was simply the croutons on top. Still, it was annoying: I really like croutons.
I interrupted him mid-flow—he had the tendency to ramble—to ask: “So this means you’re not going to give me that third orgasm you promised me?”
It was a reference to the first night we met, where he’d drunkenly declared he was going to make me cum three times, at *least*. Big talk, and big mistake: he’d only managed one. He’d gone a way to making up for it during our second tryst, but three’s the magic number, after all.
He burst out laughing and groaned in despair. “I *knew* my mouth had written a cheque I couldn’t cash with that promise.”
“So… one last fuck? For old time’s sake?”
There was a beat of silence—but then he laughed again, and I knew I’d won. “What am I going to do with you? You’re a witch, I swear,” he sighed, sounding exasperated and amused all at once. “Fine. You get your own way, this time—but only once, alright? I can’t do this anymore.”
“I like it when I get my own way,” I practically purred down the phone.
“Trust me, I know. You going out Saturday?”
Our group of friends had planned to go out partying then. “Yeah. I’ll see you there?”
“Of course. Would I ever let you down?”
“You have before. Remember,” I warned, “third time lucky, Amadi. Let’s try to go out with a bang.”
He was still laughing when I put the phone down.
Cut to Saturday: if we were going to go out with a bang, I needed to dress the part. My aesthetic was more big-butted (rather than big-titty) Goth girlfriend back then, and I went to town. Tight, black thong bodysuit; fishnets; Doc Martens; denim batty riders so tight it’d make your eyes water. They certainly made mine water, anyway, as the circulation to my lower half was slowly cut off as the night progressed. But I digress.
The group gets together—including the one and only Suspicious Friend, who is now the only person who knows mine and Amadi’s little secret—and the drinking begins. When Amadi walks in and sees me, his eyebrows nearly shoot to the back of head, but he waits until hours later, when we’re all drunk in a cavernous, smoky warehouse somewhere in East, to lean in and whisper: “Your thighs are incredible. You look delicious.”
His hand is around my waist, thumb hooked almost casually into the waistband of my shorts. Out of sight of our friends in our dark corner, surrounded by strangers, I grab his hand and move it down to cup my arse. His big hand grips me like a drowning man grabs at a life-raft, and my pussy gives what feels like a kick of pleasure in response. “If you’re lucky, you’ll be eating me up later,” I reply, threading my fingers between his.
He smiles. “You really are something else.”
“So you keep saying. It’s getting a bit boring—try a different tune.”
What can I say? I can’t help being a brat, and the drink had made me brave. Immediately, I knew I’d made a big mistake: his eyes narrowed, but the smile remained on his face as his grip suddenly tightened and he dug his fingers into my arse to twist a handful of flesh and fishnet. I winced, even as my cunt throbbed with excitement; instinctually I tried to flinch away, but his other hand shot up to grab a fistful of my hair. He gave it one hard yank, jerking my head backwards, before pulling it back steadily so I was forced to look up at him. My teeth were gritted in pain and I was almost panting, but Amadi was perfectly calm, almost serene.
“Got mouth tonight, have we?” His smile widened. “We’ll see about mouth later.”
With that, he released me. I was a confusion of feelings: excitement and fear and anger and satisfaction. My pussy, however, certainly wasn’t confused: wetness was oozing from my slit.
After that little incident, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I rubbed his cock through his trousers as we stood talking to a friend, my hand concealed by the darkness and the crowd. He grabbed at my arse and thighs as we danced; his hands were on my shoulders and in my hair. There was an odd, surreal moment where he asked me to slap him in the face in front of the smoking area crowd: the crack of my palm on his face made people’s heads turn; when he looked at me, touching his slapped cheek, I thought, *I’m in big trouble*. Instead, I was rewarded: he abruptly picked me up, my legs wrapping around his waist as he pushed me up against the wall. With a moan, he forced his tongue into my mouth, using the wall at my back to grind his stiffness hard against my aching pussy. I was whimpering as I moved and pushed back against him, the friction building up into a delicious pressure. When he let me down, I was disappointed—however, it wasn’t a moment too soon, as a clueless friend of ours popped up suddenly, as if he’d sprouted from the ground, to give us the drinks he’d bought.
It wasn’t a moment too soon, then, when Amadi finally leaned to murmur in my ear, “We’re done. Let’s go.”
——————————————————————
When we finally get back to his place and sneak upstairs, we’re barely through his bedroom door before we already start ripping off our clothes. We’ve waited long enough, and now just want to satisfy the desperate craving for each other. He unbuttons my shorts (much to my intense relief), smirking to see I’m wearing nothing under my fishnets, before tugging them down and off. His teasing and pulling of me throughout the night meant that I was already wet, and when he reached for my clit I slapped his hand away and gave him a push backwards onto the bed. No time to waste tonight.
His cock was already hard, and as I positioned myself above him it nudged against my leaking pussy, his head slipping gently between the lips. I reached down, took hold of it and ran it along my slit, so that his length brushed my clit and then slid down to my hole. We both moan as my thighs hold me, suspended, right on the tip of his cock: enough to feel the softness of his head and the precum oozing from it, poised at the moment of entering me. It was that delicious moment that you want to rush through and yet prolong forever, like the breath before taking a dive. You’re desperate to get to the climax, but are eager to savour the feeling of anticipation that you know will disappear once you’ve taken the plunge.
Honestly, though, I’d waited all night to feel him inside me, and any further delay felt like torture—especially when he felt so solid and good between my legs, and my cunt was tight and throbbing with excitement and anticipation. Slowly, agonisingly, I impaled myself on his cock, inching myself down until I had sheathed most of him in my cunt, so tightly I could feel him twitch inside me. I moaned at the fullness, the almost painfully good sensation of his girth stretching me out. I remained still, savouring it; reaching down, I opened up my pussy lips so I could press my clit against his groin as I rode him, creating the pressure and friction I needed to cum, and pushed myself down so his full length was lodged deep inside me. Not a fraction of his cock was left. Amadi swore under his breath and grabbed me tightly by the hips, trying to urge me to movement.
“What’s wrong, baby?” I teased, clenching the muscles of my pussy tighter around him. He groaned in response, shifting restlessly beneath me. “You’d better give me that third orgasm, Amadi. Otherwise you’re going to pay.”
“Shut up and ride me already,” he nearly growled.
No need to tell me twice. I began to move, sliding slowly up and down his entire length, from head to root, before building my speed as I stretched out around him. His teeth were gritted as he began to thrust up into me, matching my rhythm and pushing himself deeper. When I was comfortable, I moved from putting my weight on my knees to my feet, so I was squatting on his cock; impaling myself slowly on him, I steadied myself by putting my hands on his chest, and he grabbed my splayed knees to spread me open. I began to bounce. My tits jumped as I rode and he thrust up into me. We found a nice pace together; with my clit grinding and clipping against him and the impact of our bodies smacking together, my orgasm was already beginning to build. Damn—all the evening’s anticipation was going to make a two-pump chump out of me, and I wasn’t sure my pride could take it. On the other hand, it felt too good to stop… moans and soft whimpers began to escape my mouth as I came down harder and faster on him, and my breathing became ragged. At the change in my pace, Amadi dragged his eyes away from the juncture where our bodies met—he’d been staring, open-mouthed, at my spread pussy lips folding over his cock as it slid in and out of me—and looked me in the face. Incredulously, he asked, “Not going to cum yet, are you?”
God knows what had gotten into me—I was still sloppy drunk, and brave with it. So I slapped him. Hard. So hard the impact knocked his face to the side.
Before I knew what was happening, Amadi had grabbed me and flipped me onto my back, smacking me into the mattress with such force I bounced. His fingers painfully dug into my throat as he held me down and rammed himself into my pussy as hard as he could. I lay there, pinned, helpless and struggling to breathe. His thrusts were remorseless, fast and forceful, jerking my body with their impact, and strangled yelps were forced past the constriction of his grip on my throat. Darkness blurred the edge of my vision.
As suddenly as he had started, he stopped. Breathing hard, he took his hand from my throat and grabbed my face, squeezing me tightly as he leant in to hiss, “*Never* do that again. Do you understand me?”
I whispered, my throat tight and aching, “Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry.”
He released my throat and moved in to kiss me deeply, beginning to thrust again at a steady, satisfying pace. I moaned into his mouth as our tongues stroked and twined against each other. Our bodies were pressed tightly together, and I ran my hands over the soft skin and hard muscles of his back, before gripping him to pull him closer, wrapping my legs around him and locking my ankles together to push him deeper. His face moved down to press into my neck, trailing kisses as he went; one big arm swept up to cradle my head, while the other slid down to grab a handful of my arse. It felt so intimate, such a contrast to just moments before, and I could already sense my orgasm building again, from the movement of his body against my clit, the delicious sensation of his cock stretching me out with every stroke, the way he held me, the rasp of his breath against my ear. I began to moan in earnest now as the tingling sensation of my orgasm grew, building up to a sweet ache between my legs; as my cunt tightened around him, Amadi’s ragged breathing turned to grunts, and I knew we were both getting close. Squeezing my legs tighter, I lifted my body to fit my hips flush against his, holding myself in place in midair while he picked up the pace, pounding into me. I was shaking with both the effort and pleasure of it, clinging onto him for dear life, listening to our cries and the smack of our bodies get louder, hurried, as we hurtled towards climax. I didn’t even realise I was furiously digging my nails into his back and arms until he suddenly panted, “Don’t scratch me. No marks.”
No evidence, in other words, for his girlfriend to find. Interesting… I dug my nails in harder, grinning like the little shit I was all the while.
He reared upright to look into my face, taking me along with him so I was straddling his lap. “Unbelievable. What did I just say?”
I met his gaze with my most innocent expression. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” He gripped my chin and brought his face to mine to say between gritted teeth, with a thrust to emphasise each word, “*Don’t. Fucking. Scratch. Me.* Get it?”
I nodded mutely, and he moved to kiss me again. But I’m not called *bigarsebrat* for no reason—I have a reputation to uphold, for Christ’s sake. And so, I slowly, deliberately, sunk my nails into the soft flesh of his shoulder blades, meeting his eyes with the biggest shit-eating smirk I could muster.
To this day, I don’t know how it happened. I’ve been through it in my head countless times, trying to work it out. All I know is that one moment I was on his lap, being a cocky little shit; the next moment, I was literally flying through the air as he grabbed and flipped me like I was nothing more than a ragdoll. I landed on my hands and knees at the edge of the mattress. Reflected in the full-length mirror at the end of his bed, my face was an absolute picture: I was saucer-eyed and open-mouthed in utter shock. I watched as my mouth gaped wider, moaning, as he grabbed me roughly by the hips and gradually forced himself into me, inch by inch.
“Feeling brave?” Amadi taunted, as I squirmed and whined, impaled on his throbbing cock. “We’ll see about that.”
This time, he showed me no mercy. I watched in the mirror as he viciously pounded into me from behind, his hands gripping my hips, face intent and absorbed and the muscles of his stomach clenching as he rammed his full length into my aching pussy. The bed was shuddering, and his balls slapped hard against my thighs and the spread lips of my cunt with every thrust. He had me trapped: I couldn’t get away, or shift position, or even push back on him. All I could do was helplessly grab fistfuls of his sheets and the mattress in a desperate attempt to stay on the bed as he hammered my pussy. My grip was slipping, and I was dangerously close to falling; to better anchor myself, I moved down to lean on my elbows. But as I lowered myself, Amadi lunged, grabbing a fistful of my hair. I watched, breathless with anticipation and—I must admit—fear, as he slowly wound it around his hand and then triumphantly met my eyes in the mirror, giving me a shit-eating grin of his own. With a vicious tug, he forced my head up and back, pulling so hard I was paralysed, unable to look anywhere but our reflection and the way he was utterly dominating me.
“I want you to watch,” he said slowly, the authoritativeness of his tone undermined by the slight cracking of his voice as he thrust again, building up momentum. “I want you to watch me cum in this pussy.”
In despair, I remembered Orgasm Number 3, and began to wriggle in protest. “But… Daddy—I haven’t—”
He gave my hair another yank, and I yelped in pain. “Shut up. I couldn’t give a fuck if you cum.”
I was silent, then, gazing at him in complete, wordless surrender. His laughter had a vicious edge to it. “Not so mouthy now, are you?”
Well, he wasn’t wrong. And so I kept my mouth shut and my eyes wide open, not wanting to miss a second of him fucking me like a whore. His strokes were fast and unforgiving; my whole body shook with the impact, and with every thrust into my pussy my head was jerked backwards, pulled so tightly that at times I struggled to breathe. Agony radiated from my scalp. My cunt was tense and tight from the pounding it was receiving, the muscles clenched from the pain and pleasure rippling out from the point where our bodies met. His dominance and aggression—so unexpected, so unusual; the drunkenness had something to do with it, I think—had made me dripping wet all over again, and I knew he loved it from the familiar sounds he was making: those deep, animalistic grunts, marking the frantic pace of his thrusts, which told me that he was going to cum soon.
Honestly, I wanted to be his cumslut. The thought of him filling me up, using me like a nasty little whore for his own pleasure, was such a turn on. His girlfriend was out there somewhere, sleeping, while her boyfriend fucked me raw and deep, oozing precum, getting close to blowing his load into my cunt. My pussy pulsed, and I felt his cock twitch in response. It wouldn’t be long now. The moan of ecstasy that wanted to escape was trapped in my suffocated throat.
The hand that had been gripping my hips suddenly encircled me, reaching between my legs to rest on my clit. I almost smiled—I knew all the big talk had been a bluff—but I’d reached my brat quota for the night, and knew when not to push my luck. Instead, I met his gaze in the mirror in utter submission as I bucked and ground against his fingers, using the movement of our bodies to get myself closer, strangled noises of pleasure escaping me. His expression was focused and almost pained, and I knew he was fighting against his climax. I flexed my pussy, gripping him, and he groaned loudly, ending on a shaking, rasping breath.
“I’m going to cum—oh, God—you nasty fucking *bitch*—”
And with that final hissing note, he exploded inside me, cock twitching as he shot squirt after squirt of what felt like a huge load right into the back of my pussy. I watched hungrily as his eyes rolled back with pleasure, and the moan that escaped his lips as he gave one final, jolting thrust, pushing as deep as he could to fill me completely, tipped me over the edge. I rocked a few times against his relentlessly circling fingers, his cock docked deep inside me still hard and twitching, and came: a silent, strangled, strained orgasm that pulsed through my body in almost painfully intense waves and made my cunt grip tight as a vice, milking Amadi for every last drop. Biting his lip, he watched me ride my noiseless climax—so different from the usual, but all the more powerful for it—and then collapse onto the bed, breathless and exhausted. His cock finally slipped from my pussy. Cum—mine or his, or both, I couldn’t tell—began to escape, dribbling down my slit. With a satisfied expression, he surveyed the mess we’d made and then, grinning, he gave my arse one final playful slap.
“Good girl.”
I was too exhausted to reply, but made sure to give him as baleful a glare as I could muster. Smiling still, he lay down and pulled me into his arms, dipping a quick little kiss in my hair as he did so. We spooned in comfortable silence as we came down from our highs and caught our breath. After a while, I turned to face him, curling up and snuggling into his chest.
“Well,” I said suddenly, “that was certainly a bang.”
He laughed and kissed me again—this time, on my forehead. “Yep. And third orgasm: achieved. Your wish is my command.”
“Shut up, you absolute idiot.” There was a pause, and I peeked naughtily up at him. “So… Orgasm 3.5?”
Amadi groaned in playful exasperation, clapping his hand across his eyes. “Stop it. You’re crazy. What am I going to do with you?” When he looked down at me next, his tone was different: gentle, serious. He took my chin in his hand, moving to stroke my face. “You know we can’t keep doing this. *I* can’t. It’s just too… difficult.”
“I know.” I smiled, but there was sadness in it.
Such a shame. I really *did* like croutons.
>Happy Holy Day of our Lord and Saviour, everyone! Here’s a story of me fucking someone else’s boyfriend to celebrate. I know, I know, you got me—it’s another *War and Peace*-length story, so congratulations if you made it this far. I find it difficult not to ramble, but honestly, I received great feedback last time regardless so just threw caution to the wind. As usual, constructive criticism and suggestions welcome. Enjoy!
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i2l58a/bred_by_someone_elses_boyfriend_the_second_or
That sounded like an epic fuck. He sure put a lot of effort into blowing that nut inside you ?
I want to be someone’s boyfriend so I can breed you…