"You're so beautiful…" My words escape me almost hoarsely, as if they've been stuck somewhere in my throat.
My whisper dissolves in the dim light of the room, in that endlessly warm air that still seems afraid to break this almost sacred silence. My hand glides over her body like a sacred map—every line, every curve important to me. I memorize her by touch—every rise, every dip, her softness, her firmness, her heat. All of it is part of her, part of this wondrous moment when it feels like the whole world ceases to exist except for us.
Her chest rises with a deep breath, her eyes flutter shut, and for a second, I feel her entire being shudder from that light touch. It's like lightning—instant but powerful, making her heart beat faster, her body reacting to my gaze, my touch, this indescribable closeness that fills us both.
I move lower, along the curve of her stomach, feeling her muscles tremble faintly under my palm. She's so warm, so alive…
And then—the wet heat between her thighs. My fingers brush against her, and she gasps sharply, biting her lip so hard that white imprints of teeth mark her delicate skin. Her eyes darken, turning almost black, filled with so much impatience that it steals my breath.
"Don't tease me…"
Her voice is rough, breaking, as if even words are a struggle, as if the shadow of her desire swallows everything around her. Every sound is saturated with longing, passion, and urgency. I feel her fighting herself, holding back what's about to burst free—like a storm ready to crash over everything in its path.
"You can play with me later… I can't wait anymore."
Her words are soft, but there's a desperate insistence in them that sends lightning through my veins—electric, aching tension. Every gesture is demanding, torturous, yet tender, like fire against skin, impossible to pull away from. In her touch, there's both pain and pleasure, a sharp emptiness she's trying to fill. It's like forgetting who you are for a moment, forgetting time and space, just dissolving into another person.
She pulls me closer, and I feel her body arch toward me, as if even a second of delay is torture. Her entire being is focused on one thing—on us, on making sure this instant, maddening closeness doesn't fade, on making sure I'm right here, so every breath, every touch is real, tangible, piercing my soul, leaving marks that won't wash away.
I grab a condom, and the foil crinkles in my fingers—a sharp, mechanical sound shattering the magic of the moment. The cold drop of lube on my tense cock feels almost blasphemous when my whole body screams for her real heat. But I grit my teeth—rules are rules. Rebel Girl deserves care, even if she couldn't care less about caution.
"Easy… slow…" I whisper, holding her hip, feeling the tremble of her skin under my fingers. I plan to enter carefully, inch by inch, letting her body adjust.
But Rebel Girl always has other plans.
Her legs—those flexible, strong limbs that could break ribs with a kick or coil around me tenderly—suddenly lock around my back like a steel band. Not a request. Not a hint. A command.
I barely catch the flash of defiance in her eyes in the half-light before her hips surge forward. Her whole body tenses like a bowstring, and in the next instant, I'm pulled inside with such force the world whites out for a second.
"Fuck—!"
My groan tears out of me somewhere between pain and bliss. It merges with her whimper—thin, trembling, like a wire about to snap. She takes all of me, to the hilt, to the point where the boundaries between our bodies vanish. Her insides clench around me, scorching hot, wet, alive—and so tight it steals my breath. Inside her, it's a wet, tight inferno, and for a moment, I freeze, unable to move. She's impossibly snug, every muscle squeezing me tighter, as if refusing to let go.
Rebel Girl throws her head back, baring her throat where her pulse races wildly. Her lips tremble, but triumph burns in her eyes—she knows she's outmaneuvered me again.
My groan tears from my chest, low and ragged—a sound mixed with pain, pleasure, and something else, dark, insatiable, almost feral. Two voices, two breaths, two hearts beating in sync—and nothing else exists. Just her. Just me. Just this moment, hot, sticky, unbearably intense, as if time has frozen, mesmerized by our joining.
I hold still, feeling her body pulse around me—wave after wave, living flesh trying to keep me inside, refusing to let me go. Hot. Too hot. Wet. Tight.
"Move."
And I do.
At first, slowly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid one wrong motion will shatter this fragile moment like sand through fingers. My hips draw back, giving her a breath of relief, only to plunge into her again—deeper, harder, merciless. Every thrust makes her shudder, every withdrawal makes her clench around me, as if her body can't stand the emptiness.
But I can't stay gentle.
With every movement, the rhythm quickens, grows rougher, more demanding, relentless. My fingers dig into her hips, leaving red marks on her pale skin—traces of possession, marks of fury, signs of a desire that can no longer be controlled. The bedsprings creak beneath us, their pitiful moans blending with her ragged gasps, with her choked, desperate pleas that are no longer even words—just fragments of sound, shards of consciousness swept away by the rising tide.
Katrin moans—at first quietly, stifled, as if she's trying to hold back this shameful, animal sound. But the deeper I thrust into her, the fiercer our bodies collide, the louder her cries become. Her voice cracks into a hoarse rasp, trembles, rings like glass about to shatter. She calls my name—and every time it spills from her parched lips, something wild, untamed, dangerous flares inside me.
Every muscle, every fold, every quivering inch of her seems to know me better than I know myself. She remembers every entry, every exit, every thrust—yet still resists, clenches tighter, as if her body is torn between contradictions: to crave and to fear, to reach and to recoil, to beg for more and to plead for mercy.
But her eyes…
Oh, her eyes.
Dark as the night before a storm, burning from within as if holding trapped fire. There's no fear in them, no doubt—only hunger. Insatiable, bottomless, primal. They stare at me as if I were the last drop of water in a desert, the final gasp of air before death. And in them, there's only one command, one silent but razor-sharp whisper.
I press my palm to her clit, and her body jerks as if struck, arches like a bow trying to escape—but I don't let go. My fingers circle, press, rub that tender, trembling flesh in time with our movements, and her cries grow desperate, almost pleading.
"I can't… I can't… oh God…"
Her words no longer make sense—just ragged moans tearing from her throat, just a hoarse scream drowning everything: shame, reason, even the memory that she once breathed steadily. Just a prayer ripped from the deepest, darkest corners of her soul, where nothing remains but raw, shuddering need.
But I don't stop. I can't.
My muscles burn, my stomach tightens with pleasure's ache, but I don't stop. Her legs tremble as if in fever, her fingers claw the sheets, and I hear the fabric threads straining, about to tear under her desperate grip. Her body arches, tenses to the limit, like a bowstring before release, and inside… oh God, inside she clenches around me as if trying to wring my very soul out. Hot, wet, unbearably tight, she pulls the last drops of control from me, and the world blurs before my eyes, veiled in black haze.
And I know—she's on the edge.
Her breath comes in gasps, her lips part in a silent moan, and her eyes—wide, dark, nearly black with desire—stare at me with mute despair and pleading. She's so close… so close I can feel her body shaking under my hands, every muscle strained to breaking, her heart pounding in her throat, ready to burst free.
Another thrust. I lead her there—to that edge where the ground falls away, where there's nothing but the fall. And she clings to me, her nails digging into my skin, leaving fiery trails, her voice breaking into a hoarse whisper laced with both fear and craving.
Another. She throws her head back, her neck stretching like a swan's last breath, her lips trembling as they form my name—a prayer or a curse. I watch her pupils dilate, her body twist in one final, desperate lurch, her fingers clawing the sheets as if trying to hold onto this world for one more second.
One more… and she'll break.
I come first—with a wild, guttural roar ripped from the depths of my chest, as if not me but some beast lurking in the dark has finally broken free. My fingers grip her hips so hard that tomorrow, bruises will bloom there—purple, dark as the marks of my obsession. My whole body convulses, as if struck by lightning, waves of pleasure scorching through my veins, burning away reason, leaving only ash and madness.
But… she hasn't finished yet. So I keep going. Deeper.
Every thrust is like a strike—sharp, merciless, without an ounce of mercy. I feel her body taking me, tightening around me, hot, wet, alive.
Harder. My movements turn rougher, almost brutal, but she only moans louder, her voice breaking into a high, trembling scream, her legs locking around my back, pulling me closer, refusing to let go.
I feel her body tensing, feel her clenching inside in anticipation, her breath hitching in her throat, turning into broken, incoherent sounds.
And then… she shatters. Convulsively. Uncontrollably. Her body arches as if electrocuted, her nails dig into my shoulders, and a choked, hoarse scream tears from her throat—carrying everything: pain, ecstasy, something ancient, primal, something that has no name.
She loses herself. Completely. Irrevocably. Her fingers slacken, her body goes limp, and she collapses onto the pillows—broken, pliant, satisfied.
Only then do I let myself stop.
Only then does the world snap back into place.