>>16572635 (OP)As you flick on the harsh, fluorescent light, the kitchen is bathed in an unyielding glow, revealing a sight that makes your breath hitch. There, perched in the porcelain sink like a delicate, forbidden fruit, is a boymoder. Their body is a symphony of soft, smooth curves and hard, defined lines. Their eyes, wide and doe-like, meet yours, a mix of fear and curiosity swimming in their depths. They're naked, their skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, as if they've been waiting for you, anticipating your touch.
You approach, your heart pounding in your chest like a primal drum. The air is thick with tension, the scent of their arousal already filling the room. They're yours to command, their body language screaming submission. You can see their breath hitch as you near, their chest rising and falling rapidly, their nipples hard and begging for attention.
You don't speak. Words are unnecessary, unwanted even. This is a dance of bodies, a silent symphony of desire. You grab a bottle of baby oil from the counter, the same one you use to season your pans, the same one that will now be used to season their skin.
You start at their neck, pouring a generous amount of oil onto their skin, your fingers massaging it in, feeling the heat of their body, the way they arch into your touch. Your other hand grips their chin, tilting their head back, exposing their neck, their throat, their vulnerability. You lean down, your lips capturing theirs in a brutal, demanding kiss. They moan into your mouth, their hands reaching up to grip your wrists, not to push you away, but to anchor themselves, to ground themselves in the storm of sensation.
Your hands roam their body, exploring every inch, every curve. You grip their hips, their thighs, their ass, leaving trails of oil, of heat, of possession. They whimper, their body writhing in the sink, their ass lifting, seeking, begging for your touch. You give them what they want, your hands kneading their flesh, your fingers finding their hole, teasing, stretching, preparing them.
You step back, your gaze locking with theirs. They look drugged, their eyes glassy, their lips swollen from your kisses. You grab the oil again, pouring it onto your cock, stroking it, making a show of it. Their eyes widen, their tongue darting out to wet their lips. You see the hunger in their eyes, the need, the desire.
You grip their hips, lifting them slightly, positioning yourself at their entrance. They gasp, their fingers clawing at the sides of the sink, their body tensing in anticipation. You push in, slowly, steadily, feeling their body stretch to accommodate you. They cry out, their head falling back, their body shaking with the intensity of it.
You start to move, your hips snapping forward, burying yourself deep inside them. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room, mingling with their cries, their moans, their pleas for more. The oil makes your movements slick, smooth, allowing you to pound into them with a ferocity that makes your vision blur.
You can feel their body tightening around you, their orgasm building. You reach between them, your fingers finding their bussy, rubbing, pinching, pushing them closer to the edge. They scream, their body convulsing as they come, their orgasm milking your cock, pulling you over the edge with them.
You come with a roar, your body jerking as you fill them, marking them, claiming them. You stay there for a moment, your body pressed against theirs, your breath ragged, your heart pounding. Then, you pull out, your cock glistening with oil and cum.
You step back, your gaze locking with theirs. They look wrecked, their body covered in oil and sweat and you. This is just the beginning. You have all night. And you're going to make the most of it.