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How My StepBrother Fucked Me Hard 18+

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How My StepBrother Fucked Me Hard 18+

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Got pretty thoroughly fucked the other day. And I choose the word ‘thoroughly’ carefully and with precision. This was a very thorough fuck.

Sometimes I wonder if this blog is getting a bit samey (it is). I might do the occasional interesting thing like DVP with a fuckmachine or anal Sundays, but broadly the kind of sex I have is swift and straightforward. I bend over, he fucks me, we come, we go make dinner.

So when I write about this kind of sex, I worry that all the blog posts sound the same. After all, how many different ways to get fucked can there possibly be? I was pondering this the other day, in a fit of isolation-induced despair, as I wondered whether I’d end up just trailing off, blog-wise, now that my input has dwindled to almost nothing and my creative output has no fuel.

Then I got thoroughly fucked. And I realised that even the most straightforward of fucks can carry the weight of a blog post.

Thoroughly fucked

As I say, I pick the word ‘thoroughly’ with deliberate precision. I got thoroughly fucked. Utterly, entirely and completely. It was a very bland fuck, position-wise, and likely nothing to write home about if you were watching from the sidelines with a notebook and critic’s pen. But it was special to me.

I was bent over the arm of the sofa, and we were watching some new porn. Lockdown has been a good excuse for us to revisit some of our old favourites, and subscribe to a few new sites as well to tide us over. So we’re watching a lot of porn.

I was bent over the arm of the sofa so we could both watch the TV and he was fucking me. Really firmly and slowly. He was close to coming, and didn’t want to thrust too quickly in case he came – he was keen to prolong the nice feeling of having his cock squeezed by wet cunt, while whatever smut we were watching was playing out on screen.

It began firm and slow.

Each thrust screwed into me like I was being firmly secured to the sofa. He had one leg up, knee bent over the arm of the sofa and foot placed next to my head, so he could get his dick all the way in.

I squirmed and squealed each time it got in up to the hilt – I could feel the tight head of his cock shoving hard against my cervix. Deep and delightful and almost bruising me.

Occasionally he’d give in to a burst of vigour – a few quicker thrusts, just to bring him that tiny bit closer to the edge. I loved these bursts, but they also worried me. I wanted to enjoy the fuck – revel in it – and I really didn’t want him to come yet. So partway through a vigorous burst, which had my cunt spasming and eyes rolling back, I told him:

“Not yet. Don’t come yet…”

Which he cut off swiftly with a resounding smack on my arse and a corresponding burst of aggressively brutal, slow thrusts:

“Don’t. Tell me. What. To do.”

Deep and firm and angry and bruising.

One leg up over the arm of the sofa, his foot now resting on my head to hold me down. Everything about it felt unyielding. I was pinned to the sofa by his cock, muscles limp and weak and cunt shot through with pleasurable agony, biting my lip to keep myself quiet so I could enjoy the moans and grunts from the porn echoing round the room.

I have no idea how long we were fucking for. Looking back, I can reconstruct what probably happened from the length of the scene we watched, but at the time my mind was entirely and solely focused on how thoroughly fucked I was getting. The kind of abandon I usually only get when I’ve begged him to whip me. That ‘Don’t. Tell me. What. To do.’ gave me a subby hook on which to hang my descent into fucking oblivion – when he feigns anger that well I can dive into fantasy scenarios in which I’m genuinely getting a punishment fuck because I’ve been naughty and bad and wrong.

And all the while, he’s there: screwing me so firmly and deeply that occasionally my vision goes weird and I see stars and bright spots. Not migraine ones, rollercoaster ones: the spots I get when the g-force on a turn is too great and it takes my eyes time to catch up with the whoosh of my body.

At one point – and you’ll think I’m making this up – I swear I might actually have died? Just for half a second. I saw death. A tunnel. White light. Jesus, dressed in cargo shorts and a loose-fitting T-shirt saying “welcome, my child. The evangelists were wrong: we absolutely love sluts up here!”

Then the vision dissolved and I was yanked back into the moment – his firm, deep thrusts combined with his hands sliding up my back inside my top, grabbing me by the shoulders and yanking me back onto him. Fully drilling his dick into me like Bruce Willis in that meteor in Armageddon.

As he got closer to coming, he was shoving his body so hard against mine that I could feel every tremble in his muscles. Every twitch of his cock. I could hear not just the deliberately-audible grunts he’d make when he packed his dick right in up to the hilt, but also the involuntary croaks and squeaks at the back of his throat as he tried to hold it back.

Like the aforementioned rollercoaster, clicking slowly up the track towards the first loop, then seeming to slow as it nears the top, adding to the suspense and the eagerness for the first stomach-drop fall.

There was a brief second of total blankness, just fiery pleasure in my cunt and tension in my muscles before… whoosh. He started to come. And as he came he sped up – nought to sixty in a split second. Hammering his cock in and nudging at those bruises on my cervix that he helpfully made earlier.

He kept on thrusting as he came. On and on. In and out. Like he was trying to stuff his cum as far into my eager cunt as possible.

When he finished, we both collapsed: him onto the sofa, sprawled naked and sweating and chugging water like he’d just walked halfway across the desert, me on my knees on the floor reaching for yet more water and panting like I’d run for a bus.

And sometimes he does this thing, in the afterglow, where he looks at me with hopeful eyes and raised eyebrows that ask ‘did you enjoy that?’ or sometimes ‘did you come?’ Because I am not always as forthcoming with noises as he’d like me to be, and sometimes he really can’t tell. So he’ll either give me the questioning face or he’ll ask directly: how was that?

I have never in my life been so thoroughly fucked: he did not need to ask that day.

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