A condom?

Sure, of course. No problem, babe.

You’re such a responsible girl–even with your crop top rolled over your tits, your skirt thrown over the lamp, and your twisted pink panties around your ankles. It doesn’t matter how much I might tell you that this thin piece of latex really dulls the sensation. It feels like I’m wearing a fucking suit and tie to fuck you, you know? But you don’t care. Nope. You’re insistent, even with my throbbing, slightly red cock glistening with a mix of spit and gloss from your lips.

Fine. Let me slip one on. But at least lemme take you from behind if you’re going to make me cut off the circulation to my cockhead with this little rubber hat. That’s it–wiggle your ass for me, bat your eyes at me over your shoulder while wait to find out whether it’s ribbed for your pleasure.

But when I’m really getting into it--I mean, really laying into your cunt–accidents happen, right? You know condoms have a 13% failure rate, right? It ain’t that surprising when you hear that little SNAP while one fist’s wrapped in your hair and the other’s digging into your love handle.

Are you really going to ask me to stop when you’ve already drenched my hilt in enough nectar to drown a hummingbird? To me, it looks like you’re too busy biting into your linen pillowcase to ask me to pull out and throw on a new condom. And then when I’m giving your ass the kind of SMACK it deserves–the sort that your asshole neighbors can hear through the walls–your needy brain can only form four words: “Cum for me, please.”

And when you ask so nicely, when you really struggle to get those words out in between desperate little moans, I have to give you what you want, right?

Sure, sweetheart, I’m already knocking at the doors of your cervix, might as well send a few thick ropes of sperm inside. And you’re so lightheaded afterwards–your body flush and twitching–that you probably don’t even remember the whole condom thing.

Maybe you’ll think about it a week later when you miss your period, but only because you won’t bother to ask me to wear one next time you invite me over. And at that point, what difference does it make if I dump another tablespoon (or three) into your womb? Maybe your hormones will take over and it’s all fucking lizard brain from there, honey. All this writhing and grunting and hairpulling and face slapping and fucking need that’ll send you blowing up my phone at 9 in the fucking morning to beg for something quick and rough.

Sure, sure, just no condoms, okay?

Obviously. Just get over here and pull my arms behind my fucking back. Please.

More than a few text messages like that now. And, god, you’ve never slobbered on my cock the way you do now. Where do you get all that spit? And how can you hold your nose against my pubic bone for so fucking long? And since when do you like me to smack your ass with my belt until it’s

Honestly, if I knew that knocking you up would turn you into a fucking sex demon, I’d have pulled the disappearing rubber trick a helluva lot sooner.

So, one more time, tell me how much you prefer it raw.