It’s not your fault, of course. Hell, it’s not even my fault. It’s just one of those things, I suppose.

We had a perfectly normal courtship period, full of cute picnic dates, boozy adventures to wineries, candlelit dinners, laughter, fun, flirting; it was perfect. The sexual tension was palpable, as well. I mean, you could fucking cut it like it were a particularly well set cheesecake, such was it’s almost suffocating presence. But you had told me you wanted to wait (“bad breakup”), and I was happy enough to oblige (when it came to girls like you, it was always worth the wait).

Sure, there were some days it had been difficult. Oh christ had it been difficult; all of the Netflix without any of the chill. The both of us tangled up on my couch, lips locked together passionately as our tongues performed a choreographed dance. The black screen on my TV trying to catch our attention with a hopeful “Are you still watching?”, but failing to distract me from your slender thigh running between my legs, pushing up against the screamingly tight bulge of my crotch. The denim of both our jeans – mine skinny, yours skinnier – threatening to cause a fucking fire from the sheer friction of our legs rubbing together. I could feel the jewelled buds of your aching nipples pressing against my own chest, begging to have my lips around them. You could practically feel the tropical heat radiating from my leaking cock.

It had been difficult.

But we had resisted. For three long (looooong) weeks we resisted.

Until finally, one day – a day really like any other – you could resist no more.

You had come over to my place to cook dinner for us, and then maybe watch a movie. I’d just got out of the shower, nothing but a towel around my waist, and walked into the kitchen where you were methodically julienning some carrots. My arms circled your waist, my face drew down to the crook of your neck, and I simply breathed you in. “Fuck the food, you smell good enough to eat.” I said with a mischievous grin. It was a small, throwaway remark, one of maybe thousands that had been bandied about since the two of us became serious. But this time, there was no sarcastic quip from you. This time there was no playful shrug telling me that there’d be time for that in the future. This time, you gently put the knife down on the chopping board, turned 180°, and faced me.

The look in your eyes had been so foreign that I actually took a step back, my hands uncurling themselves from around your waist. It was a hard expression to describe, but if I were to try my best I’d categorise it as a kind of glazed-over, hypnotised, ravenous... hunger. It looked like a switch had been flicked in your brain, and some new part of your persona had been awoken.

“Are… you alright?”

“Fuck me.”

I laughed, sure that this was some kind of joke, mixed with one of your more convincing acting performances. “What?”

“I want you… to fuck. Me.” you punctuated the last few words by moving your hands to the front of your jeans, and deftly popping open the first button. The snap it created echoed in the silent kitchen, and I actually gulped. My mouth felt dry all of a sudden, bone dry… and yet, my cock gave an almighty throb and a small pearl of pre seeped from the tip. Your eyes flicked down to the bulge, and… Jesus, I swore you licked your lips. “I’m going to lay back on this floor, and you’re going to fuck me. Then you’re going to feed your cum directly into my cunt, and then you’re going to do it again. And again.”

“What the fu…” but my words were cut off when your stepped forward and snatched at the towel around my waist. Your fingers, normally so delicate, gripped at the plush fabric with an animalistic intensity and literally threw it aside in one deft motion. Despite my hesitancy, there was obviously one part of my body that had been following along, because my cock sprang up like an enthusiastic jack in the box.

Just like you had said, you laid back on the floor, still fully clothed, and brought your hands down to the hem of your jeans. You tugged the tight denim down and over the toned bubble of your asscheeks, bringing your thong down with it in the same motion. Your jeans reached the very top of your thighs… and then you stopped, as if you had run out of the patience required to fully undress yourself, and decided instead to simply present the two holes required to fulfil your desired activity.

“Breed me.”

It had been just then that I noticed the clear bead of vaginal nectar that formed from the wet lips of your cunt, and I watched with entranced desire as it rolled down your perineum and between the asscheeks that you were now spreading wide with both hands. The bud of your asshole reacted to the sensation by winking, puckering and then relaxing once more… and that was all it took to break me.

Without further hesitation I had found myself on the floor atop you, mounting you in an animalistic mating-press, as my cock pierced the lips of your pussy and sank deep into you in one perfect motion. You would moan, and I would thrust. You would scream, and I would thrust harder. At some point you had begged me to fuck you rougher, and I found myself with my two large hands encircling the thin cords of your neck. I could hear you breathlessly mouthing the word “yes” over and over again as my palms forced the back of your neck hard into the cold tile of my kitchen floor, like I was trying to send you through to the concrete foundations below us. When I finally did cum, I can safely say that I’d never had an orgasm as intense or bountiful. My hips had jack-hammered away as knot after knot flooded your ovaries, fuelled by a desperate desire to breed and replicate that I never knew I even had.

Panting, I had finished, pulled out, and stood back up. But before I could even fully straighten up you were sitting up again and had gripped my softening prick in your hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked, almost afraid at this point.

“You’re fucking insane if you think we’re done.” You replied, before propping yourself up on your knees, my seed dripping out of you in a steady stream, and beginning to lasciviously lick and clean my cock with your tongue.

That had been about a week ago. Since then? Well, I suppose I had come to learn that the girl I dated for three weeks was a myth. Oh sure, she existed for brief periods of time, I’m sure. But this new version of you – the version that wouldn’t let me leave bed in the morning till I had cum in her ass, the version that would suck my cock under the table while I ate my breakfast, that would text me pictures of her cunt stuffed with any number of increasingly larger objects while I was at work, and then would make me spend hours upon hours at night flooding her insides with cum until either one of us passed out – that was the real you.