Mr-j-id - Thoughts Of Us

Mine

I tighten the straps of the harness, pulling the slack taut until it hugs my hips and presses firmly against my inner thighs. A final tug secures it in place. From the base, a silicone cock juts out, slightly above average in both length and girth. Proud. Undeniable. Mine.

When I turn to the bed, I see my lover waiting for me—naked, obedient, with his cheek pressed to the mattress and his ass lifted high in offering. His knees are spread just as I knew they would be. His heavy balls sway gently between his thighs: the quietest invitation.

He watches me watch him, just as I intended. And I let him see—let him see how I admire my cock, how I stroke it and how I savor the anticipation. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to. I already know exactly what his silence is saying.

I step toward him slowly, deliberately, letting my presence settle over him like a weight. My palm skims over the small of his back, then down—pausing at the dip just above his ass. I feel the shiver that runs through him, and I smile.

“You’ve been very patient,” I say, my voice low but firm. “Good.”

I run the tip of my cock along his entrance, teasing him; circling, pressing just enough to make him twitch, but not enough to give him what he wants. Not just yet.

“Breathe,” I remind him, placing one hand between his shoulder blades to ground him. “You’re mine now. Let me in.”

He exhales shakily as I ease forward, with just the head slipping past his resistance. He gasps: half pleasure, half surrender—and I pause, letting him feel the stretch. My fingers curl around his hip, holding him steady; holding him still.

“That’s it,” I whisper, a softness threading through the command. “Take me.”

I push deeper, slow but insistent, until he’s full with me. Every inch, claimed. I stay there for a moment, unmoving, just letting him feel the weight of it—of me.

Then I lean forward, my chest brushing his back, lips grazing the shell of his ear.

“You look amazing,” I say with love and sincerity.

I draw back slowly, nearly all the way, until just the tip remains inside him. Then three firm thrusts forward, sharper this time. His body jolts beneath me, and a soft sound escapes his lips.

“That’s it,” gripping his hips tighter. “Feel me.”

I find a rhythm. Deep and deliberate strokes that force him open again and again, each one a reminder that he belongs to me. His body surrenders with every thrust; his muscles relaxing into the stretch, into the ache, into the pleasure I give him. I watch his fingers clutch at the sheets, knuckles white.

“Don’t run from it,” I remind him. ,“You wanted this. You begged for it.”

A low moan slips from his throat; an affirming sign of how he’s needy and raw, and I feel it thrum through my chest. I lean forward again, letting my weight rest against him, with cock buried deep inside, and I kiss the sweat at the back of his neck.

“Who do you belong to?” I breathe, possessive and warm. “Every time I move, you’ll remember who put you here. Who filled you like this.”

I thrust again—harder now, deeper—earning another sharp gasp, another tremble. I wrap my hand around his throat from behind, not choking, just holding, grounding. Claiming.

“I want you shaking when I’m done,” I say against his skin. “Not because I hurt you. But because I gave you everything you didn’t know you needed.”

His body trembles beneath me, the last few thrusts leaving him wrecked in the most beautiful way—open, spent, breathless. And then I slowly ease out of him with care, honoring the quiet that now drapes over us like silk.

I slip the harness off and settle in beside him, guiding him into my arms. He folds into me without hesitation—his cheek pressed to my chest, limbs heavy with release and trust. I cradle his head, fingers gently stroking his hair.

“You did so well,” I whisper against his crown. “So beautifully.”

He shifts slightly, instinctively, and I feel the brush of his lips against my breast. My fingers slow. I close my eyes and say nothing, and hold him closer. When his mouth closes around my nipple, I exhale softly and cup the back of his head, anchoring him there.

“That’s it,” I whisper, wrapping the blanket around us both. “Take what you need.”

He suckles gently, reverently. Not for lust—though there is warmth in it, but for comfort. For closeness. His breath slows with each pull, body softening more fully against mine, cocooned in my embrace.

I kiss his forehead, and stroke his spine in slow, soothing lines. There’s no urgency now; just this sacred quiet, this shared knowing.

“You’re safe,” I whisper, resting my cheek against his hair. “You’re mine.”

And he is. Fully. Silently. Completely.

"54" - Adel Bouteldja photographed by Baldovino Barani for FACTORY Fanzine

The way she grabs!!😍