I Opened the Door in Nothing but His Shirt and He Was Already Stroking Himself

I opened the door in nothing but his shirt and he was already stroking himself.

Kabir stood in the hallway, jeans undone, thick cock in his fist, eyes locked on the bare tops of my thighs where the shirt barely covered me. I had been dripping since his text twenty minutes ago. The second I saw him I felt another rush of wetness slide down my leg.

He didn’t say hello. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut, and backed me against the wall with his cock still in his hand.

“Show me,” he ordered, voice rough.

I lifted the shirt. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. His eyes dropped between my legs and he groaned like he was in pain.

“Fucking soaked.” He gave himself another slow stroke. “Turn around. Hands on the wall.”

I obeyed. He shoved the shirt up over my hips, kicked my feet apart, and rubbed the head of his cock up and down my slit, coating himself in how wet I already was. Then he pushed in with one hard thrust that forced the air out of my lungs.

No warm-up. No gentle strokes. He fucked me like he had been thinking about it all day and couldn’t wait another second. Deep, punishing drives that made my palms slip on the wall. One hand stayed locked on my hip, the other reached around to rub tight, filthy circles over my clit.

“You’ve been touching yourself waiting for me,” he growled against my ear.

“Yes—”

“Did you come?”

“Almost.”

He laughed darkly and fucked me harder. “You’re going to come on my cock first.”

I did. Within minutes. My legs shook so hard he had to hold me up while he kept thrusting through the orgasm. He didn’t stop. He chased his own release with short, brutal strokes and buried himself to the hilt when he finished, flooding me in thick pulses.

He stayed inside me, breathing hard against my neck. I could feel every twitch. Every drop.

“Bedroom,” he said. “I’m not done.”

He pulled out. Cum immediately started sliding down my inner thighs. He watched it for a second, eyes dark, then spun me around, lifted me, and carried me to the bed.

He dropped me on my back, shoved my legs wide, and sank back in before I could catch my breath. This time he stayed close, forehead against mine, fucking me in deep grinding strokes that rubbed against my oversensitive clit on every pass. I came again almost immediately, crying out into his mouth. He followed soon after, groaning as he filled me a second time.

We didn’t rest.

The third time he put me on my hands and knees and took me from behind, one hand wrapped around my throat, the other reaching under to play with my swollen clit. I was so wet the sound of him slamming into me was obscene. I came so hard I collapsed onto my elbows. He held my hips up and kept fucking me until he finished again, grinding deep and staying there while he emptied everything left.

Afterward we stayed locked together, sweaty and shaking. His cock was still twitching inside me. I could feel how full I was.

He kissed the back of my shoulder, voice wrecked.

“Husband gets back tomorrow night.”

“I know.”

“Then we’re using every hour until then.”

I pushed back against him, feeling him start to harden again inside me already.

“Then stop talking,” I whispered, “and use me.”

He laughed—low, filthy—and rolled his hips once, swelling thicker.

“Yes, ma’am.”

And he did. All night.