Luccia & Olivia Winters

I watched her kneel. Black silicone still slick, still proud, it jutted from Olivia’s hips like a promise made flesh. She gripped the base and dragged the crown over my lips until they parted, then pushed straight to the back of my throat. The carpet bit into my knees and I choked, swallowed, tried again. She let me catch half a breath, then fed it deeper until my nose pressed to the smooth strap. Olivia’s voice stayed low, mocking: “Look at you, crying already.” My ex never lasted past a minute; this toy kept its edge, rigid and merciless. She moved me by the hair—forward, back—until strings of spit slid down my chin and fell between my breasts. Then she spun me onto all fours and drove that length straight up the channel between my thighs. Each thrust punched the air from my lungs; the base of the dildo slammed into my clit with every stroke, and my cunt fluttered and clenched as if it meant to keep her. Later I straddled her reverse, thighs burning while she sat back against the headboard and counted the ridges her toy carved into me. Missionary next—her weight settled, the toy seated so deep my belly bulged a little with every grind. When she pulled out my belly button rose, hollow. Last, she pressed the head to the tight ring she had never used. No warning, only pressure and heat and the slow stretch until my asshole yielded and took the full girth. She worked it through those few stubborn inches until it popped past the muscle and slid home, dragging a sob out of me. Words kept coming—filthy, calm. “Stupid little hole. Nothing but a sleeve.” Her hips snapped faster. I seized around her, frantic, coming hard enough to shake the bed frame while the toy stayed buried in my ruined ass. I know that stretch won’t leave me any time soon.