The Suitcase

Ryan Comes - At Last

Ryan Comes - At Last

The story ends. Somehow I have managed to continually please, my tongue following the occasional directive, as Becky’s words flow along with her spendings.

She gasps, thighs paroxysmally squeezing. Simultaneously with an abundant squirt of feminine essence, the teasing finger retreats, her hand releases and as I feel my bent erection pop up to thump my belly, I feel fingers between my thighs, below my scrotum, gliding along my perineum, pressing to find my anus.

A digit enters me, impaling then crooking upwards to locate my prostate then rub vigorously for just a second. My p***s, untouched and firm as stone, explodes. I cannot see but feel the eruption of sticky glop splash to my chest then dribble to my stomach.

A ruined orgasm. There is joy... there is relief... but so incomplete... so distant.

Becky fully pleasured, her composure returns.

“Good boy. The height of your performance for me. And such an impressive load, Ryan. You’ve not m*********d in a while,” the taunting words coming as her thighs withdraw and she stands.

I hear the froufrou of her skirt as she lowers the hem. Then my blindfold is whisked away.

I want to rebuke, lecture, scold... the ruination unfair... my partial joy so quick and faint compared to hers. Yet, having erupted, my bladder shouts its need. Wrists remaining tethered, I manage to sit up and draw my feet beneath me to stand. As I dash to the bedroom, bathroom adjacent, I hear Becky following, well aware of my dire need.

“You’re going to need help.”

I enter the bathroom, stepping to the toilet, expecting the help being to untie the silk ties. Instead, Becky slips behind me, reaches about and deftly palms then grips my semi erect p***s.

“You’d not want to make a mess. And I have fun assisting Jackie... urinating when he’s nice and hard for me.”

And so the ignominy of the evening does not end, Becky again directing as I close my eyes in shame and press to empty myself.

I really do have to go. And this seems to be one final aspect of my performance.

“Psst, psst,” she encourages.

It works. Somehow I pass the flow through an organ throbbing in need.