A Tuesday for Layla

"That," she says, breathless, "is the most disgusting, incredible thing I've ever felt."

She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to. Her cunt is still clenching around me, squeezing out the last drops from that foreskin trick, and I can feel the combined load of twenty guys sloshing around my shaft, warm and thick like gravy. My cock doesn't care that we're done. It keeps throbbing, keeps pulsing out little jets of cum into the mess, like it's got its own agenda. It always does. My dick has never once in its life gotten the memo that the party's over.

Layla lifts herself up slightly, and a waterfall of cum pours out around my shaft. It runs down my balls, pools on the velvet couch, drips onto the floor. She looks down at the mess and her eyes go wide—not disgusted, hungry. She's got that look. The one she's had since last summer, the one that says she wants more, needs more, would crawl through a mile of broken glass just to get one more load on her tits.

"More," she says.

"Layla—"

"More. I need more. I'm not done." She's grinding on me now, her hips rolling, and my cock responds like it always does—another thick pulse of cum jets out into the soup inside her. "Please, Peter. Please. I need you to use me. I need it rough. I need to feel that huge fucking dick destroy me."

Kylie is beside us on the couch, her pregnant belly round and firm, her veiny tits leaking milk in thin white streams that run down into the cum already coating her chest. She's watching Layla with this dark, amused expression, one hand resting on her belly, the other lazily tugging at her own nipple, squeezing out a little squirt of milk that mixes with the dried cum on her skin. "She's insatiable," Kylie says, almost admiring. "Look at her. Twenty guys and she's still begging."

"More than twenty," Layla corrects, her voice strained. She's clenching around me rhythmically, milking my cock with her cunt. "Twenty plus Peter. And Peter counts as five."

I laugh. I can't help it. But she's dead serious—her eyes are glassy and desperate, her lower lip bitten raw, and her tits are absolutely plastered with cum, thick white layers that have mostly dried to a translucent film with fresh wet streaks on top from the last few guys. Her puffy pink nipples are barely visible under the glaze. She reaches up and squeezes one breast, and cum oozes between her fingers like toothpaste from a tube.

"Flip me over," she says. "Please. Flip me over and fuck me from behind. Pin me down. I want to feel you all the way in my stomach."

I pull out. The sound is obscene—a wet, slurping pop, followed by a gush of cum that pours out of her like someone knocked over a pitcher. It runs down her inner thighs in thick white rivers, dripping onto the couch. My cock is completely soaked, slick from base to tip, my foreskin glistening with the combined load. It's still throbbing, still leaking, a thick drop of cum forming at the tip and rolling down the shaft. It never stops. It's a faucet that someone forgot to shut off.

I grab Layla's hips and flip her onto her stomach. She's light—short and slightly chubby, all that softness concentrated in her tits and ass—and she lands face-down on the couch with a wet smack, her cum-covered breasts pressing into the soaked velvet. I grab her wrists and pin them above her head, one hand holding both, and she shivers. Her back is slick with sweat and cum, and I can see her spine, the curve of her waist, the round swell of her ass with cum still dripping between her thighs from her wrecked pussy.

"Hard," she says into the cushion. "Fuck me hard. I want to feel it tomorrow. I want to feel it next week."

I line up my cock with her entrance and push in. She's so wet that there's almost no resistance—just a hot, slippery channel filled with cum that squelches and bubbles as I slide through it. My foreskin rolls back as I push in, the head fully exposed, and I feel every ridge and fold of her cunt as it wraps around me. The cum inside her is warm and thick, coating my shaft, soaking into my foreskin, and my cock throbs against it all, pulsing out more sperm into the flood.

I start fucking her. Not gentle. Not careful. I slam into her with a wet, brutal rhythm that makes her whole body jerk forward on the couch, her tits dragging through the cum-soaked velvet, her ass rippling with each impact. The sound is unreal—wet, slapping, squelching, like someone stirring cake batter with a wooden spoon. Each thrust pushes cum out around my shaft, and each pull back sucks it in, the suction creating a frothy white ring at the base of my cock.

"Oh fuck," Layla whimpers into the cushion. "Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. Your dick is so fucking big. I can feel it in my throat. I can feel it in my fucking teeth." She turns her head to the side, her cheek pressed flat, and I can see her face—flushed, cum-streaked, mouth open, eyes half-closed. "I promise you," she says between clenched teeth, "I will suck your cock every single day for the rest of my life. I will let you fuck me anywhere—anytime—I will walk around with your cum inside me constantly. I will be your cum dumpster. I will be your fucking sperm bank. Just don't stop. Don't ever fucking stop."

Kylie shifts on the couch, her pregnant belly pressing against the armrest, and she watches with that dark amusement, her milk-leaking tits hanging heavy as she leans forward. "She means it," Kylie says. "Look at her face. She's gone. You've fucked her brain out through her pussy."

My cock throbs and pumps another load into the mess. I can feel it happening—the shaft stiffens, the veins jump under the skin, my foreskin tightens, and then the pulse, the release, the warm flood mixing with everything already in there. It happens every thirty seconds, sometimes faster. My dick doesn't take breaks. It just keeps manufacturing cum and pumping it into her like a machine that someone forgot to power down.

Layla's cunt is so full that each thrust forces a spray of cum out around my shaft. It splatters against my thighs, against her ass, against the couch. The wet spot beneath us is the size of a beach towel now, and it's growing. Her pussy makes sounds that shouldn't be possible from a human body—thick, wet, sloppy sounds, like boots in mud.

"More," she says again, and this time it's barely a whisper. "Please. Bring them back. All of them. I want to suck them while you fuck me. I want to feel them come in my mouth while you come in my pussy. I want to be full everywhere. I want to be so full of cum that I can't breathe."

I reach down with my free hand and grab her hair, pulling her head back, and she gasps. Her back arches, her ass lifts, and my cock shifts inside her, the head pressing against something deep that makes her whole body clench. The cum inside her churns and bubbles around my shaft, and I can feel my foreskin rolling back and forth in the slick mess, the sensation so intense that my vision blurs for a second.

"You want more?" I say, still pounding her, the rhythm never faltering. "You want twenty more cocks in your mouth while I fill you from behind?"

"Yes," she hisses. "Yes. Twenty more. Forty more. I don't care. I want every uncut dick in this city in my mouth. I want to taste every foreskin. I want to feel every single one of them throb on my tongue and come down my throat and drip down my fucking tits."

Kylie laughs—low and dark—and reaches over to run her fingers through the cum on Layla's back, tracing lazy circles. "She's going to need a hose to clean off after this," Kylie says. "And maybe a therapist."

I feel my cock swell, the veins bulging, and I slam into her one final time, deep as I can go, and hold there. My dick pulses—once, twice, three times, four—and each pulse is a thick jet of cum that floods into the already overflowing channel. Layla's cunt clenches around me, squeezing, milking, and she comes with a muffled scream into the couch cushion, her whole body shaking, her thighs quivering, her ass pressing back against me.

When I finally pull out, the damage is spectacular. Cum pours out of her pussy in a continuous stream, thick and white, pooling on the couch and dripping onto the floor. Her cunt is gaping, red, swollen, and absolutely destroyed. She doesn't move. She just lies there, face-down, breathing hard, her body covered in sweat and cum and whatever else was on that velvet couch.

"I meant it," she says into the cushion, her voice muffled. "Every word. Every dirty promise. I will suck your cock every day until my jaw falls off."

Kylie pats her ass gently. "Sweetie," she says, "at this rate, that's a Tuesday."