Hold the door shut
From Create Your Own Story
Your breath catches as you lean forward, pressing your trembling palm flat against the chipped wood of the cubicle door. The hinges groan under the pressure of someone pushing from the outside—some random guy who doesn't realize what's happening just inches away. Your fingers splay wide, bracing against the dented surface as the stranger behind you keeps thrusting, his hips slamming into your ass with relentless rhythm.
"Come on, open up!" the guy outside grunts, pushing the door.
The man buried inside you—his grip tight on your hips—barks back, "Piss off! The boy doesn't want company!" His voice is rough, possessive. You bite your lip, feeling the way his cock stretches you with every deep stroke, the heat of him pulsing against your walls. The would-be intruder lets out a disgruntled tut before his footsteps fade down the tiled floor.
But the moment of relief is short-lived. The man holding you doesn't slow—if anything, he gets rougher, driving into you with sharp, punishing snaps of his hips. The door shudders under your palm as your body rocks forward with each thrust. His breath is hot against your back , lips dragging over your skin as he moans, low and filthy.
You whimper, legs trembling, but he doesn't let up.
You exhale, but there’s no time to relax. The man holding you tightens his grip on your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he starts fucking you harder, deeper. The angle shifts—he stands abruptly, lifting you slightly as your toes barely skim the floor. Now he's driving into you from behind, your chest pressed fully against the door, your hand still braced to keep it closed. No more stretching to reach—just the relentless push and pull of his cock filling you, stretching you wider with every thrust.
His breath is hot against your neck, lips brushing your skin before he bites down, not hard enough to mark but enough to make you gasp. "That’s it," he murmurs, voice ragged, "take it." His hips snap forward, slamming you against the door, the impact shuddering through you. The sound of skin on skin echoes off the ceramic tiles, wet and filthy, and you’re sure anyone still lingering in the restroom can hear it too.
Your own moans are swallowed by clenched teeth, but he doesn’t let you hold back. One hand slips around your throat, tilting your head to the side so he can lick a stripe up to your ear. "Louder," he orders, and when you whimper, he rewards you with a particularly brutal thrust that makes your knees buckle.
The pace turns punishing—no more slow drags, just sharp, relentless pumps. You can feel him swelling inside you, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "Fuck—gonna cum," he grunts
Do you
