Go deep into the woods with the man
From Create Your Own Story
The late afternoon sunlight filters through the trees as you step off the worn dirt path, following the imposing stranger deeper into the wooded area. His broad shoulders block most of the light ahead, his sweatpants clinging to powerful thighs with each stride. You duck behind a thick oak tree where the underbrush grows dense enough to conceal you both, the earthy scent of moss and decaying leaves mingling with his masculine aroma.
Before you can catch your breath, his large hands grip your shoulders, pushing you down onto the leaf-strewn ground. Your knees sink slightly into the damp earth as his gray sweatpants come into view at eye level, the fabric tenting obscenely. With one swift motion, he yanks the waistband down, releasing his thick cock already swelling to full hardness - the heavy shaft curving upward, veins pronounced along its length, the plum-colored head glistening with precum.
Your right hand moves instinctively to cradle his weighted balls while your left traces up the pulsing vein along his underside. The first taste floods your senses as you take him deep - salt and musk and something uniquely male. His groan vibrates through your skull when your tongue swirls around the ridge, saliva dripping down your chin as you work to accommodate his girth.
"Fuck yeah, just like that," he growls, fingers tangling in your hair. His hips flex forward, stretching your lips wider as more of him pushes past your gag reflex. Tears blur your vision but you breathe through your nose, inhaling the potent scent of his sweat and arousal from the coarse curls at his base.
You lose track of time between the rhythm of his hips and the way your jaw aches. His muttered praises blur together - "Good boy... take it... fucking perfect..."
The rhythm builds - his thrusts matching your suction, your fingers twisting around what your mouth can't contain. His thighs tense, balls drawing tight against your palm. "Gonna paint your throat, bitch," he snarls, holding your head immobile as hot spurts hit the back of your tongue. You swallow convulsively, the thick, bitter cream coating your throat with each pulse.
When he finally releases you, you gasp for air while sticky strands still connect your lips to his softening length. He tucks himself away with one smooth motion, then offers a hand to haul you upright. His thumb swipes across your chin, collecting the mess before pressing it back between your lips. "Don't waste it," he murmurs, already reaching his hand out for you to give him your phone. “Let me give you my number”
The screen fogs under his breath as he inputs his number. “The names Daryl " he says, already jogging backward into the trees. "Call me later tonight." Then he's gone, leaving you trembling with adrenaline and the phantom weight of him on your tongue.
Do you :
Go home and relax and call Darryl later
