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The basement light is off, just the glow from Eric’s shitty old TV flickering blue across his face. He’s got you pinned against the wall between his bed and the cluttered desk, one knee shoved between your thighs like he owns the space there. He wastes no time planting his lips on yours, violating your mouth with his tongue. His rough hands are already everywhere—rough palms sliding up under your shirt, nails dragging down your ribs hard enough to leave pink trails that sting in the best way.
“You taste good,” he mutters against your mouth before he crashes into you again.
The kiss is sloppy from the start. His tongue pushes in deep, no teasing, just wet and demanding, licking into you like he’s trying to taste every inch. Spit gathers fast—his, yours, mixed—and it spills over your bottom lip the second he tilts his head. You feel the thick strand of it stretch and break, sliding down your chin. Eric doesn’t wipe it away. He chases it with his tongue, licking the drool right off your skin before sucking your lip back into his mouth and biting down hard enough that you whimper.
His left hand leaves your waist, slides up your throat, and two fingers press against your lips. “Open.”
You do. He shoves them in without hesitation, knuckle-deep, curling them against your tongue—then he spits in your mouth. He doesn’t let you adjust—just pumps them slow and deep, fucking your mouth while his other hand claws down your side, five sharp lines of fire over your hip.
“Swallow,” he growls, voice low.
You try, but he’s pressing too far back. Your throat convulses around his fingers and you gag, eyes watering. Thick spit floods your mouth instantly—his saliva mixing with yours—and he twists his wrist, smearing it everywhere. When he finally pulls out, a long, glistening rope of drool connects his fingers to your tongue. It stretches, breaks, and splatters onto your chest.
Eric watches it with dark, hungry eyes, then smears the mess across your lips like gloss before diving back in.
The next kiss is even wetter. He’s practically drooling into your mouth on purpose now, letting it pool on his tongue before feeding it to you in slow, filthy pushes. Every time you try to swallow he bites your lip or your jaw, forcing more spit to spill out the corners of your mouth. It drips down your neck in warm rivulets; he follows the trails with his teeth, scraping hard enough to leave little red crescents that throb.
His hands never stop moving. One grips your ass, nails digging in deep, the other fists in your hair and yanks your head back so he can lick a fat stripe up the side of your throat, collecting the drool that’s running there and spitting it right back into your open mouth.
You’re shaking, thighs slick, when he finally drops to his knees.
He doesn’t bother with your jeans—just yanks them down with your underwear in one rough motion, barely letting you step out before he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder. His face is a little flushed; when he looks up at you his lips are swollen and glistening.
IF YOU WOULD LIKE THE ALTERNATIVE ENDING FOR SOMEONE WHO HAS A DICK PLS SCROLL UNTIL YOU SEE THE BUNNY.
“Gonna drown in this pussy,” he says, voice hoarse.
Then his mouth is on you—open, messy, no teasing. He licks a broad, flat stripe up from your entrance, dragging so much spit it feels like he’s pouring it over you. His tongue flicks fast, then slow, then he sucks your clit into his mouth and moans like he’s the one getting head. Drool mixes with your own wetness in thick strands, running down your between your ass cheeks, soaking everything. Every time he pulls back for air a long string of it connects his tongue to your cunt before it snaps and splatters onto the floor.
He uses his fingers again—two sliding in easy because you’re soaked with his spit and your own slick. He curls them hard, pumping while his tongue works your clit in sloppy circles. More drool, more gagging sounds from you when he pushes a third finger in and fucks you with them deep and mean. He spits directly onto your clit, watches it run down over his fingers, then dives back in, sucking and licking and making the most obscene wet noises.
You’re close already, hips jerking against his face. He growls against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core, and bites the inside of your thigh hard enough to make you cry out. Then he’s back, tongue fucking into you alongside his fingers, spit everywhere—running down your legs, dripping off his chin, coating your pussy in a shiny, messy layer that just keeps getting wetter.
When you come it’s with his name broken on your lips and his fingers buried deep, his mouth latched onto your clit, drooling nonstop like he can’t get enough of the taste of you falling apart for him.
He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking and oversensitive, until you’re begging and your thighs are trembling around his ears. Only then does he pull back, lips swollen and shiny, chin absolutely drenched, and looks up at you with that lazy, dangerous little smirk.
“I'm not done yet,” he says, voice stern, and leans in to lick another slow, filthy stripe through the mess he made.
He drops to his knees, eyes locked on yours the whole way down, that sharp little smirk still tugging at his spit-slick lips.
“Gonna choke on this cock,” he rasps, voice hoarse and wrecked from all the growling and biting earlier.
Then his mouth is on you—open, filthy, no warm-up. He drags a broad, flat tongue from the base of your shaft all the way up to the tip, loading it with so much spit it feels like he’s pouring warm oil over you. Thick strands of drool coat every inch immediately, running down your length, pooling at your balls, then dripping further back between your ass cheeks in slow, glistening trails that soak the skin there.
His tongue flicks fast over the head, then slows to lazy, teasing circles before he sucks you deep—cheeks hollowing, throat working around you with a low, greedy moan that vibrates straight through your balls like he’s the one getting off. Drool pours out the corners of his mouth in messy rivulets, mixing with your pre and sliding down in heavy strings that stretch and snap when he pulls back for air. Every time he does, a long, viscous rope connects his swollen lips to your tip before it breaks and splatters wetly onto the carpet between his knees. He traces open-mouthed circles around your cockhead, then down to suck one ball into his mouth, then the other, coating them in more drool until everything is dripping.
You notice his pants are undone and his hand is moving in rhythm with the way he’s sucking you off—wet, obscene slurps filling the room every time he takes you to the back of his throat and gags himself on purpose just to make more drool flood out. He pulls off with a wet pop, strings of saliva hanging from his lips to your cock like filthy webs, then spits directly onto the head—watching it run down the shaft, over his fingers. He tongues the slit, fucks his mouth down again, and lets even more drool spill, running in warm streams down your thighs, dripping off his jaw, turning everything below your waist into a shiny, slippery mess that just keeps getting wetter.
You’re close already, hips bucking into his face, thighs tensing. He growls around your cock—the sound rumbling straight to your balls—and bites the sensitive skin of your inner thigh hard enough to make you yelp, teeth leaving sharp red marks. Then he’s right back, tongue pushing alongside his fingers, fucking into you from both ends while spit coats everything—running down your legs in streaks, pooling under you, his chin absolutely soaked and glistening in the TV glow.
When you come it hits hard—his name torn out of you in broken gasps, cock pulsing deep in his throat, fingers clenched in his hair while he swallows around you, drooling nonstop like he’s starving for every drop mixed with his own spit. He milks you through it, tongue working the underside, until you’re shaking and oversensitive, hips jerking away and toward him at the same time. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering, thighs trembling around his head, begging through gritted teeth. Only then does he pull off slow, lips puffy and red, chin drenched and shining with a mix of spit as he swallows your load.
He looks up, eyes dark and lazy-that dangerous smirk creeping back.
“I’m not done yet,” he says, voice low and stern, then leans in to drag another slow, filthy stripe of his tongue from your hole all the way up your still-twitching cock, collecting the mess he made like he’s savoring it.