Sex stories

I’m 35, an average dude—low-key, decently built, nothing special. For months, I’ve been lurking on hardcore hookup sites, chasing something that hits hard, something to push me to my limits. Then I stumble across him: “Master K,” a username dripping with testosterone. His profile’s short and brutal: “Alpha male, 45, 6’3”, 220 lbs, no chit-chat, no limits. If you can’t handle the heat, fuck off.” He drops a pic—broad, hairy chest, thick muscles, a rugged, unshaven jaw, and a bulge in his pants that screams trouble. I hit him up instantly, guts churning with fear and excitement. His reply: “Tonight, 10 p.m., my place. Show up in a jockstrap, ring the bell, and keep your mouth shut.”

I roll up on time to a sketchy house on the edge of town, a bleak spot surrounded by abandoned warehouses. I’m shaking as I hit the buzzer, wearing nothing but a black jock under my sweats, just like he ordered. The door swings open, and there he is—fucking massive, in a black tank top and gym shorts, a cigarette dangling from his lips, reeking of sweat and leather. He eyes me like prey, no words, no grin. Slams the door shut and shoves me against the wall. “Strip, now.” I ditch the sweats, and he sneers, “Look at you, you pathetic fuck.” His voice is ice-cold, sharp as a blade, not a shred of warmth.

He grabs my hair, drags me to a beat-up couch in the middle of the room. Drops his shorts, and there it is—his cock, a beast, at least 9 inches, thick, veiny, with heavy balls swinging like a dare. He smacks me across the face, a sharp sting: “Suck it, and don’t half-ass it.” I open up, struggling to take him, but he doesn’t care. He grips my head and thrusts deep, his dick slamming the back of my throat. I choke, gagging hard, but he’s relentless—no gentleness, no breaks. He fucks my mouth like it’s a hole, grunting insults: “You’re nothing, just a cumslut.” I’m drooling, eyes watering, but he keeps my skull locked in his hands like a vise.

After fifteen minutes of throat-pounding, he kicks me off, sending me sprawling onto all fours. “Stay there, you dirty bitch.” He spits on my ass—a fat gob that drips down my crack—then lubes up quick, keeping it safe. He asks, “You want it?” I nod, breathless, and he slides in slow at first. I groan as the stretch burns, but when I mutter, “Fuck me hard,” he unleashes—ramming deep, each thrust shoving me across the grimy floor. His weight, his power, it’s overwhelming. I’m just a toy, a hole for him to wreck.

He digs his fingers into my hips, bruising me as he picks up speed. His cock fills me, stretches me, splits me open. No rhythm, no mercy—just a machine pounding me raw. I moan, half-begging, but he slaps my ass: “Shut it, you don’t talk.” I feel small, humiliated, reduced to nothing but his pleasure. And yet, some twisted part of me loves it—this rush of being his plaything, owned by those ruthless hands. He drills me for twenty minutes straight, no slowing down, his ragged breaths hot on my back, insults raining down: “You’re a dog, a cock-hungry whore.”

Suddenly, he pulls out, flips me over like a ragdoll, and barks, “Open.” I’m wrecked, but I obey. He explodes—thick, hot jets blasting across my face, into my mouth, down my chest. I swallow what I can, the bitter taste searing my tongue. He wipes his dick on my cheek, laughing low: “That’s all you’re good for—draining my balls.” He yanks his shorts back on, gives me one last look like I’m trash on the curb, and tosses me out, half-naked, his cum still smeared on me. “Crawl back when I call, you worthless fuck.” The door slams, and I’m left there—dazed, humiliated, but already craving more.