Then, Johan suddenly became quiet, shutting his mouth so that his hips could do the talking.
Stroke by stroke, he settled into a rhythm, driving in and out of me, opening me up in new directions as he varied his angle of penetration. I squealed and whimpered as he grunted, plundering me methodically, pausing periodically to maul my tits from behind as the walls of my pussy stretched to accommodate him. And with each passing stroke, the initial pain began to fade, and other forbidden sensations began spreading inside me.
The rhythmic sound of his hips slamming against my ass filled the room like a drumbeat. Unlike his initial strokes, which had been violent and painful, his pace was now more measured, long and smooth like sine waves transmitting stimulation into my body.
As he pounded into me without speaking, I could tell that he was concentrating deeply, focused on the task at hand. At first, I thought he was just trying not to cum, wanting to extend his own pleasure for as long as possible. But soon, I realized to my horror that he had a different goal in mind: making me cum.
I felt a creeping dread beginning to build inside me as Johan varied his stroke, testing differences in speed and angle and pressure, probing the depths of my body, searching for the stimulus that would trigger my base animal instincts.
The physics of what he was doing were totally foreign to me. For more than 14 years, I had only been with Steve, and I’d become very accustomed to his tool and the way he used it. But the difference in size between my husband and this 19-year-old college boy were such that being with one couldn’t possibly prepare me for the other.
The extra inches that Johan possessed allowed him to do much more than just go deeper. Johan’s cock was so long that despite its hardness, I could feel it curving inside of me, conforming to the contours of my tunnel even as he stretched its dimensions. His strokes were much longer and more even than my husband’s, and as he moved in and out of me, it felt like he was administering a deep-tissue massage to walls of my pussy.
“You’re still so tight,” he sighed appreciatively. “Two kids and you’re still so fucking tight…”
My body felt like a ball of dough that Johan was kneading from the inside out. He was using the gigantic rolling pin between his legs to smooth me out, to flatten my resistance. And like dough, it felt as if he was changing me on a molecular level, breaking me down into something pliable and submissive, reshaping the structure of my body to suit his needs.
None of this made sense. How could a 19-year-old boy be making me feel like this? He’d been so brutish and aggressive and violent in his coercions, yet now that he was finally fucking me, he seemed poised and disciplined, almost graceful.
When I’d let him enter me, I’d assumed that he would fuck me the way Steve had when he’d been a young man: passionate and energetic but wild and out-of-control. But as Johan plied me with his huge cock, his teenage enthusiasm was matched by a calm, calculating demeanor that reinforced the basic truth of my situation: Johan was totally in control. Of himself, and of me.