Black mirror

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My laptop lay open on my lap, the video paused on a frame that seemed to capture every ounce of raw desire between the two actors. The woman's eyes were closed, her expression one of both pain and pleasure, while the man loomed over her, his face contorted with a mix of dominance and something deeper—something almost primal.

My fingers trembled slightly as I pressed play again, the sound muted but the visuals more than enough to stir my senses. The scene resumed in a blur of motion; he was rough, forceful, his hands gripping her wrists tightly as he pinned her down. Her submissiveness was evident, not just in her body language but in the way her legs parted instinctively for him, welcoming his intrusion.

I shifted in my seat, feeling the heat rise within me as I watched them move together in a dance as old as time, yet uniquely theirs. His thrusts were hard and fast, each movement deliberate, calculated to elicit a response from her. She writhed beneath him, her moans silent but visible in the curve of her lips.

She was then bent over a table, her long, brunette hair cascading down, framing her perfect, round ass. The man's hands grasped her hips firmly, leaving faint red marks on her tender skin. Each thrust was punctuated by the smacking sound of their bodies colliding, creating a primal rhythm that heightened the sensual atmosphere.

I  reached down and grabbed my cock, hard and throbbing, straining against my shorts. I pulled it free, letting the cool air caress its length. I started stroking myself in sync with the pounding on the screen, imagining it was my dick pounding into that tight, welcoming pussy. The woman's moans grew louder, escalating into high-pitched screams as the fictional guy pounded her from behind, hitting all the right spots.

As the guy in the video drew closer to his climax, his strokes became wilder, more frantic. The woman's body shook with each impact, her tanned skin glistening with a combination of sweat and desire. Her pussy clenched around the man's shaft, milking him, urging him to release his seed.

I mirrored these actions, my hand moving faster and faster up and down my own rigid shaft and slightly cupping my tip. I was lost in my own fantasy, imagining myself taking control of that beautiful woman's body and claiming her as my own.

The guy in the scene grunted loudly as he pulled out, his cock glistening with the combined juices of his own arousal and the woman's sex. With a few swift strokes, he began to shoot thick ropes of cum, aim wildly determined by spasms of his pumping balls. Spurts landed across the woman's back, some dripping down to soil her round, tight ass cheeks, some dripping down her wet pussy.

Watching this, my breath caught in my throat as my own orgasm built to a fever pitch. As soon as I noticed her quivering from her own orgasm, I exploded.

I closed the laptop with a sigh, feeling a wave of contentment wash over me. There was a warmth, a lingering satisfaction from what I'd just indulged in. I leaned back, eyes half-closed, savoring the last vestiges of pleasure. For a moment, it felt like everything was okay.

But then, a small voice in the back of my mind began to stir. It whispered that maybe, just maybe, I needed more. The thought was faint, almost insignificant, but it gnawed at me. I brushed it aside, telling myself it was just a fleeting notion. I was satisfied. For now, that was enough.

The next day, I arrived at my girlfriend's house with a bouquet of flowers in hand, despite my allergies. The flowers were a bit of a sacrifice, but I hoped the gesture would be worth it. As soon as she opened the door, her eyes lit up. Her smile made the itching in my nose and the sneezes worth it, especially with what I hope to happen.

We spent the evening together, the atmosphere intimate and relaxed. As the night deepened, we moved to the bedroom. The connection between us was real, but my mind kept drifting back to the darker, more intense cravings I couldn't shake.