37 Was That Really Him?

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Then Bridget's hands were pulling him up, and the next thing Melvin knew was that he was pumping into Bridget doggie-style as she bent over the arm of the couch. He looked down at his veiny cock as it thrust in and out of her, his thighs clapping against Bridget Briswell's taut ass. Was that really him? Was this his cock coated with this woman's juices as he fucked her over the couch in his apartment? It seemed like a dream, but he knew it wasn't.

"Goddammit, Melvin, fuck meeeeeee!" Bridget squealed, her blonde hair flinging; her arms behind her; her hands tugging on Melvin's wrists as he gripped her ass, feeling her muscles clench beneath his fingers. Then the pizza girl maneuvered her pussy into Bridget's face, and Bridget licked and sucked her as the pizza girl played with her clit while Melvin pounded Bridget from behind.

Melvin's cheeks burned; his face felt hot. He wouldn't be able to take much more of this. How could he? How could any man? But he was determined to not blow his load until Bridget got what was coming to her.

As if on cue, Bridget cried, "That's it! That's it!"

They all came together, all three of them, the kind of perfect climax that can only be found in one's wildest fantasies. The pizza girl moaned; Bridget groaned; and Melvin gasped as his cock spilled over to the boiling point, streams of cum flinging into Bridget's tight slit, oozing out of her and down her leg.

Melvin's knees gave out, and he hit the floor hard.@@