Short Booty Bottom Destroyed by Two Big Black Cocks

The night felt ordinary until it didn’t. I was lounging on the sofa, flat-lit and a little drunk on late takeout, when the door opened and two of them stepped in — big, dark, confident. I knew, before a word was said, that homework, plans and all manner of weekday normality were about to get left on the pavement outside. I was the short, round-booty bottom they’d been joking about earlier on the phone; tonight, that joke became the point of the evening.

Three Shadows in Warm Light

They moved through my flat like they owned the place, boots quiet on the rug, jackets tossed. Both taller than me, broad-shouldered and heavy with intent. The first—Marcus—had a stare that settled over me and stayed, like a hand on my chest. The other—Deon—smiled slow and easy, the kind of grin that made my stomach flip. Both black, both thick in places that mattered: shoulders, thighs, and most dangerously, the way their trousers bulged with purpose.

I shuffled to the edge of the sofa. My T-shirt rode up a little as I moved—enough for them to see the soft curve of my belly, the squat roundness of my arse. They laughed, low and approving. “You sure you’re good to join?” Marcus asked, voice rough with the rasp of a man who didn’t ask for permission he didn’t expect to be granted. I swallowed and nodded. My pulse was loud enough to be a drum; I could feel the warmth of them already, close as second skin.

Mouths and Hands, Setting the Rhythm

They didn’t rush. Deon came in close, cupping my face with big, warm hands, thumbs stroking my cheeks. Marcus drifted behind me, the heat of him at the small of my back. Their breath was the same as the scent of the room now—spiced sweat and something musky I couldn’t name, an honest, animal hunger that made my head light.

Deon kissed me first, long and wet, his tongue testing mine as if marking territory. Marcus’s large palm found my arse and squeezed, thumbs kneading the soft flesh until I gasped. “Such a fat little booty,” he murmured in my ear, and it was the nicest compliment I’d had all year. I felt the zipper of his trousers under my hand—thick, insistent—while Deon’s mouth moved down my neck, teeth grazing, tongue hot and teasing.

When they lowered me to my knees it felt like being welcomed home. Marcus backed up a beat and then dragged his boxer-clad cock from his jeans, heavy and evident. Deon mirrored him, both of them already slick with the touch of damp palms. They positioned themselves either side of my face. I opened my mouth willingly, the two of them laughing into the room, deep and satisfied with the sight of me ready for them.

I took Deon first—long, thick, the head bumping the back of my throat before I swallowed and sank down. He groaned, fingers tangling in my hair, guiding me with a steady rhythm. Marcus leaned forward and kissed the top of my head before I took him too, both of their cocks hot and full in my mouth, my cheeks stretched and my throat working. The sounds we made were sharp and hungry, a beautiful chaos of sucking, breathing and the occasional obscene laugh.

The Desk, The Sofa, The Decision to Lose Control

They pulled me back to my feet and turned me round. Deon eased me over the coffee table; I braced my hands on its worn wood. Marcus’s hands roamed my back, memorising the roll of my flesh, then sliding down to spread my cheeks. He smelled like cedar and smoke; Deon smelled sweeter, like citrus and sweat. Between them I felt exposed, seen, owned — and I wanted it more with every second.

Marcus teased the rim of my hole with two blunt fingers, lubed and patient, watching my face for permission. When I nodded, he pushed in slow, his fingers working to open me, testing, stretching. Deon slid a hand around to my cock and began to stroke, keeping time with Marcus’s rhythm. Their coordination was effortless, a machine tuned to find my edge.

When Marcus withdrew his fingers and positioned his big thick cock at my entrance, the first press was a sharp, sharp heat. He pushed in a little at a time, then stopped to let me adjust. I felt every inch — the fullness, the deep press of him inside my tight tunnel — then Deon set his own at my back and shoved without ceremony, both of them claiming me in the same motion. The double weight was dizzying, the feeling of being split and held utterly down to the bone.

Their thrusts began slow, methodical, learning the lay of me. Then the tempo climbed; Marcus hammered in hard and deep, hips slamming against my backside with a steady violence that sent white heat through me. Deon matched him, hips meeting mine from behind, one hand on my shoulder to steady me while the other thumbed my prostate, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through my spine.

Cum, Moans, and the Afterglow

We were a tangle of dark skin and wet sounds. The room blurred into two breaths and the slap of flesh. I cried out, loud and ashamedless, as both cocks drove into me at once; the pressure built, a furnace in the pit of my belly. Marcus’s voice was low and rough: “You like that? You like being split open, boy?” I could only answer with a broken “Yes,” the word swallowed by the rhythm of being fucked by two men who wanted me whole and weren’t willing to take anything less.

Deon tightened his hand around my cock, stroking fast and sure. Marcus pounded harder, pushing me right to the edge. I felt it first in my gut — that deep, molten readiness — then like a rope being tugged, I let go. I came with a scream, hot and wet, my cum slick and warm, mixing with the sounds of the room. Both men followed, Deon groaning as his release spattered over my back, Marcus hissing my name as he emptied inside me too, thick ropes that made me shudder beneath their weight.

They stayed inside me a long moment, slow breaths heaving, the aftershocks rolling through us all. When they finally pulled free, their cum dripped down my thighs and onto the coffee table, a messy, perfect testament to what we’d done. We laughed, a tired, filthy sound, and then slid into the sofa like people who’d shared something private and big.

We lay there in a sweaty knot of limbs. I felt claimed, satisfied and, strangely, safe. They exchanged a look — businesslike, almost tender — before Marcus kissed the back of my neck and Deon curled an arm around my waist. The city hummed outside. Inside, there was only the smell of sex, the press of bodies, and the knowledge that I’d been wanted by two big men who took what they wanted and left me wanting more.

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