I’ll never forget the first time I actually saw how big he was. I was nineteen, lying back on his bed in just a tank top and my favorite mini skirt—no panties—when he kicked off his jeans and let that long, thick cock swing free.

It was easily eight inches, the shaft thick as my wrist, veins pulsing, head swollen and glistening with pre‑cum. My mouth went dry, heart banging. I was already soaked from imagining it, but the sight of that gleaming length made wetness pool between my thighs until I could feel the warm slick seeping through the fabric of my skirt.

He knelt at my feet and ran a fingertip from the base of his cock to the tip, coating it in his own arousal. Then he pressed the head against my pussy—just the crown—letting me feel the cold hardness before he began to slide.

The first millimeter stretched me wide; I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. He stopped, looked down at me, and whispered, “Let me know if it hurts too much.” I shook my head because the burn was already turning into pleasure.

He inched forward another fraction of an inch. My body trembled as every nerve soaked in that thick girth. Inch by inch he filled me, his hips barely moving, giving me time to stretch, to adjust to the unbelievable fullness. Steam rose off my skin; my breath caught in ragged moans.

When he was buried to the hilt, so deep I could feel the base pressing against my lower belly, he didn’t pull back. He just stayed still, letting me clench around him, reveling in how tight my pussy was for his massive cock. The tension was exquisite.

Finally, he pulled back halfway, then slammed in full length with a single, brutal thrust. My back arched off the mattress—every inch of that thick shaft dragging through me like molten heat. He grabbed my hips, driving deeper and deeper, slow fucks that rattled my core.