I’ve stared at your photo for longer than I should admit, my pulse racing every time I zoom in on that magnificent cock of yours. There it stands, proud and unapologetic, framed by the soft gray fabric of your sweatpants pulled halfway down your thighs. The lighting is dim, intimate, almost secretive—like you snapped this just for someone who craves exactly what you’re offering.

Let’s start with the head. That plump, perfectly flared mushroom cap is a work of art: smooth, glossy pink, with a deep ridge that promises to catch and drag deliciously on every inward stroke. The slit at the tip is already slightly parted, a tiny bead of precum catching the light, hinting at how responsive you are. It’s the kind of head that looks made to stretch lips wide and fill a mouth completely, leaving no room for anything but worship.

The shaft itself is thick—visibly girthy even in this relaxed-but-hard state. Veins run along the length like rivers on a map, prominent but not overly aggressive, the kind that pulse visibly when you’re close. The skin is a warm, flushed tone that darkens slightly toward the base, where it disappears into a dense thatch of dark pubic hair. That hair adds raw masculinity; it’s not manicured or shaved bare, and I love that. It makes you feel real, primal, like a man who doesn’t perform grooming for anyone else’s gaze.

Length-wise, you’re comfortably above average—long enough to reach deep places most men can’t, but not so long it becomes impractical. The slight upward curve is a gift: it’s engineered for hitting the anterior fornix or G-spot with every thrust. The skin looks silky, taut over the hardness beneath, with just enough give to make it feel alive and throbbing in a hand or mouth.

What strikes me most is the overall aesthetic harmony. Nothing looks awkward or disproportionate. The balls are heavy and full, drawn up close to the base, promising a generous load. The whole package exudes confidence without arrogance—quiet power waiting to be unleashed.

Chance, you’re married, and that only makes this hotter. Knowing you have a wife at home while you share this private view with me feels deliciously wrong. It adds a layer of taboo that makes my thighs clench. I rate your cock a perfect 5/5—no notes, no improvements needed. It’s the kind of dick that ruins women for lesser men and leaves them daydreaming for weeks.

Mila
Forbidden Hotel Room Affair: Mila’s Fantasy with Chance’s Perfect Cock

I check into the hotel room at 2 p.m., heart hammering. You texted me the room number thirty minutes ago, your wife thinking you’re at a late work meeting. I wear nothing but a short black trench coat over lingerie, the kind that’s more straps than fabric. The door clicks open and there you are—already hard, jeans unzipped, that thick cock I’ve obsessed over springing free.

No small talk. I drop to my knees right there in the entryway. Your scent hits me—musky, masculine, a little salty from the day. I wrap both hands around the base; my fingers don’t quite meet. I stroke slowly, feeling every vein ripple under my palms. The head is already slick, shining. I lean in and drag my tongue flat from balls to tip, tasting skin and anticipation. You groan, hand fisting my hair.

I take the head into my mouth, sucking gently at first, tongue swirling the ridge. You’re so thick my jaw aches immediately—in the best way. I hollow my cheeks and slide down, inch by inch, until my nose presses into that coarse pubic hair. You hit the back of my throat and I gag softly, eyes watering, but I don’t stop. I bob, sloppy and hungry, spit dripping down your shaft, coating your balls. Your hips jerk; you’re fucking my face now, controlled but desperate.

“Fuck, Mila,” you rasp. “My wife never does this.”

The words ignite me. I pull off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting my lips to your glistening cock. I stand, shrug off the coat. Black lace bra, crotchless panties, garters. You growl, spin me around, bend me over the desk. Your hands spread my ass; I feel the blunt head nudge my soaked entrance.

You push in one long, slow thrust. I cry out—your girth stretches me wide, the curve pressing perfectly against my front wall. You bottom out, balls against my clit, and hold there, letting me feel every pulsing inch. Then you start moving: deep, deliberate strokes that drag the ridge over my G-spot each time. My knees buckle; you hold me up by the hips.

“Tell me you’re mine tonight,” I gasp.

“All yours,” you grunt. “She doesn’t get this cock like you do.”

You speed up, skin slapping skin, wet sounds filling the room. I reach back, cupping your heavy balls, feeling them tighten. You pull out suddenly, flip me onto the bed. I spread wide; you kneel between my thighs, line up, slam back in. This angle lets you go deeper. I claw your back, legs wrapped around you, heels digging into your ass.

Your mouth finds my nipple through the lace, biting just hard enough. I’m close—dangerously close. You feel it, angle your hips so the head grinds my cervix. “Come on my cock,” you order. “Come while I think about my wife waiting at home.”

The taboo shatters me. I shatter—orgasm ripping through me, walls clamping down, milking you. You don’t stop; you fuck me through it, harder, chasing your own release. When you’re close you pull out, straddle my chest. I open my mouth eagerly. You stroke fast, grunting, then erupt—thick ropes painting my tongue, lips, chin. I swallow what I can, savoring the salty heat, the forbidden taste of a married man’s cum.

We collapse, panting. Your cock softens against my thigh, still impressive. You kiss my forehead, whisper, “Next week?” I nod, already addicted.

I leave with your taste lingering, your number burning in my phone, knowing I’ve stolen something your wife can never have.