Tristan Taormino's Rough Sex - Part 2

They went at each other like two animals with a score to settle. Sand outside, nothing but heat in, and the backseat of her dad’s station wagon wasn’t built for what they were doing. She’d shoved him down first, swung a leg over, and dropped onto him so hard the shocks squeaked. Didn’t even take their pants all the way off—just enough room for his cock to spring up and her soaked cunt to take it straight to the balls. She rode him like she owed someone money, slamming her hips down every stroke, tits bouncing wild under a half-open shirt while sweat slid between them. Every thrust punched a groan out of him and made the car rock; doors rattled, windows fogged, and sand sprayed the chassis in sharp little ticks. He met her halfway, grabbing her ass with both hands, fingers digging deep until he could lift her just enough and fuck upward like he wanted to split her in half. She swore, bit his lower lip, then shoved two fingers between her own legs, rubbing fast, chasing that high right on top of his thrusting dick. Every filthy slap of skin mixed with the creak of cheap upholstery—juice slicking down his shaft, dripping off his balls, and still they didn’t slow. Sun cooked the roof. They kept going, harder, rougher, like the next orgasm might just stop their hearts. And when she came she squeezed down so tight it hurt in the best way and dragged him over the edge with her, thick spurts flooding inside while the desert wind whined past the windows like it was cheering them on.