You shove the door shut behind you and Choso is already on you, his tall frame crowding you against the wall. No slow build, no sweet words. He grabs your jaw, tilts your head back, and crashes his mouth to yours, tongue pushing straight in like he owns the space. His hands are rough, yanking your shirt up and off in one motion, then palming your tits hard enough to make you gasp.
“Been thinking about this cunt all day,” he mutters against your neck, voice low and flat the way it always is, but his cock is already rock-hard against your hip. He grinds it there once, twice, letting you feel every thick inch through his pants. Your hands go straight to his belt, ripping it open, shoving denim down until his cock springs free. It’s heavy, veined, the head already leaking. You wrap your fingers around it and stroke once, tight and fast.
Choso hisses, then spins you around so your chest hits the wall. He yanks your pants and underwear down in one rough tug, kicks your feet apart, and drags two fingers through your slit. You’re soaked already. He doesn’t tease. Two fingers shove inside you, knuckles deep, curling hard against that spot that makes your knees buckle.
“Wet as fuck,” he says, like he’s just stating facts. He pumps his fingers a few times, scissoring you open, then pulls them out and replaces them with his cock. One hard thrust and he’s buried to the hilt, stretching you wide. You moan loud, forehead pressed to the wall. He doesn’t wait. He fucks you like he’s been starving for it—deep, punishing strokes that slap his hips against your ass every time.
His hand slides up your stomach, then higher. You feel the shift in the air right before his blood technique kicks in. A thin line of his blood wraps around your throat, not tight enough to choke, just enough to hold.
Another strand coils around your wrists, yanking them behind your back so you’re pinned and helpless while he rails you. The blood is warm, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
“Take it,” he growls, hips snapping faster. Every thrust knocks the breath out of you. His free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, pulling you back onto his cock. You’re dripping down your thighs, the wet sound of him pounding into you filling the room. He angles his hips and starts hitting that spot inside you on every stroke. Your legs shake.
Choso leans over your back, mouth at your ear. “Gonna fill this pussy up. You want that?” You nod frantically, but it’s not enough. He slaps your ass, hard. “Say it.”
“Yes—fuck, yes, come in me.”
He grunts and the blood around your throat tightens just a little more. His pace turns brutal. The wall creaks under the force of his thrusts. You come first, clenching around him so hard your vision whites out. He fucks you straight through it, not slowing, dragging it out until you’re whimpering.
Only then does he let go. He slams in deep and stays there, cock pulsing as he empties inside you in thick, hot spurts. You feel every twitch. The blood restraints loosen and drop away, but he doesn’t pull out. He stays buried, grinding slow circles while he catches his breath.
After a minute he pulls out, spins you around again, and drops to his knees. He spreads your legs and drags his tongue through the mess he left, licking his own come out of you like he’s thirsty for it. Two fingers push back inside, fucking the mixture back into you while his mouth works your clit. You come again, thighs clamped around his head, hands fisted in his hair.
When he finally stands, his mouth is shiny. He wipes it with the back of his hand, then kisses you hard so you taste both of you. His cock is already half-hard again against your stomach.
“Bed,” he says. “Now. I’m not done with you.”
You stumble toward the mattress and he follows, already shoving you down onto your back and crawling between your legs. This time he takes it slower, but no less filthy—rolling his hips deep while he watches your face, one hand pinning your wrists above your head again with nothing but his grip. When you come a third time he follows right after, groaning low as he pumps another load into you.
You’re both wrecked and sticky when he finally rolls off, but his arm stays slung over your waist, keeping you close. His breathing evens out. You know he’ll be ready again in twenty minutes. Choso doesn’t do soft aftercare, but he stays, and that’s enough. The night’s just getting started.
