She climbed onto his lap in the dim apartment, thighs spread wide over his jeans, and asked it straight out. “Define smuts for me. Right now. No bullshit.”
He grabbed her ass with both hands and squeezed hard enough to make her gasp. “Smuts is this,” he said, voice low and rough.
“It’s you getting wet because you want filthy words in your ear while I fuck you stupid. It’s not pretty love-making. It’s cock in cunt, spit on tits, come on your face if that’s what gets you off.”
Her hips rolled once, testing him. “Keep going.”
“Smuts is me telling you exactly how I’m going to wreck that tight pussy before I even touch it.” He yanked her tank top down, freeing her breasts, and slapped one lightly so it jiggled. “It’s me saying I’m going to bend you over the couch, spread you open, and eat you until you’re dripping down my chin. Then I’m going to shove my dick in raw and pound you until the neighbors hear you screaming my name.”
She moaned, already grinding against the hard line of his cock through denim. “More.”
“Smuts is dirty talk that makes you clench.” He slid a hand between them, shoved her shorts and panties aside, and pushed two thick fingers straight into her. She was soaked. “Look at that. You’re fucking dripping just from the definition. Smuts is you admitting you want it nasty—hair pulled, ass smacked, throat fucked until you gag and tears run down your cheeks.”
He pumped his fingers fast and shallow, thumb working her clit in tight circles. She rode his hand, breath hitching. “Tell me what you’d do next.”
“Next I’d flip you onto your back, pin your wrists, and fuck your mouth until you’re choking on it. Then I’d flip you again, spread that ass, and tongue your hole while I finger your cunt. Smuts isn’t shy. It’s me telling you I want to come inside you and watch it leak out, then push it back in with my cock for round two.”
She came hard on his fingers, thighs shaking, a string of curses falling out of her mouth. He didn’t stop until she was twitching and oversensitive. Then he stood, carrying her to the couch like she weighed nothing, and dropped her onto it face down.
“Smuts is me not asking permission twice.” He stripped her shorts off, kicked his own jeans away, and lined up. One hard thrust and he was buried to the hilt. She cried out, pushing back to take every inch. He fucked her like he meant it—deep, relentless strokes that slapped skin and shook the furniture.
“Tell me this is smut,” he growled, fisting her hair.
“This is smut,” she gasped. “Fuck, yes—define it again.”
He slapped her ass, left a red handprint, and kept pounding. “Smuts is coming inside you while you beg for it. Smuts is you clenching around my cock because you love being used like a filthy little story. Smuts is round three in the shower with my hand around your throat and your legs wrapped around me while I fill you up again.”
She came a second time, then a third, voice hoarse from shouting. When he finally pulled out and painted her lower back, she was laughing breathlessly, wrecked and glowing.
He leaned down, mouth at her ear. “That’s the definition. Want me to write it on your skin next time?”
She turned her head, eyes bright. “Only if you make it dirtier.”
