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BUTT STUFF

T immy’s words catch me off guard. “I don’t think you’d like me if I didn’t have a massive cock,” he says, out of nowhere, frowning. “Sometimes I think you just want me for the sex.”

I blink, startled by the sudden insecurity woven through his voice. “That’s not true,” I say, though his words linger in the back of my mind.

I wonder, just for a second, what things might look like if the sex weren’t so good—if he didn’t make me feel so desired, so close, so alive in those moments of intimacy. It’s undeniably a core part of our connection. When his hands are on me, I feel worshiped, like a goddess in a temple of lust.

Would we still have that spark without it? I like to think so. There’s more to Timmy than just the way he touches me—there’s no way this is a simple case of being dickmatized. There’s his sense of humor, his unpredictable creativity, the way he draws attention to the little joys of life. He makes me laugh until I can’t breathe every single day. And sometimes, when he’s kind—really kind—it feels like I’m the only person in the world who truly matters to him.

And yet, there’s a nagging part of me that wonders, if the sex weren’t as electric, would I still feel the same pull toward him? Maybe, I think. Probably? But I don’t have to answer that question, because right now, the sex is incredible. It’s everything I never thought I could have. It makes all the complications feel distant, at least for a little while.

“You’re so silly,” I say, playfully poking him in the ribs. “There are a million things I love about you. You make me laugh every day. I love the way we explore the world together. You’re my best friend, Timmy.”

His expression shifts, softening as his eyes glisten with satisfaction. He tilts his head slightly, wearing that same goofy, contented look that cats get when you scratch them just right. It’s adorable. The way he leans into praise, basking in it like sunlight, melts something inside me every time. I’ve never met anyone who thrives so fully on admiration and validation.

I know that’s part of why he wears the ridiculous costumes—the Superman cape, the bone necklace, the oversized sunglasses. It’s all designed to catch attention, to draw compliments from strangers. I understand the game, and part of me even admires it—he knows what he needs, and he seeks it out unapologetically.

But I wish he could see that he doesn’t need any of that with me. He’s enough just as he is. Without the gimmicks. Without the theatrics. He doesn’t need the validation of the world when he has me. And yet, maybe we all seek affirmation in our own ways. I can’t fault him for being human.

Later in the evening, he pulls me close, his voice low and full of mischief. “I want to put it in your butt,” he murmurs, trailing kisses along my neck.

“Oh, you do?” I tease, feeling both amused and curious.

“Yeah, big time,” he grins. “I love your ass—it’s so perfect and curvy. I just want to bury myself in it.”

I laugh, a little surprised by how blunt he is, but not opposed. I’ve only done it once before, back when I was a teenager, but Timmy has this way of making me feel open to new things. His enthusiasm is contagious, and he makes me feel sexy in ways I never imagined.

And so I let him.

He’s gentle at first, applying lube to both himself and me, taking his time. “This is just the tip,” he announces with a proud grin as he eases himself inside.

Fucking hell, it stings. But not in a bad way. It’s a strange mix of pain and pleasure, and I can feel myself adjusting to him, to the fullness. He moves slowly, gauging my reactions, making sure I’m okay.

“Damn, Margaux,” he growls, his voice thick with arousal. “You’re such a good girl. Not many could take this, but you? You’re a fucking beast.”

I laugh, feeling proud, the sound pushing him out slightly, and he thrusts back in with a grin.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, his tone filled with reverence. “You’re taking it so well.”

And I am. I feel powerful in a way I can’t explain—like I’m doing this not just for him, but for us. His pleasure becomes mine, and the intensity of it is almost overwhelming. I know I won’t come this way, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is the way he looks at me, like I’m the most incredible woman he’s ever known.

When he finally comes, his body trembling, he pulls out and kisses me tenderly. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he murmurs against my lips. “You are the woman of my dreams, Margaux. That was fucking amazing.”

I smile, flushed and breathless. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” And I mean it. The way he makes me feel afterward—cherished, adored—makes everything worth it.

In the shower, he soaps me up with care, his hands gentle as they glide over my skin. He kisses my forehead, wrapping me in a fluffy towel when we’re done. I feel cocooned in warmth, in love, in something that feels like safety.

The next morning, he’s practically glowing. He makes breakfast, grinning from ear to ear. “Last night was incredible,” he gushes, his excitement infectious. “I can’t believe you took my entire cock in your ass. Fuck, Margaux, you’re so amazing.”

His words fill me with a kind of pride I haven’t felt in years. It’s the same sensation I used to get when I won an award or aced a test—like I’m being recognized for something extraordinary. And the fact it’s coming from Timmy, the man I love, makes it even sweeter.

“You’re so talented,” he continues, setting a plate in front of me. “Smart, sexy, funny—everything I could ever want. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

I smile, feeling like I’m floating. His adoration is like a drug, and I’m completely hooked.

For now, everything is perfect. Timmy’s love feels all-encompassing, like a wave that carries me away from all my doubts and fears. As long as I have him, I can believe in this version of us—the one where we’re happy, where we’re enough for each other, where nothing else matters.

But somewhere, deep down, I feel a flicker of unease. Like the tide could shift at any moment.

For now, I push that thought aside. For now, I bask in the warmth of his love.