Oliver

While Oliver gets the lube, I pick up the phone and prop it up against some books on the nightstand, angling at us and still recording. Soon, I forget about the camera entirely because Oliver's slick fingers are pressing into me and he's using that insanely hot voice that's soothing and commanding all at once, and I nod as he positions me over his cock. He pulls me down onto it, spearing me open, and I let out a soft cry because there's a bit of a sting due to the hurried prep, but I always like that minor bit of pain because it reminds me of that very first night and I know now, unlike then, that it'll soon give way to the most euphoric sort of pleasure.

"Fuck, Oliver," I pant out, mewling softly against his neck as I stubbornly work my way down onto his cock, not stopping until my ass is flush with his hips and he's taking up all the space he can inside me. My head falls back as I pause to adjust, breath hitching as my fingernails dig into his shoulders, and I lift my head to meet his eyes, switching seamlessly into Italian. "You're so fucking big. I can practically taste you."

I take a moment to just relish in the fullness, clenching experimentally around him as I reach for his clean hand, the one he smacked against the nightstand. His knuckle is red and a little raw, and I press a kiss to it before taking the whole digit into his mouth, wanting as much of him inside of me as I can get.