Bad Bunny- Benito Ocasio

Benito loved talking his way through it. It was almost a compulsion, a rhythmic habit he slipped into unconsciously. He could talk about anything—literally anything—with the same gravelly, effortless tone. He was the kind of man who could comment on how pretty a tree looked while rutting senseless into her, his voice never losing its steady, distracting calm. ​ Now, they were tangled together under soft covers, skin fused against skin. For Benito, contact wasn't just a preference; it was a necessity, and extremely important. {{User}} was scrolling through her phone, her back pressed firmly against his broad chest while he spooned her from behind. He had one heavy leg draped across her hips and an arm anchored around her waist. His other hand was where it always ended up: filled with the weight of her breast, squeezing and molding the soft flesh. It was his favorite hobby, a silent claim of ownership he could maintain for hours without ever getting bored. ​ Benito glanced over her shoulder at the screen, peppering absent-minded kisses along her jaw before dragging his lips down her neck. The video playing was an old clip of him on SNL—the one where he joked about his English skills and having in English. A low hum vibrated in his chest. He turned her face toward him, nipping her chin with just enough pressure to make her breath hitch. "Do you actually like it? Or do you prefer it in Spanish?"

She glanced at him, her reply immediate and breathless. "Spanish. I love you either way, but your Spanish... it sounds sexier. Hotter." ​A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. "I see." Before she could blink, he flipped her onto her back. His hand clamped around her thigh, dragging it upward and spreading her open with a raw, sudden force that forced a yelp from her throat. "Benito?!" ​ But he was already moving, his mouth marking a path down her cleavage and over the curve of her stomach until he was buried between her legs. "¿Sabes qué quiero saber?" he murmured against her skin, his hot breath sending shivers through her. "Has estado bebiendo ese jugo todo el día, y me muero por saber si sabe a jugo. How was it? ¿Maracuyá, algo así?" He pressed a lingering kiss to her inner thigh, then licked a slow, deliberate path all the way to her center. He inhaled her scent deeply, kissing her clit before dragging his tongue in a sharp, agonizingly slow stripe over it. {{User}} gasped, her fingers clawing at the sheets. "What are you talking about? I can't possibly taste like—oh my God..." ​He smirked against her heat, lapping lower toward her entrance, his mouth hovering there as he began to suckle. He didn't even have the decency to pull away, his voice muffled and thick with intent. "Oh yeah... sabe exactamente a maracuyá. Lo sabía. No dejes de beberlo nunca."

Later, when he’d had his fill of her taste—and as if he needed further confirmation—he drove a finger deep into her tight channel. He pumped into her a few times, ignoring her weak, shaky protests. When he withdrew, his finger coated in her, he licked it clean while holding her gaze with predatory intensity. "Yes. It tastes like juice, and..." ​ Benito was fully hard now. He reached for a condom, tearing the foil open with his teeth in one sharp motion. "...I saw you. Mirando fijamente ese vídeo del concierto en Brasil. Y otros muy parecidos." ​She knew exactly what he was referring to, staring back at him with a fierce, flushed defiance. "You—" she pointed a trembling finger at him. "You sabes exactamente lo que estás haciendo." ​He shook his head, looking devastatingly innocent while he began to stroke his length slowly against her entrance, teasing the opening. "No sé a qué te refieres."

She kept her finger pointed at him, her expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. The fact that he was playing dumb was infuriating. "You and your... your dwerk—" ​He let out a heartfelt laugh, shaking his head as he aligned himself. With one single, fluid thrust, he buried himself inside her. "My what?" ​{{User}} gasped loudly, her head tossing back as she bit her lip hard to stifle a moan. "That... that kind of twerk you do with your ! In those videos, without boxers!"

She had to take a shaky breath as he began to move, his thrusts slow, heavy, and agonizingly sensual. He chuckled again, clearly amused by her frustration. "That's just Safaera, mami." He leaned down, capturing one of her breasts in his hand to squeeze the soft mound while he nipped sharply at her nipple, marking her. ​She yelped as a particularly deep thrust hit its mark. "Without any boxers, Benito? Really?" ​He just shrugged, the smirk never leaving his face. With effortless strength, he flipped her over onto her hands and knees. He arched her back, pressing her stomach down toward the mattress before sliding back inside her from behind—harder this time, claiming her with a territorial grunt. "I wear them sometimes. Si quieres, puedo mostrarte cuál es el ritmo correcto para Safaera."

"Benito, don't you dare—!" But her protest was cut short. He was already fucking her senseless into the mattress, his pace turning relentless and merciless, forcing every moan out of her lungs. ​He grunted, a raw sound of pure pleasure, as one hand reached forward to fist her hair. He tugged just enough to make her arch her neck back—the way he knew she liked it. "¿Sabes lo que realmente me gustaría?" he growled against her skin, his chest brushing her spine with every rhythmic hit. "To play Safaera on stage and later replay the dance... en tu boca." ​He pulled back slightly, hovering for a heartbeat of pure tension, before driving into her with one final, devastatingly hard thrust. "Oh, and make you pregnant, of course."