right to my soles. The ache swirls into an insistent throb when his head dips lower, capturing my nipple as a hostage for his tongue.
Hazy with sleep's stupor, I'm thrust into carnal turmoil by the onslaught of titillation. The flick of his tongue on my nipple detonates desire right through me - the addictive slip of skin against skin - the comfort of the hairs on his legs tickling behind my thighs - the warmth and solidity of a rigid torso pressing against my back - the hand locked tensely in mine when he pushes inside me, sliding deep, making breathing damn near impossible - spooning and screwing all while restraining me inside his possessive embrace, is sinfully gratifying.
God! I'm living the fantasy.
Resting on his bicep, biting playfully into the flexing forearm like a pain strap, I muffle a moan, writhing with him, indulging in the invasive heat, the safety, the phenomenal bliss of unadulterated hedonism.
Fondling my nipple with his lips while he slaloms in and out with precision, my twisted body yields in the neural chaos of arousal. Fuckohara, I could do this every morning.
Tensing my grip on his arm, his shoulders curling around the outside of mine, I relish the debauchery. I never thought fornicating could feel precious, or be a haven, but he manages to embody both all while corrupting me with subliminally addictive pleasure.
This is so much better than that stupid torpedo in the drawer. Nothing beats the real deal. Tilting me until I flatten on my front, I adore the way he confidently hooks my hips up, his knees inside mine, spreading and lifting me to meet his thrusts. My cheeks get hotspots and the sinful sound of skin slapping skin incites my femininity to flood with viscous passion.
He's a fast learner. I love the piques of 'almost orgasm' that flick tentacles up into me when it's hard and fast and brutal. Reaching between my thighs I slide a slow touch up his leg, handling the tight mound moving with his rhythm.
As if to halt my invasion he slams me so hard I pitch into the pillows, the left hand gripping my hip moving, deployed to do the wicked work of its owner. His thick forearm straps my hipbone so his fingers can meet the pressure point between my legs, where I crave the aggressive impact.
Nailing me like I'm bounty, he circles and agitates my nub, his penetration stretching me so wide it brands every inch of his penis into the slippery ache I clench around it. Firm fingers spume friction into me from the front while his entire body froths lather from behind, the vacillating pinnacle arcing closer and closer, drowning me in euphoria's chimera.
My ecstasy is muzzled by the pillow, the ineffable current cascading through me, leaving me hot and wet and unstable. It feels all kinds of wrong when he pulls out, flips me over, and plasters my thighs to the bed, sinking his hips straight back to my tendons, filling me with a dick that should be mounted as specimen A in a museum for 'when you grow up this is what your wife wants'.
Slicing in, arching over me, cornering my head between his elbows, beguiling eyes stare into mine when he begins a long slow eternal rotation into and out of me, splicing my soul into little lesions of lust, rebuilding an orgasm inside me while his vulnerable gaze seduces my heart.
The audacious man sucks my mouth, running his tongue onto mine as if it's a morsel for madness. Sucking on his opiate, I'm the one getting high. The hair on his chest chaffs my nipples raw, and I ache. Oh mamma I ache so bad for this man. I want him to make me plead, and scream.... and bleed.
*
He's got me dressed for the Arctic circle, which worries me ever so slightly. Taking my hand, he leads me along a ragged trail which meanders up the Skiddaw massif.
I've always loved living in the Lake District. After my heartache at the hands of humans, residing outside Keswick in North Cumbria and working with only the dead keeps me sane and zenful. Some would call me a loner, I would argue with
Hazy with sleep's stupor, I'm thrust into carnal turmoil by the onslaught of titillation. The flick of his tongue on my nipple detonates desire right through me - the addictive slip of skin against skin - the comfort of the hairs on his legs tickling behind my thighs - the warmth and solidity of a rigid torso pressing against my back - the hand locked tensely in mine when he pushes inside me, sliding deep, making breathing damn near impossible - spooning and screwing all while restraining me inside his possessive embrace, is sinfully gratifying.
God! I'm living the fantasy.
Resting on his bicep, biting playfully into the flexing forearm like a pain strap, I muffle a moan, writhing with him, indulging in the invasive heat, the safety, the phenomenal bliss of unadulterated hedonism.
Fondling my nipple with his lips while he slaloms in and out with precision, my twisted body yields in the neural chaos of arousal. Fuckohara, I could do this every morning.
Tensing my grip on his arm, his shoulders curling around the outside of mine, I relish the debauchery. I never thought fornicating could feel precious, or be a haven, but he manages to embody both all while corrupting me with subliminally addictive pleasure.
This is so much better than that stupid torpedo in the drawer. Nothing beats the real deal. Tilting me until I flatten on my front, I adore the way he confidently hooks my hips up, his knees inside mine, spreading and lifting me to meet his thrusts. My cheeks get hotspots and the sinful sound of skin slapping skin incites my femininity to flood with viscous passion.
He's a fast learner. I love the piques of 'almost orgasm' that flick tentacles up into me when it's hard and fast and brutal. Reaching between my thighs I slide a slow touch up his leg, handling the tight mound moving with his rhythm.
As if to halt my invasion he slams me so hard I pitch into the pillows, the left hand gripping my hip moving, deployed to do the wicked work of its owner. His thick forearm straps my hipbone so his fingers can meet the pressure point between my legs, where I crave the aggressive impact.
Nailing me like I'm bounty, he circles and agitates my nub, his penetration stretching me so wide it brands every inch of his penis into the slippery ache I clench around it. Firm fingers spume friction into me from the front while his entire body froths lather from behind, the vacillating pinnacle arcing closer and closer, drowning me in euphoria's chimera.
My ecstasy is muzzled by the pillow, the ineffable current cascading through me, leaving me hot and wet and unstable. It feels all kinds of wrong when he pulls out, flips me over, and plasters my thighs to the bed, sinking his hips straight back to my tendons, filling me with a dick that should be mounted as specimen A in a museum for 'when you grow up this is what your wife wants'.
Slicing in, arching over me, cornering my head between his elbows, beguiling eyes stare into mine when he begins a long slow eternal rotation into and out of me, splicing my soul into little lesions of lust, rebuilding an orgasm inside me while his vulnerable gaze seduces my heart.
The audacious man sucks my mouth, running his tongue onto mine as if it's a morsel for madness. Sucking on his opiate, I'm the one getting high. The hair on his chest chaffs my nipples raw, and I ache. Oh mamma I ache so bad for this man. I want him to make me plead, and scream.... and bleed.
*
He's got me dressed for the Arctic circle, which worries me ever so slightly. Taking my hand, he leads me along a ragged trail which meanders up the Skiddaw massif.
I've always loved living in the Lake District. After my heartache at the hands of humans, residing outside Keswick in North Cumbria and working with only the dead keeps me sane and zenful. Some would call me a loner, I would argue with
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