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Authors: Jess Michaels
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practically purrs as he uses two fingers to part my folds.
The touch of his skin against my pussy is nearly enough to have me cream already, but I tense and try to wait. I want more. More pleasure. I want to prolong the sensation. I know if I can, then the orgasm that will follow will be even more earth shattering.
He is aware of the same. After three years of marriage, he knows all the secrets of my body. His fingers dart around my clit, rather than stroke it. He teases my flesh, letting just the tip of his fingers fill me, then exit, leaving my cunt clenching at emptiness and making me moan against his cock.
“You’ll make me come,” he warns, his voice husky and low and his breath quickening with each stroke.
His fingers delve inside my body even deeper this time and he crooks his index finger, stroking the mass of nerves that is hidden within my silky channel. Pleasure threatens to explode inside me and I groan again.
I know he’s going to come by the way his hips jolt his cock even farther into my throat, by the way his hand tightens in my hair. “Yes, Eve!” he gasps as his cock begins to pump wildly.
I take every drop of him deep into my throat, sucking as he pours himself into me. And he doesn’t ignore my needs, either. He crooks his finger again, then adds another as he comes, spreading me, filling me. My hips lift of their own accord, my clit tingles and he must sense it, for he covers it with his thumb and grinds against it in a slow circle.
The pleasure is too focused. Too much. I swallow the last drop of his seed and pull away from him, letting out a cry as the pleasure spirals into a white inferno and my body begins to shake uncontrollably. My hips buck as my orgasm goes on and on. And everything is suddenly focused on the quickening pace of his fingers.
He tilts my head up with the hand that is still in my hair, forcing me to look into his intense eyes. Making me see how much he loves to make me lose control. Making me see that I am at his utter mercy.
He slows the careful stroke of his thick fingers and my tremors begin to subside until they are little more than the occasional tremble. As he withdraws, I sag back on the chair, my head lolling. I watch as he lifts his fingers to his lips and sucks the juices of my release away. My body clenches a final time at that provocative sight.
“Oh yes, my darling,” he purrs as he leans down to kiss me before he pulls his breeches back up over his hips. “I do love our country party.”
Then he walks out, leaving me shattered by the intensity of the pleasure and anticipating the pleasures to come in the days ahead.
The pleasures I will document here. Every night. As I do each year.
Unfulfilled
June 14, 1812
The pleasures of our country party are in full swing now and I am enjoying myself as I do each and every year. This year started with a moan rather than a bang and I can scarce contain myself as I chronicle it here. But I will try to restrain myself from riding my own fingers and recount the tale I have to tell.
Diana Davinport is one of our cherished guests at this year’s country gathering, our party of sin and pleasure. I met her a year ago in London, just after she had married. Poor dear was already miserable. I fear her husband is not at all like my Christopher. Diana’s pleasure means little to him. He is in the business of making heirs and that is the only reason why he beds her. Of course, the old bastard hasn’t managed to make any yet, despite three wives before her, so I don’t know why he would think he could now.
Regardless, her situation touches me. She is a timid thing, unsure of herself after the unkindness she has been forced to endure, but I sense something about her. A passionate nature beneath those demure blonde curls and wide blue eyes. I was more certain when she confided in me that she allowed a traveling friend of her husband to take some liberties with her a few months ago. She was slightly
The touch of his skin against my pussy is nearly enough to have me cream already, but I tense and try to wait. I want more. More pleasure. I want to prolong the sensation. I know if I can, then the orgasm that will follow will be even more earth shattering.
He is aware of the same. After three years of marriage, he knows all the secrets of my body. His fingers dart around my clit, rather than stroke it. He teases my flesh, letting just the tip of his fingers fill me, then exit, leaving my cunt clenching at emptiness and making me moan against his cock.
“You’ll make me come,” he warns, his voice husky and low and his breath quickening with each stroke.
His fingers delve inside my body even deeper this time and he crooks his index finger, stroking the mass of nerves that is hidden within my silky channel. Pleasure threatens to explode inside me and I groan again.
I know he’s going to come by the way his hips jolt his cock even farther into my throat, by the way his hand tightens in my hair. “Yes, Eve!” he gasps as his cock begins to pump wildly.
I take every drop of him deep into my throat, sucking as he pours himself into me. And he doesn’t ignore my needs, either. He crooks his finger again, then adds another as he comes, spreading me, filling me. My hips lift of their own accord, my clit tingles and he must sense it, for he covers it with his thumb and grinds against it in a slow circle.
The pleasure is too focused. Too much. I swallow the last drop of his seed and pull away from him, letting out a cry as the pleasure spirals into a white inferno and my body begins to shake uncontrollably. My hips buck as my orgasm goes on and on. And everything is suddenly focused on the quickening pace of his fingers.
He tilts my head up with the hand that is still in my hair, forcing me to look into his intense eyes. Making me see how much he loves to make me lose control. Making me see that I am at his utter mercy.
He slows the careful stroke of his thick fingers and my tremors begin to subside until they are little more than the occasional tremble. As he withdraws, I sag back on the chair, my head lolling. I watch as he lifts his fingers to his lips and sucks the juices of my release away. My body clenches a final time at that provocative sight.
“Oh yes, my darling,” he purrs as he leans down to kiss me before he pulls his breeches back up over his hips. “I do love our country party.”
Then he walks out, leaving me shattered by the intensity of the pleasure and anticipating the pleasures to come in the days ahead.
The pleasures I will document here. Every night. As I do each year.
Unfulfilled
June 14, 1812
The pleasures of our country party are in full swing now and I am enjoying myself as I do each and every year. This year started with a moan rather than a bang and I can scarce contain myself as I chronicle it here. But I will try to restrain myself from riding my own fingers and recount the tale I have to tell.
Diana Davinport is one of our cherished guests at this year’s country gathering, our party of sin and pleasure. I met her a year ago in London, just after she had married. Poor dear was already miserable. I fear her husband is not at all like my Christopher. Diana’s pleasure means little to him. He is in the business of making heirs and that is the only reason why he beds her. Of course, the old bastard hasn’t managed to make any yet, despite three wives before her, so I don’t know why he would think he could now.
Regardless, her situation touches me. She is a timid thing, unsure of herself after the unkindness she has been forced to endure, but I sense something about her. A passionate nature beneath those demure blonde curls and wide blue eyes. I was more certain when she confided in me that she allowed a traveling friend of her husband to take some liberties with her a few months ago. She was slightly
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