WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS MATURE CONTENT AND EXPLICIT LANGUAGE

Wrestle, Part I (click here)

...
I reach below for your magnificent bulge, doing it's best to defy its denim prison. I stroke you. Your breathing eases as does your tension, but not the desire. Never the desire.

I offer you no metaphors. No confusion. No allusions or illusions, and though we play (and play hard) I don't toy with your pleasure. When I touch you, I mean it, and so you trust me, implicitly. No begging, cajoling, or false pretenses. You know I want you because I tell you with my body. I fuck you because I want you and I want you to fuck me. Nothing could be simpler, nothing less complicated.

As I straddle you on the sofa, one hand behind me curving, cupping, rubbing, we lock eyes knowing playtime is over yet our most intimate exchange has just begun. You sit up to meet me, we kiss once more. Our lips coordinate perfectly; that pair has never not known how to work together. You take your mouth away to devour my most sacred place, my neck. You outline my clavicle and dip your tongue into the deepest of my hollows. I expect the same treatment where it comes to that pulsing knot in between my thighs. Like Pavlov's poor dog, I begin to salivate, in mouth and in cunt. When it comes to you, I am a bitch in heat. I expect you to take me like one.

In anticipation of your cock inside me one soft, gentle orgasm ripples through, as the little ones do. You once compared my pussy to that of a diesel engine. Once warmed up, I can go for a long time. I don't know if being able to have multiple orgasms is a blessing or a curse. After awhile it becomes painful as well as glorious. All I know is that I'm just getting started and your dick will be thoroughly drenched with my juices by the time we're done.

Lay back, I request.

I slide past your waist, caring to rub my tits across your groin as I go. The sofa is short so I rest on my knees, ass high in the air, balancing on elbows while my hands work to free you from your denim prison. Your massive erection never fails to amaze me. Your cock knows where it wants to be and so offers me the strength of its own conviction. I love that about you.

You're rock hard, baby. Does it hurt? I ask coyly, knowing full well it does. I haven't changed my position as I look into your eyes. To you, I imagine I look like a cat ready to pounce on your dick, full Cheshire grin. My mouth is so close to your manhood you can feel the warmth of my breath with every given word.

I don't wait for your response because I don't need one.

I tilt my head sideways rubbing my parted, moist lips up your shaft, tongue trailing in kind. I weave my head back and forth like this. I dart down and tongue the underside of your base, just teasing the top side of your ballsack. I run my tongue upwards, vigorously attacking your frenulum, wrapping one hand around your member to keep you steady.

The cocktease is over as I ready myself above you. I slowly plunge the length of you into my warm, wet mouth. You make that noise, a sort of shocked sigh. No matter how many times I've done it, the intensity of my mouth still surprises you. My jaw is tight, tongue incredibly flexible.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. My one hand works you in-between the motions, the other gently massages your sac. God, you're so hard. I have to stay focused but my jeans are irritating me. I slowly remove your dick from my mouth and sit up.

Take my clothes off, I command. You do what your told and quickly. Good boy.

With experience based from hundreds of our interludes you pull my strapless top from my body, and before my breasts have had time to settle, you're already working the button and zipper of my jeans. You wrench these pesky items down and off me. We settle back down to the couch where your mouth immediately seeks out my breast, making me shudder from the instant release of tension while adding to it.

I whimper as I feel a less than gentle orgam pass through.

How many now? you ask, breaking away from one nipple, pulling the peak of the other in-between your lips.

Two, I say, barely audible.

We're behind then, you casually reply. A part of my mind wonders, as it always does, how you keep track of things like that. I lose count of my orgasms but you like to keep a scorecard. What you hope to make me tally one day, I do not know, but I respect your discipline. I always respect discipline.

You're a man with a mission now. You grab my hips and pull me down the length of the sofa. I bare no resistance, not even close, as you firmly pull my legs apart, draping one over the back of our seen-better-days sofa, and the other you weigh down with your hand, diving headfirst into my slit, lapping at my entrance, berating my swollen jewel.

Ohh, fuck!

Quickly, a third orgasm rips through me. It means nothing to you accept to tighten your grip as I spasm. Your assault on my clit continues.

I pant. The downside to having multiple orgasms is that I overheat and quickly. The nerve endings in my clitorus are so easily aroused, I take longer to calm down. The thing is you don't want me to calm down, you want me to burn up.

Yes. Yes. YES. I cry out as you fuck with me two fingers, mouth relentless, devouring, consuming.

Clever boy. You know me so well. I cum all over your hand as you increase pressure to my G-spot. That makes four. You still aren't impressed.

TBC

Christina