All she could hear was the music. A deep, pulsing beat. Coming from the back of the house. The room was dark, a tinge of light coming from an open door down the hall.
The chair was wooden, high-backed. She wore black lace panties and a matching bra and nothing else. Her hands were tied tightly behind her back and fastened to the chair. Her ankles were knotted to the legs of the chair.
And all she could hear was the music.
She remembered him tying her up, then walking away. Then the music started.
She didn't know how long he'd been gone. Thirty minutes, maybe an hour.
The music didn't stop. Loud. Pulsing. Beating. Like her heart.
She felt beads of sweat on her head. The anticipation of what was next made her wet between her legs.
She didn't hear as he walked behind her, but she saw more light from the candle he carried.
He placed the candle on a table behind her chair. She saw his shadow to the side of her.
He was in front of her now. No shirt, only a well-fitting pair of boxer briefs. His body lean and hungry.
She watched as he massaged his cock through his briefs. Watched the way his eyes took all of her in. Watched as the cotton grew tighter around his stiffening member. Watched as pre-cum stained through the dark shorts. All the while, the music continued. Loud. Relentless. Her desire building.
She watched as his shorts dropped to the floor. Admired the strong, hard, pulsing cock as he stroked it. He let it go, let her see the full length and thickness of him.
He walked behind her, grabbed her throat, and brought her lips to his, taking an angry, hungry kiss -- taking her breath away. His hands wandered, down to her breasts, down to her aching pussy. His fingers beneath lace, teasing moist folds, opening her. A finger pressed in, a second joined. He stroked her, teased her clit, and she moaned in expectant delight.
One hand on her neck, his pussy-soaked fingers in her mouth as she licked every single drop of her desire.
He was in front of her now, his cock even stiffer than before.
He grabbed the back of her head, a handful of her hair. Shoved his cock over her lips, into her mouth, into her throat. Held it there as her eyes began to water. Pulled it out a bit... rubbed it on her lips, rubbed between her breasts. Then back into her mouth. In and out. Fucking her face, taking what he wanted.
His grip on her hair grew tighter and his cock moved faster. Over her lips, on her tongue, to her throat. Sometimes slipping completely out, then shoved back in. He was lost in the pleasure of her.
He pulled her down, all the way down his shaft, held her there and she felt the pulsing, the throbbing. His explosion was exquisite. He grunted, moaned her name. Thick, hot semen filled her throat and she took all she could.
He pulled back, his cock still semi-hard. He took her in, noticed the tears down her face, the cum dripping from her used mouth. Warm drops forming on her bra and breasts.
He walked behind her, whispered to her. She just smiled.
The music. Pulsing. Loud.
Her body aching. Hungry. Wanting more.
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Thursday, August 24, 2017
53
I can see it. Can see 53. I walked around the corner in the house I've now been in for 10 years and I can see 53.
I can see it.
I can see the aging cats, soft and even more tired.
I can see the floors, clean but needing attention of some sort.
I can see the room, the empty room. And across the hall, another empty room. One was always empty, the other held a life that by the time I'm 53 will be entering a new, exciting phase.
At 23 I couldn't see 53. I could barely see 30.
Now, I see 53. See the days, each essentially a repeat of the last. The years, moving ever faster toward an end.
I see 53. The same home for 20 years. Paid for, by then.
I see 53. I hear the alarm clock, take the shower, brew the coffee. Just like today. And yesterday. And last year.
At 33 I couldn't see 53. I was mainly thinking about 30. Sometimes, at 33, I thought of being 23. Of all the new starts and fresh experiences. I dreamed then of going back to a college campus, far away. Of being a student again.
Those dreams are gone. Silly, I think. When you can see 53, you don't want to go back to 23. Not really. Not in the sense of no money and all the anxiety.
I see 53. I see the stairs. In the evening, I'll take them up, watch a show.
I also know that between now and 53, much will happen. Much of it will seem significant. And that's if everything goes according to plan. Of course, there could be a major disturbance of some kind. Still, I see 53. Hot coffee by morning, an early dinner on the deck.
I see 53. I know I'll not go to Seattle -- the place where I experienced an awakening at 30. Too much time has passed. At 30, I wasn't ready to act on what I knew then. Now, too many entanglements prevent a return.
I see 53.
I see what 53 might have been. See the culmination of other paths, those not taken or those I know I won't take now. I see that decision at 23 made things change. Opened some paths, closed others. I see clearly where one path would have me now. Even then, on that path, perhaps I'd be seeing 53. Wondering about THIS path, the one I foreclosed.
I remember the conversation. I remember thinking about how interesting the opportunity was. But also thinking: I know where I'm going.
Of course, I didn't.
Still, I casually and quickly decided the opportunity wasn't for me. Looking back, it's amazing how in a matter of moments, 30 years of your life can be decided. The path to 53 would have been different. But also the same. Energy, excitement, opportunity and fun -- possibly well past 30. Then, one day, I would have looked up and thought: I see 53. I see the next 10, 11, 12 years and more.
I see 53.
I see what's next.
And what's after that.
I see what might have been and I see what will be.
I can see it.
I can see the aging cats, soft and even more tired.
I can see the floors, clean but needing attention of some sort.
I can see the room, the empty room. And across the hall, another empty room. One was always empty, the other held a life that by the time I'm 53 will be entering a new, exciting phase.
At 23 I couldn't see 53. I could barely see 30.
Now, I see 53. See the days, each essentially a repeat of the last. The years, moving ever faster toward an end.
I see 53. The same home for 20 years. Paid for, by then.
I see 53. I hear the alarm clock, take the shower, brew the coffee. Just like today. And yesterday. And last year.
At 33 I couldn't see 53. I was mainly thinking about 30. Sometimes, at 33, I thought of being 23. Of all the new starts and fresh experiences. I dreamed then of going back to a college campus, far away. Of being a student again.
Those dreams are gone. Silly, I think. When you can see 53, you don't want to go back to 23. Not really. Not in the sense of no money and all the anxiety.
I see 53. I see the stairs. In the evening, I'll take them up, watch a show.
I also know that between now and 53, much will happen. Much of it will seem significant. And that's if everything goes according to plan. Of course, there could be a major disturbance of some kind. Still, I see 53. Hot coffee by morning, an early dinner on the deck.
I see 53. I know I'll not go to Seattle -- the place where I experienced an awakening at 30. Too much time has passed. At 30, I wasn't ready to act on what I knew then. Now, too many entanglements prevent a return.
I see 53.
I see what 53 might have been. See the culmination of other paths, those not taken or those I know I won't take now. I see that decision at 23 made things change. Opened some paths, closed others. I see clearly where one path would have me now. Even then, on that path, perhaps I'd be seeing 53. Wondering about THIS path, the one I foreclosed.
I remember the conversation. I remember thinking about how interesting the opportunity was. But also thinking: I know where I'm going.
Of course, I didn't.
Still, I casually and quickly decided the opportunity wasn't for me. Looking back, it's amazing how in a matter of moments, 30 years of your life can be decided. The path to 53 would have been different. But also the same. Energy, excitement, opportunity and fun -- possibly well past 30. Then, one day, I would have looked up and thought: I see 53. I see the next 10, 11, 12 years and more.
I see 53.
I see what's next.
And what's after that.
I see what might have been and I see what will be.
Monday, August 21, 2017
Take the Stairs
There was a time when life was sometimes smooth, gliding forward. Then, the escalator was down for repair. And up again. And back down.
He wondered if he'd be permanently down. Wondered if once the escalator went down, it ever worked again.
Now, he had an answer.
The escalator that sometimes worked, but most often did not, was gone. For about six months, there was nothing. A big, empty hole. A void where his dreams and hopes and future had once been. With each day the escalator had been down, he moved further and further from a bright future.
He settled in. The hole became the norm. The black spot in his heart meant he rarely cried and rarely smiled. True happiness was not the same. Not as it had been at 17 or 23. Or even for a moment at 37, just before the first crash of the escalator.
The thing is, after six months of a hole in your heart, your life is never the same. The hole never gets completely refilled. Or, maybe at some point, at 75 or 90, you reach a stage of contentment. But the possibilities that once were, that had been so clear and so possible, drifted away.
After six months, he walked into the library on his way to where he'd once had an office.
The escalator was completely gone. So was the hole. The blackness lifted.
He had settled in to a new pattern. He'd assembled two part-time jobs that gave him a full-time salary. He worked side projects. He was making more money than he ever had. Sure, some of that money was paying off the debt he'd incurred during the darkest time, but he had cash now. He could buy a coffee once a week at Starbucks. He could go on trips and order a nice shirt from his favorite store.
The thing is, he was never done. On a vacation, he worked three to five hours a day. On the weekends, he tended to the quiet, lonely work that ensured the money kept coming in. And he worried. A lot. So much that he lost five pounds, then five more.
He looked much better in the slim fit shirts he preferred. He had his suits taken in and people told him he looked strong, fierce.
Mainly he was just hungry and tired.
At night, his last thoughts before bed were about how he would make money the next day. In the morning, as the hot steam of a shower poured over his head, he thought of what that day would bring. What can he do to make five more dollars today? Could he get $100? If he got the extra money, which debt should get priority?
He'd leave from the steamy escape and go to his phone. Then his computer. News and projects and a plan.
He'd take a call. Send some emails. A long, slow slog.
Because of the nature of his work, some type of money came in at least once a week. On those days, he'd be calm. Maybe eat lunch at a restaurant, even order a cocktail. He kept bourbon at home so he could have a glass before bed. Just one drink coaxed him to sleep, kept the thoughts of the next days trials away.
Each day was like the one before. He longed for the security of one job, of one employer. Of going home at 5:30 or 6 and having time on the weekends to tend to a garden or just watch a ballgame.
Instead, the days ran into each other. Nevertheless, he kept moving forward. Coffee. Shirts. Bourbon. The tiny bright spots in what once had seemed an endlessly glittering future. And he saw that in 10 years, 20 -- it would be the same.
In place of the escalator, in place of the hopeless hole, stairs had been installed. Steady, sure, safe. Much more difficult when you started from the bottom. But taking the stairs meant moving forward, even if more effort had to be applied. There was now no illusion of a potential smooth escalator ride. No hope of a few days of relaxation. But there was the security of the stairs. Of the promise that with effort, you will move forward, upward, one day...one day, you'll move out.
Take the stairs.
Always take the stairs.
He wondered if he'd be permanently down. Wondered if once the escalator went down, it ever worked again.
Now, he had an answer.
The escalator that sometimes worked, but most often did not, was gone. For about six months, there was nothing. A big, empty hole. A void where his dreams and hopes and future had once been. With each day the escalator had been down, he moved further and further from a bright future.
He settled in. The hole became the norm. The black spot in his heart meant he rarely cried and rarely smiled. True happiness was not the same. Not as it had been at 17 or 23. Or even for a moment at 37, just before the first crash of the escalator.
The thing is, after six months of a hole in your heart, your life is never the same. The hole never gets completely refilled. Or, maybe at some point, at 75 or 90, you reach a stage of contentment. But the possibilities that once were, that had been so clear and so possible, drifted away.
After six months, he walked into the library on his way to where he'd once had an office.
The escalator was completely gone. So was the hole. The blackness lifted.
He had settled in to a new pattern. He'd assembled two part-time jobs that gave him a full-time salary. He worked side projects. He was making more money than he ever had. Sure, some of that money was paying off the debt he'd incurred during the darkest time, but he had cash now. He could buy a coffee once a week at Starbucks. He could go on trips and order a nice shirt from his favorite store.
The thing is, he was never done. On a vacation, he worked three to five hours a day. On the weekends, he tended to the quiet, lonely work that ensured the money kept coming in. And he worried. A lot. So much that he lost five pounds, then five more.
He looked much better in the slim fit shirts he preferred. He had his suits taken in and people told him he looked strong, fierce.
Mainly he was just hungry and tired.
At night, his last thoughts before bed were about how he would make money the next day. In the morning, as the hot steam of a shower poured over his head, he thought of what that day would bring. What can he do to make five more dollars today? Could he get $100? If he got the extra money, which debt should get priority?
He'd leave from the steamy escape and go to his phone. Then his computer. News and projects and a plan.
He'd take a call. Send some emails. A long, slow slog.
Because of the nature of his work, some type of money came in at least once a week. On those days, he'd be calm. Maybe eat lunch at a restaurant, even order a cocktail. He kept bourbon at home so he could have a glass before bed. Just one drink coaxed him to sleep, kept the thoughts of the next days trials away.
Each day was like the one before. He longed for the security of one job, of one employer. Of going home at 5:30 or 6 and having time on the weekends to tend to a garden or just watch a ballgame.
Instead, the days ran into each other. Nevertheless, he kept moving forward. Coffee. Shirts. Bourbon. The tiny bright spots in what once had seemed an endlessly glittering future. And he saw that in 10 years, 20 -- it would be the same.
In place of the escalator, in place of the hopeless hole, stairs had been installed. Steady, sure, safe. Much more difficult when you started from the bottom. But taking the stairs meant moving forward, even if more effort had to be applied. There was now no illusion of a potential smooth escalator ride. No hope of a few days of relaxation. But there was the security of the stairs. Of the promise that with effort, you will move forward, upward, one day...one day, you'll move out.
Take the stairs.
Always take the stairs.
Friday, August 11, 2017
Go-To Bourbon
Here's a great article on what bartenders like to drink -- you know, the people who are professionals at crafting drinks for your pleasure. What do they like in a bourbon? Because, they know what they're talking about -- so, it's worth a try.
Of the seven mentioned, here's my favorite:
Of the seven mentioned, here's my favorite:
Gene Samuel, bartender at Gordon Ramsay Pub & Grill
“I truly enjoy Old Forester Birthday Bourbon. It has the viscosity I look for in a combo pot-stilled whiskey balanced with the crisp finish you tend to get from a column still. The price point (about $80) is phenomenal—depending on vintage. And with it being 100 proof, you just can’t go wrong: traditional vanilla-cream notes, warming sugar aromatics, orange blossom on the finish.”
I have to say I'm a fan of Old Forester. It's a good staple bourbon, and the Birthday expression is ... well, fabulous.
READ MORE about the bourbons bartenders drink.
What do you like?
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
My Bourbon Cabinet
I'm a fan of a good bourbon. I know, I know. It's "trending" now. But, I've always enjoyed a bourbon.
I was probably first exposed to bourbon as a cough remedy as a kid. YUCK! But, as I got older, I enjoyed it as a beverage. I first had a proper bourbon drink in a cocktail -- an Old Fashioned. YUM!
Now, I keep my cabinet stocked with several bourbon choices I enjoy or enjoy sharing with friends.
Here's what's in my cabinet now and a little more about each from some reviewers I trust:
The Special
There are a few bourbons which run into the "special" category. These are typically on the higher end of the price range and for good reason. To me, these are the bourbons I like best, but wouldn't necessarily drink every day. Cost being one reason and another being I like to have that something special to enjoy - maybe on a very special occasion or when a good friend I haven't seen in a while drops by.
My current "special" is Woodford Reserve Double Oaked.
Almost anyone who has had more than a couple bourbon drinks has had Woodford Reserve. It's fairly ubiquitous and a good entry bourbon. I like it straight and it is great for mixing in a cocktail.
The Double Oaked expression is on a whole different (higher) level.
The pour is dark, the nose is rich vanilla and caramel, and the taste is both smooth and memorable.
Here's more from Breaking Bourbon:
Woodford Reserve Double Oaked ends up delivering the flavor profile that is missing from their standard expression. While it’s not breaking any new boundaries in the bourbon world, it also doesn’t deliver a drastically different flavor profile like so many other barrel finished whiskeys tend to do. However unlike Distillers Select, it is quite enjoyable and complex enough for me to actively reach for a glass to appreciate the flavors it contains. If Distiller’s Select is what you grab to make a cocktail, there is no doubt this is what you’ll want to grab to enjoy a glass of bourbon neat. For everyone else who may ignore this line from Brown-Forman, Woodford Reserve Double Oaked is worth a try for its surprisingly easy-to-enjoy flavor profile.
Everyday
While traditional Woodford Reserve is a normal everyday bourbon for me, the last time I was at my favorite liquor store, I saw a rather large bottle of Larceny and quickly searched for a few reviews. Basically, they told this story: A solid bourbon at a great price.
That's what I found. I have a nice size bottle of Larceny -- it's a decent pour, I've enjoyed it neat and over ice, and find it to be pleasant, relatively smooth, and good for cocktails.
Here's more from The Whiskey Jug:
Larceny Bourbon is a decent sipping bourbon. It’s full of flavor and has a bit of an oaky kick to it that pairs well with the sweetness. It’s a robust whiskey that pulls off the wheated softness without becoming weak and spineless. It’s a whisky I could drink any time and not get bored with and the 92 proof makes it a prime candidate for cocktails. If you’re looking for a good bourbon at a decent price then you should definitely give Larceny Bourbon a try.
Surprise
I enjoy trying new bourbons and whiskeys and discovering what I like -- even some surprises. So, I always have a bottle of something "surprising" around.
This time, it's Slow and Low Rock and Rye.
It's styled as America's first cocktail in a bottle. And it is delicious.
Basically, it's Rye whiskey, oranges, and sugar. An old fashioned, kind of.
Poured neat, it's sweet, orange-forward, and delicious. Over ice, it's easy to drink, but not quite as tasty/sweet.
Warning: This is 84 proof, so not a light whiskey -- but, because of the orange and honey flavors, it's super smooth and easy to drink -- so, be careful. This is great for a Friday night on the porch when you aren't going anywhere.
Here's more from Serious Eats:
Served neat, the sweet scent of honey mingles well with the bitter citrus and rye spices, and the horehound gives it a touch of earthiness. The sugar and honey dominate the citrus and rye spices a bit, but the heat of the whiskey helps it to finish clean and dry.
So, there you have it. My bourbon cabinet. These are all worth a try. I've seen the price of Double Oaked creep up a bit lately, but it's certainly worth it as a special bourbon. The other two are both very reasonably priced and can be tried out without putting forth too much cash. I predict you'll want them in your rotation.
I was probably first exposed to bourbon as a cough remedy as a kid. YUCK! But, as I got older, I enjoyed it as a beverage. I first had a proper bourbon drink in a cocktail -- an Old Fashioned. YUM!
Now, I keep my cabinet stocked with several bourbon choices I enjoy or enjoy sharing with friends.
Here's what's in my cabinet now and a little more about each from some reviewers I trust:
The Special
There are a few bourbons which run into the "special" category. These are typically on the higher end of the price range and for good reason. To me, these are the bourbons I like best, but wouldn't necessarily drink every day. Cost being one reason and another being I like to have that something special to enjoy - maybe on a very special occasion or when a good friend I haven't seen in a while drops by.
My current "special" is Woodford Reserve Double Oaked.
Almost anyone who has had more than a couple bourbon drinks has had Woodford Reserve. It's fairly ubiquitous and a good entry bourbon. I like it straight and it is great for mixing in a cocktail.
The Double Oaked expression is on a whole different (higher) level.
The pour is dark, the nose is rich vanilla and caramel, and the taste is both smooth and memorable.
Here's more from Breaking Bourbon:
Woodford Reserve Double Oaked ends up delivering the flavor profile that is missing from their standard expression. While it’s not breaking any new boundaries in the bourbon world, it also doesn’t deliver a drastically different flavor profile like so many other barrel finished whiskeys tend to do. However unlike Distillers Select, it is quite enjoyable and complex enough for me to actively reach for a glass to appreciate the flavors it contains. If Distiller’s Select is what you grab to make a cocktail, there is no doubt this is what you’ll want to grab to enjoy a glass of bourbon neat. For everyone else who may ignore this line from Brown-Forman, Woodford Reserve Double Oaked is worth a try for its surprisingly easy-to-enjoy flavor profile.
Everyday
While traditional Woodford Reserve is a normal everyday bourbon for me, the last time I was at my favorite liquor store, I saw a rather large bottle of Larceny and quickly searched for a few reviews. Basically, they told this story: A solid bourbon at a great price.
That's what I found. I have a nice size bottle of Larceny -- it's a decent pour, I've enjoyed it neat and over ice, and find it to be pleasant, relatively smooth, and good for cocktails.
Here's more from The Whiskey Jug:
Larceny Bourbon is a decent sipping bourbon. It’s full of flavor and has a bit of an oaky kick to it that pairs well with the sweetness. It’s a robust whiskey that pulls off the wheated softness without becoming weak and spineless. It’s a whisky I could drink any time and not get bored with and the 92 proof makes it a prime candidate for cocktails. If you’re looking for a good bourbon at a decent price then you should definitely give Larceny Bourbon a try.
Surprise
I enjoy trying new bourbons and whiskeys and discovering what I like -- even some surprises. So, I always have a bottle of something "surprising" around.
This time, it's Slow and Low Rock and Rye.
It's styled as America's first cocktail in a bottle. And it is delicious.
Basically, it's Rye whiskey, oranges, and sugar. An old fashioned, kind of.
Poured neat, it's sweet, orange-forward, and delicious. Over ice, it's easy to drink, but not quite as tasty/sweet.
Warning: This is 84 proof, so not a light whiskey -- but, because of the orange and honey flavors, it's super smooth and easy to drink -- so, be careful. This is great for a Friday night on the porch when you aren't going anywhere.
Here's more from Serious Eats:
Served neat, the sweet scent of honey mingles well with the bitter citrus and rye spices, and the horehound gives it a touch of earthiness. The sugar and honey dominate the citrus and rye spices a bit, but the heat of the whiskey helps it to finish clean and dry.
So, there you have it. My bourbon cabinet. These are all worth a try. I've seen the price of Double Oaked creep up a bit lately, but it's certainly worth it as a special bourbon. The other two are both very reasonably priced and can be tried out without putting forth too much cash. I predict you'll want them in your rotation.
Monday, July 10, 2017
Glazed
She felt the warm, thick liquid against the heat of her dark flesh. Her ample breasts covered in streams of his pleasure. She had been stroking him beneath his khakis as they kissed. She couldn't resist unzipping, taking him out, watching him grow in her hand.
Her kiss was the best he'd ever tasted. Hot, intense, hungry. With his pants off, she had full access to his pulsing cock. She cupped his balls, stroked his shaft, teased the large head. Traced the bulging veins from top to bottom.
As their kissing grew more intense, he knew what he wanted. He told her to get on her knees and remove her shirt. She willingly complied. He grabbed his cock and stroked it as she watched, looking up at him with deep brown eyes.
Her mouth tasted the tip of him, but he moved her head back. Not yet.
He stroked as she watched, breasts free of her shirt and lace bra.
He could barely contain himself, and he squeezed with a bit more pressure, stroked quickly, and his eyes closed. He felt the heat of semen releasing from him in burst after burst after burst. He couldn't remember cumming that much at once before. Thick ropes of cum were on her chest and shoulders. Hot, white, glistening against her dark skin.
She placed her fingers on her left breast, rubbed them in his fluid, and licked his taste.
The sight of her there caused his cock to tingle, even as it was recovering from the explosive pleasure.
He joined her on the floor and kissed her mouth. Then, eagerly, hungrily, began licking and tasting his cum on her flesh. She was moaning in delight as he teased her nipples with his tongue and teeth and consumed his semen aggressively.
His mouth back on hers, the salty-sour taste of him on her lips.
He pushed her down, and she reached for him... feeling a stiffening cock and smiling.
His fingers penetrated her wet pussy, opening her for his ready member.
As the head of his cock rubbed against her clit, she placed her legs around his waist.
She'd wanted this for years now. And he needed it. Badly.
He thrust all the way inside and their lips embraced as their bodies were joined.
There was no stopping, no going back. Only a giving in... a response to pent up desire.
She fucked him back, begged him to go deeper, fuck harder. He complied, marveling at the incredible wetness and tight feel of her pussy.
She gripped his cock tightly and worked her body around him.
His lips and mouth found her still cum-stained breasts and devoured her.
She looked right into his eyes and the clear evidence of her desire caused him to cum again, pulsing hard inside her as her own sweet orgasm began.
He held her close and she looked at him: "Round three?"
Her kiss was the best he'd ever tasted. Hot, intense, hungry. With his pants off, she had full access to his pulsing cock. She cupped his balls, stroked his shaft, teased the large head. Traced the bulging veins from top to bottom.
As their kissing grew more intense, he knew what he wanted. He told her to get on her knees and remove her shirt. She willingly complied. He grabbed his cock and stroked it as she watched, looking up at him with deep brown eyes.
Her mouth tasted the tip of him, but he moved her head back. Not yet.
He stroked as she watched, breasts free of her shirt and lace bra.
He could barely contain himself, and he squeezed with a bit more pressure, stroked quickly, and his eyes closed. He felt the heat of semen releasing from him in burst after burst after burst. He couldn't remember cumming that much at once before. Thick ropes of cum were on her chest and shoulders. Hot, white, glistening against her dark skin.
She placed her fingers on her left breast, rubbed them in his fluid, and licked his taste.
The sight of her there caused his cock to tingle, even as it was recovering from the explosive pleasure.
He joined her on the floor and kissed her mouth. Then, eagerly, hungrily, began licking and tasting his cum on her flesh. She was moaning in delight as he teased her nipples with his tongue and teeth and consumed his semen aggressively.
His mouth back on hers, the salty-sour taste of him on her lips.
He pushed her down, and she reached for him... feeling a stiffening cock and smiling.
His fingers penetrated her wet pussy, opening her for his ready member.
As the head of his cock rubbed against her clit, she placed her legs around his waist.
She'd wanted this for years now. And he needed it. Badly.
He thrust all the way inside and their lips embraced as their bodies were joined.
There was no stopping, no going back. Only a giving in... a response to pent up desire.
She fucked him back, begged him to go deeper, fuck harder. He complied, marveling at the incredible wetness and tight feel of her pussy.
She gripped his cock tightly and worked her body around him.
His lips and mouth found her still cum-stained breasts and devoured her.
She looked right into his eyes and the clear evidence of her desire caused him to cum again, pulsing hard inside her as her own sweet orgasm began.
He held her close and she looked at him: "Round three?"
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