Ride me.
Tell me how it feels.
Don’t hold back.
Give me every detail.
She settled onto my cock, closed her eyes, and began:
“I can feel you stretching me,” the parted
sensation of fullness. “You are hitting something deep.”
I said keep talking.
She kept going until she could not form words,
bouncing, speaking in tandem,
each sentence dirtier, more reckless.
“I love the way you twitch inside me when I clench.”
“Your cock has got a curve that hits my favorite trench.”
Talk me through it, baby.
Don’t stop with the narration.
Talk me through it—
give me every filthy sensation.
In words that match the motion,
hips and syllables aligned.
Talk me through it.
Blow my mind.
With the combination of your body and your mouth at once.
Talk me through it.
You magnificent stunt.
She rode faster, words breaking, fragmenting, turning rough.
“I’m close,” she said. “I cannot—” she said. “—enough.”
Of the slow build. “I’m cumming.” And I felt it squeeze
me like a fist. “Right there,” she said. “Don’t tease.”
She said, “You feel that dripping down? That is me. That is proof.”
Talk me through the next one.
Blow the roof.
She caught her breath. I rolled her over, slid back in.
She said, “From the top. Tell me where to begin.”
I said, “I am balls deep in the wettest pussy on the continent.”
She laughed and clenched and said, “Well, that is pertinent.”
I said, “You feel like sin and everything I want and all I need.”
She came again and bit the pillow.
I said, “Encore.”
She said, “Agreed.”