A long sigh pulls out of me. “I belong to you, John. I feel it now.”
My ass trembles. His huge body presses my flesh and the thick, hard ridge in his pants burns against my ass.
My panties are soaked and my scent rises hot. He slips his hand underneath me. His fingers slide over the wet fabric. It’s drenched in my juices. I moan and he pushes up along the length of my channel. When he reaches the front and squeezes my mound, I nearly fold in half. My breath flutters and I moan as his fingers go straight for my clit.
His voice is low and hot in my ear. “You’re so wet.”
He slides his fingers in through the side of my panties. I shudder and gasp as he runs along my swollen folds. His fingertips shove along the length of my lips. He stops at the front and presses at the bottom of my clit.
Then he circles around it, dragging on my flesh, pulling all the way.
My hips buck and I push back into his hand. My pelvis rolls and twists as I grind my hungry pussy against his finger.
“Oh, my God, John.” I moan, “Yes. Do whatever you want with me now.”
His lips are so close to my ear.
“I’m going to stick my cock all the way into you.”
I feel like a waterfall opens and cascades through me. “God, yes, John. Please.”
“But I’m going to make you wait.”
“Oh, John.” I’m shaking.
I shudder and whimper as his fingers press around the edge of my opening. “I’ll make you wait until you can’t stand it anymore.”
“John…”
My head tips back and my eyes roll as his finger breaks in. He slides it up inside me.
“You’re so tight. And so very wet.”
“Yes, John.” My knees shake. “All for you.”
I moan as he pulls his finger out. When he brings his hand up to my mouth, my lips and my teeth seize on his fingertips. I’m giddy with the dark tang. My tongue curls around his fingers and I suck.
“That,” he tells me, “is all mine.”
He licks his fingers too before he shoves them back inside me, making me arch my spine and throw back my head.
“John.” I’m shaking. I plead, “John, you make me feel so good, I don’t think I can stand it.”
His fingers open me and explore me. Like he owns me. His deep laugh fills me with trembling. “You’re wet enough.” And he commands me, “Take off your dress.”
His pupils are huge as I stand to face him. The glow of his eyes burns my flesh as I peel the wedding dress off. I want to make it as slow and seductive as I can. To make him feel that I’m in charge. I’m not, though. I’m jittery. My knees shake as I start to reveal myself to him, exposing my more than abundant flesh.
He stares hard at my neck, then my shoulders, and the heaving tops of my breasts as I squeeze out of the dress. My nerves make it feel even tighter. I’m definitely wetter than I’ve ever been. I ache with need for him.
I slip the dress down and it falls like a white cloud to the floor.
“Come here.”
I do as he instructs me. He strokes and feels my face, my throat, down to my shoulders. He takes hold of my breasts through my bra, squeezing, feeling. Teasing and kneading, like a master, an expert. My buds are hard and they ache to be let out of the bra.
“Take it off.” He says, like he can read me.
Suddenly shy, aware of how exposed I am, I’m nervous. He sees it and an evil grin tugs the side of his cruel mouth.
“Come on. I want your tits. Get it off.”
Shaking, I do as he tells me.
He grabs my breast. Hard. Bending over, he takes my hardened, elongated nipple in his mouth. I’m exploding inside. He licks greedily as he sucks.
Pausing to look into my eyes, he says, “Mine.”
Then he makes me wait until he feels my shudder of anticipation. Slapping and squeezing my ass, he’s even rougher with the other breast, nipping with his teeth until I whimper.
“Get up on the bed.”
I’m afraid, but I’ll accept my fate. He follows me, keeping his hands on me as I move to the mound of silk pillows, sheets and covers. I try to walk tall and not show my fear. I step out of my shoes.
“You won’t be needing your panties,” he commands. “Drop them.”
As I do, he drapes his suit coat perfectly on a chair. He pulls off his tie, then undoes his cufflinks and unbuttons his shirt. When he pulls off the shirt, I gasp at the powerful, inked sculpture of my husband’s ripped torso.
He slips off his shoes and socks, then stands, feet apart, looking all over my body as he undoes his belt. I clamber back on the bed as his pants slide down.