Intoxicating.
Beautiful.
Never ending.
Joyful.
Lust fueled.
Filthy.
“There’s no reason we can’t create that pose right now,” my husband says through his teeth, drawing down the zipper of his pants and reaching inside, forearm flexing. “Make it wet. I’ll fill it up good and messy.”
We watch each other in the dim light of the studio, chests rising and falling faster, faster, as I press two fingers to my slit through the material of my pink built-in tutu panties. I tease my clitoris, then rub it earnestly, opening my legs so my husband can watch. His own hand is busy in the meantime, stroking his shaft fast and rough, perspiration beginning to appear on his forehead and upper lip.
“Have I told you lately that I live for that silky little cunt?” He circles me slowly, leaning down to kiss my mouth with a hot twining of tongues as he passes. “For this sugar mouth. And those spoiled rotten tits.”
“They are spoiled,” I whisper, writhing under his hot regard. “You spoil them so good.”
“That’s right.” He palms my breasts in his hands, briefly clamping his knuckles around my aching nipples. God. “Can’t keep my mouth off of them, can I?” He delivers a sharp slap to my right breast, then the left, immediately soothing them with a gentle massage while I whimper. “So sweet and sensitive. Like fresh fruit. But this…” A single fingertip trails down the center of my stomach, over my tutu and beneath, his huge hand closing around my sex. Squeezing. “This is the dead fucking center of my universe. This is where my cock gets relief. Where my children are born. Where my obsession gets her pleasure. I burn for this cunt.”
I’m using three stiff fingers to massage myself now, turned on by his words of ownership. His growling admissions. My breath is sawing in and out of my lungs, my orgasm closer. Very close. “S-Smith…”
He stands beside me, jaw slack, stroking himself with more and more urgency. “I know, little girl. You want me to put it in.”
“Yes.”
“How deep?”
“All the way.”
“All the way in?” He positions himself at the end of the table and in one swift movement, yanks me by the ankles to the very edge. “You want me to fuck you full of seed?”
Oh my God, I’m dying. “Please!”
Looking me in the eye, he tugs aside my built-in panties and shoves himself deep, making my orgasm crown with a vengeance. Oh. Oh. My lord. Smith. Sweating, teeth on display, he pumps once, twice, a third time, then kicks into a blurring rhythm that prolongs my release, makes me whine his name, everything below my bellybutton knitted up tight, so tight, the tension ebbing in degrees while his is quickly building to a fever pitch.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s climbing onto the table on top of me, dragging me up the padded leather and giving me all his weight. His breath in my ear. His invasion of my body ferocious. “You saved my life,” he rasps, pinning my wrists high above my head, the table creaking beneath us. “You save it every day just by breathing. By being real.”
“You saved me, too,” I manage to gasp, looking him in the eye, shaken to my core. “I love you.”
The muscles in his throat grow pronounced with strain, those three words pushing him over the edge, as always. “God, my sweet ballerina,” he grits out, dropping his forehead to mine, his warmth blooming inside of me. Flooding my womb, my chest, my soul. “I love you, too.”
THE END