Blood rushes to my head as he digs into my wet depths with his tongue, drinking from my well. When he sucks on my clit, it’s not just sucking, but a combination of lipping, sucking, and biting. It’s some sort of secret recipe of lip action that, if he were to share it with the rest of mankind, could probably change the world into a better place.
As much as I would like to stay like his forever, my arms get weak and start to buckle. He notices and lets go so I’m able to do a sort-of cartwheel back into a standing position. As the blood leaves my head, I’m dizzy and feeling a little euphoric. He lifts me into his arms, doing all the work when he sees me start to sway. I love that he knows my body so well.
I wrap my legs around his waist like in my adolescent fantasies of him carrying me away, and we go into the bedroom. He lays me down on the bed and turns me onto my side. He enters me from an angle. The closet doors of our room are mirrored so I’m able to see every bit of what’s happening. If it were up to him, we would’ve had mirrors on the ceiling as well. Can’t say I would be terribly opposed to that idea, but you know, with having kids in the house and family coming over on a regular basis, it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea. Sam would’ve had a heart attack if he ever witnessed something like that. He’s such prude. I have a feeling missionary is the only trick up his sleeve in the bedroom.
At least if anyone decides to come over and goes into our room, the closet doors can be explained away with vanity. The hope chest of sex toys we’ve started to acquire would probably need more of an explanation had anyone peeked inside. We keep a padlock on it just in case.
Watching Deacon drill into my pussy from the mirror is like watching a porno. It’s a side of myself I’m not used to seeing. Not to brag or anything, but I really do have a nice-looking pussy. With his perfect dick it’s a lovely sight, the way he stretches me open. And it’s a major turn on watching it. At first I didn’t like reverse cowgirl all that much because I couldn’t look at Deacon’s face, but now that we have the mirrors, I see it all. It’s when I really started to notice just how large Deacon’s cock actually was. Whenever he’s all the way inside of me, and then I slowly lift up, it seems like his dick never ends.
While he pounds me from the side, I lift my leg for a better view.
Deacon smiles and talks into my ear, his voice choppy and breathless with his efforts. “You like looking at that sexy pussy, don’t you,” he says.
“I like watching you fuck it.”
He lets out a long desire-filled groan. “I love it when you talk dirty in that cute little voice of yours.”
I giggle and twist enough so that I can kiss him.
He pulls out of me and I feel suddenly empty inside. He rolls over, onto his back. “Ride me,” he says.
I climb on top of him and sink down, feeling that pressure of the head of his dick pressed tight against my cervix. Then I start to bounce. I’m riding him. Jackhammering. The slap of our skin as it connects, my moaning, his grunting, the heady scent of our lovemaking, fills the room and makes my head swim with pleasure. God, pregnancy sex is amazing. All these hormones raging through me, these new sensations I’ve never felt before. It’s like discovering sex for the first time all over again.
I’m almost there. So close. I arch my spine, throwing my head back. Deacon grabs my hips, slamming into me with wonderful force. Almost. Oh god. Oh, yes. So close. I can feel the orgasm racing toward me. Just another second and …
Someone knocks on the front door and my concentration teeters, the orgasm taking a step back. I stop moving to listen.
“No, keep going,” Deacon says, still grinding his hips into me. “They’ll come back later.”
He’s right. I continue to move, rotating my pelvis, trying again to find that magic spot. We find our rhythm again. Deacon reaches up, taking my swollen breasts in his hands and flicking my sensitive nipples the way I like.
“Your cock is so big, it fills me up,” I say. I love that feeling. Stuffed to my limit. Whole.
Whenever I talk dirty to him, it gets him wound up every time. He moves faster.
The knocking comes again. Several times. Then the knocking shifts into pounding. I stop moving again.
Deacon makes a groan of disappointment.
“What if it’s about Bailey,” I say.
“Your mom would’ve called first,” Deacon says.
That’s true. My phone is on the nightstand, fully charged. I lean over to grab it. No missed calls or texts.
Whoever is pounding on the door refuses to let up. At first I think maybe it’s a delivery, or a sales person, but they would’ve left by now. It’s getting really annoying.