We hadn’t fucked in at least a week. That’s about six days too long in my book.
Not that we’d been distant or apart. But his cock and my pussy didn’t meet for a full week. The erotic equivalent of two ships passing in the night, I guess.
Oh, he’d touched me.
A smack here. Nails raked down my back there. A hand in my hair. Fingertips on nipples.
And he’d used the voice on me. The Dom Voice. Apart from The Dom Look, it’s easily his best weapon in a kinky arsenal of weapons. When applied correctly, I melt or bow up tight, whichever he’s after.
Between the random taps, touches, and scrapes and the judicious use of his voice, each encounter left me warm and tingly all over. And by warm, I mean filled with molten lava.
The desire was just beneath the surface, a subconscious thing that never permeated my thinking, rational mind.
A week of seemingly innocent caresses and, for those who think fantasy is reality, plenty of “tame” encounters, and by Saturday morning, he was ready. His ship was ready to meet my ship (imagine a smirking, “If you know what I mean.”).
There was no light peeking through our windows. The room was as dark as when we’d gone to bed, hours earlier. I was wide awake, ready for coffee. He was up, too, but if coffee was on his mind, he was hiding it well.
He pulled me close, back to chest, cock nestled against my ass. He tortured my nipples until I writhed and cried out. He played my labia and clit like a harp, strumming and stroking with gentle touches. I squeaked and moaned. Each touch sent fire streaking through each limb. The lava I’d felt all week began to pool and flow. I was ready to orgasm from the slightest hint of pressure.
I didn’t care about the orgasm, though (yes, you read that right). I wanted one thing. Just one.
“I wish you’d just fuck me, Daddy.”
Nothing was said. Not a grunt, a laugh, no sound.
He pushed my head down toward the bed, pulling my hips closer to him. I arched my back, granting him access, actively participating in my own fucking. I was wet, slippery and slick. I was also tight. It took him a moment to penetrate but when he did…
“Oh fucking God Almighty damn!”
He may have said something, too. I’m not sure. I didn’t care.
While a freshly climaxed pussy is much easier to fuck, a wet and tight pussy makes you see fireworks and (possibly) start speaking in ecstatic, glorious fuck-filled tongues.
He pulled my hair. I arched my back.
He wrapped a hand around my throat. My cunt gripped him tighter.
He forced my head around and smacked my cheek so that I saw stars. I flew off into subspace, leaving everything behind, not caring if he fucked me until the sun came up. I was erotically senseless and it was delicious.
He growled and groaned as he came. Sharp needles of pain covered my scalp as he used a fist full of my hair to find purchase in the shifting tide of lust and jizz.
I almost came from the sensations alone. Almost.
The next coherent words spoken were, “I guess I, quite literally, asked for that, huh?” He chuckled and told me to get him some damn coffee.
Welcome to Masturbation Monday! Like the prompt up at the top? I want to do that whenever I think of our Saturday morning fuck. Oh yeah, baby. Need more smut to get yourself in the mood? Go check out the yummy goodness other writers are offering up for this week. I’m sure you’ll be touching yourself in no time.