It was a quiet night at the Blackfeather residence.
“Fuck me,” I begged. “Fucking fuck my hot cunt. Take my pussy. Use it! I’m your slut, your toy; use me. Fuck me; please, fucking pound me hard and deep.”
My body was writhing in horny bliss, my pussy pouring sexual heat, soaking the bedsheets. The T-shirt I’d worn to bed, his shirt, lay on the floor in a crumpled heap, and the blankets had been tossed to one side, revealing my passion-possessed nudity. I hadn’t planned on sex, being quite exhausted, but I was helpless against his seductive powers. I couldn’t have resisted if I’d wanted to, and I didn’t want to do anything other than surrender, losing myself in lust.
It all began with a simple comment. After an evening of romantic, quality time, we lay down to sleep. “Goodnight; I love you,” I said. I shifted position, searching for the opportune posture to let slumber wash over me. “My back’s sore,” I commented. That was all it took.
“Are you hinting that you want a back massage?” His voice dripped with sensuality, innuendo behind every inflection. I hadn’t been trolling for a massage, but I’m not so vapid that I’d refuse.
“I was just commenting,” I replied, not wanting to be too greedy. “But, if you’re offering, I’d never refuse your hands roaming all over my body.”
“Beg for it.” His voice was soft, low, and playful.
“Massage my body, please,” I responded.
His strong, manly hands touched the small of my back, the heat of his body sending shivers throughout my core. Feather-light, so soft that my extremely sensitive nerves barely detected his fingers grazing my skin, his gentle caresses explored my exposed flesh. His hands traveled upward with agonizing slowness, slipping under my shirt and moving over my back. I moaned in pleasure.
One of his hands—I couldn't discern which, as his hands were running and swirling over my body in an entropic fashion—slowed, increasing the pressure ever so slightly. His other hand kept up with the faster, wispy pacing. How he could manage two tempos and differing pressure is beyond me. I moaned once more, melting into the mattress, when the firm hand reached my shoulders, kneading the flesh of my neck and soothing the muscles.
“You moan like that in your sleep,” he whispered into my ear. His voice held the promise of sexual delights, lusty release, and portents of sensual ecstasy. “You do that a lot.”
His massaging changed as he verbally seduced me. Raw, potent, sexual power—as if the thundering magic of creation had manifested in his limbs—shot from his fingertips. My muscles relaxed; my heart beat faster and harder, and my body responded with pure, sexual heat.
His touch grew firm and hard, reminding me of his impressive, physical strength. Fingertips, bent into pleasure-inducing claws, raked over my back, sides, and waist. Then, suddenly, while his touch was still making my skin overheat, his hands were once more on my shoulders, tracing random impressions down my spine.
“When you do that,” he continued. “I think that, perhaps, you’re masturbating, so I lie still, listening. Are you touching yourself? That would be so hot, getting off to you getting off.”
His hands echoed his words. When he said, “masturbating,” I felt his palm cupping my nude ass. He squeezed my butt cheek, making it feel erotic, soul-scorching, and the gesture filled my body with desire. At the word, “hot,” fingertips, emulating a feather, grazed my now-soaked cunt, making my body quiver and my breath flee my lungs.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Harder. A little harder, please.”
“Of course, I would.” His whispers took on a seductive quality. Although the words were light and only mildly suggestive, the tonality, cadence, and unspoken innuendo saturated my cunt and made my nipples so hard that they tingled. “I love nothing better in this life than seeing or hearing you in the throes of rapture.”
On that last word, his hands, which I would have sworn were pleasuring my hips and teasing my sex, tickled the sides of my breasts. Tethered to the word, “pleasure,” it was almost a hypnotic command; his touch edified the emotions behind the word, and lusty lightning bold of carnal joy pulsed through my veins.
His hands, so masterfully turning my body into a melting puddle of bliss, moved to my arms, those ghost-like, ethereal touches mixing with harder and firmer massaging. The unpredictability of it all had every nerve fiber pleading for more.
“But,” he said with mirth. “You didn’t beg.”
“Nah-uh,” I countered, showing off my stunning intellect. “I begged. I said, ‘Please.’”
A quick spank, so light and rapid that it only registered in my consciousness after my mind absorbed the slapping sound, was his first response. A humored chuckle followed.
“Nonsense, my goddess of divine perfection. Saying, ‘Please,’ is a polite request, not begging.”
I pondered saying something witty and, perhaps, a bit insolent, but his knuckles pressed into the sore spots around my hips. The sensation was as if all my pain centers were suddenly switched off and the floodgates of pleasure within my core had been opened wide. It was rapture, my entire body sinking into a soft cloud of horny relaxation.
Without breaking his incessant contact with my body, his hands still wandering all over, touching, stroking, kneading, massaging, and caressing, he shifted position, lying over me. His hands still roamed, his weight supported by his elbows and legs. Somehow, his hands still traveled, electric jolts of passion exploding on my skin.
“Begging,” his mouth seemed just millimeters from my ear, “is much more than a polite request.”
I shifted my head, pressing against his lips.
“For example,” he began, his voice filled with humor and lusty joy, “Please, Krystal, please, please, please let me lick your hot, wet pussy. I’ll do anything, anything at all if you’ll just let me please you, make you cum. You know how hard I get for you when you get sex-crazed. I’ll lick all the way up and down, fuck your honey with my tongue, and do anything you want if you’d just let me lick your pussy.”
His entire body, hovering over mine, joined his traveling hands as he spoke. When he begged to lick my pussy, his fingers got scandalously close to my dripping cunt. I even pushed my crotch toward his fingers, lost in the desire he was creating within me. When he mentioned how hard I make him, his thick, long cock—as hard as steel—pressed into my ass, setting off horny fireworks that drove my libido into a state of frenzy.
His hands followed his voice, moving up and down. The overall effect was to ignite my horny passion, causing my body to scream for sex. My emotions were running rampant, relaxation followed by arousal, serenity coupled with passion. The overall effect was to switch off the universe. Nothing existed other than his words, his touch, his seductive demeanor, and me, desperately trying to relax but finding myself lifted higher and higher into the heavens of sexual fervor. I felt my brain swell from passion; I could barely contain myself.
I turned over, although I could have let him massage me like that for at least twenty eternities. My legs, moving solely on primal instinct, spread wide. His pleas to lick my pussy awoke the need to let him.
“Oh,” he said, his nonchalance making me debate whether I should just grab his long, blond hair and force his dreamy, sexy lips over my cunt. “You want your front done, then?” The bastard!
“Yes,” I moaned. I sighed, wondering why he, a borderline psychic, didn’t figure out that his words made me need his tongue on my clit. “Touch me everywhere.”
“I fully intend to,” he quipped, his fingers once more exploring my now-heaving flesh with those spectre-light touches. “No spot on your body is safe from my wanton caresses.” I moaned—I do that a lot around him.
My pussy gushed, overheating and convulsing, despite him not touching me there. My body, nude and now completely exposed, was on fire to the point that my body’s sexual heat was steaming off my flesh. With such light pressure, yet his fingers moved at blurring speed, his hands were an ethereal tempest over my body. My shoulders, neck, arms, hands, fingers, stomach, waist, and thighs were lavished with his adoring, relaxing touch that, somehow, made my body scream for sex.
“Oh, that feels so good,” I mewed as I melted. “Don’t stop.”
“Does it feel as good as my hands spanking your perfect ass as you orgasm?” His tone was casual, off-hand as if we were talking about the weather.
“Yes,” I moaned as his fingers danced over my pubic mound. I knew he was going to finger my clit, and my body responded with eager, wanton anticipation. Alas, he merely teased me into a horny need; his fingers danced upward again, repeating his previous actions. It left my pussy aching, my body undulating in panting moans, and my flesh pressed against his touch as I mentally willed him to touch with more yearning and horny desire.
His hands roamed over my body, finally grazing my breasts.
“Aah, mmm,” I moaned, shoving my tits into his hands.
His teasing continued. Fingertips rose up and around the contours of my boobs, a light, tickling touch, so soft that I had to strain to feel its impact, circling my areolas. Then, the teasing fucker renewed his assault on the rest of my body, leaving my aching, tingling nipples desperate for attention.
My back, no longer languid and relaxed, arched upward, forcing my fleshy globes into his palms. Of their own accord, my hips began humping the air, gyrating around in little circles, displaying their need for a thick, hard cock to cram itself deep into my aching hole. His hands, with sadistic slowness, worked their way down my body, creeping near my molten sex. I began panting, knowing that he’d give me the release my body craved.
His hands left my most sacred of places, returning to my breasts. With a deftness that seemed custom-tailored to how I wanted to be touched, he caressed my tits, finally touching my nipples. Rolling them between his fingers and tugging gently.
“Oh, fucking fuck. You’re going to make me explode if you keep doing that.”
“Well, then,” he mused, “I’ll need to stop. We can’t have that.”
Ignoring my protesting statement that he had intercourse with my mom, his hands ran amok on my flesh, an urgency and focus that translated directly to foreplay, at least as far as my body was concerned.
“Nonsense. I never once laid a finger on your mother.”
His hands continued to sexually torture me. I didn’t know exactly when a light, romantic massage turned into me being a quivering, panting, air-humping mass of horny need, but I needed to be fucked. I needed it hard, deep, and fast. Barely touching my pulsating cunt, his hands brushed the sodden folds, making me scream in rapture. Then, they traveled down my legs.
It was maddening; the buildup of sexual urges, followed by the lessening of tempo and pressure, then relaxation, just to be jolted back into a horny frenzy, was divine agony. Every bit of my body was rubbed, caressed, and kneaded back and forth until all my flesh became one, single erogenous zone. His hands, a cascading flurry of varied techniques and pressures, forced my body to the brink of a spontaneous orgasm.
“Those sounds you’re making,” he verbally seduced. “Are like the ones you made last night. You had me so hard from you that I almost took you in my sleep.”
“Did you think I was fucking myself,” I panted, my need obvious.
“Yes. It was so hot, lying there, getting off to you secretly getting off. But, you then snored, making a lusty fool of me.”
We both giggled at that.
“So…” I began. I was going to ask him, beg him, to take me.
“I know,” he said, cutting me off. “You’re very tired, which you said. So, goodnight, my perfect muse.”
I sighed in desperation, but he was right. I had yawned and stretched, saying that I was exhausted. Instead of jumping on his body, I surrendered, cuddling against him, listening to the beating of his heart, strong and steady. His arms, steel cables sculpted into wet dreams, held me, making me feel loved and safe. Mentally, I was admonishing myself. I should have known better; the man holds such power over me that all I can think about is fucking him. Still, I tried to sleep; slumber eluded me.
My internal clock was off-kilter. To me, it felt like a restless hour had passed. It might have been sixty minutes or two; I don’t know. The entire time, his seductive words worked their talons into my psyche, making me fixate on not only how horny he made me, but how aroused he seemed when he mentioned me secretly masturbating when I thought he was asleep. I do that now and then; the sex we have is so incredibly hot that I wake up in the middle of the night, once more, aroused over how amazing it was.
A million-and-six fantasies, all of them based on his comments, coursed through my highly aroused mind. Both of my hands ran down my body, following the trails his expert hands had so recently blazed. Unlike him, though, when my hands reached my aching, dripping cunt, I shoved two fingers inside my hole, my other hand mashing against my swollen, throbbing clit.
My entire body, from my flesh to my core, was in such a state of lusty need that it only took me a minute to cum. Trying to not wake him, my usual banshee-like wails were reduced to soft moans; my body, usually convulsing uncontrollably in the throes of ecstatic orgasms, had to settle for a few shudders, followed by a sigh of release. Despite taming down my antics, it was glorious.
“Like I said, so fucking hot.”
“Fuck you, you sadistic prick!” I screamed. “You were awake the entire time? How the fuck could you just lie there, not taking me?”
He laughed. “You didn’t give permission.”
“I’m your fucking wife. You don’t need my permission, just take me, already.”
“Academic,” he retorted. “Respect is an all-time thing. Just because you wanted it hot and hard last night has no bearing on your desires this evening.”
“Fine, then.”
I got up on all fours, shoving my ass and dripping cunt into him. I rubbed my wetness all over him, moaning and humping against him.
“Fuck me,” I begged. “Fucking fuck my hot cunt. Take my pussy. Use it! I’m your slut, your toy; use me. Fuck me; please, fucking pound me hard and deep.”
“As you wish.”
