He's stroking my body, gently, softly, the way I like it.
He's trying to get me to tell him jokes. as he manipulates my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Im struggling to string a sentence together, trying to tell some silly thing about a Rabbi and a Priest eating a sandwich. He thinks this is a very funny game, I usually mix it a little stronger but its certainly familiar, he's playing with a little power, teasing me... it's making me wet.
His touching is insistent, I unbutton my jeans, pull them down. His hand reaches between my legs and he begins to stroke me. I am dripping. He rubs and I start to spread out into that endless pool of pleasure. Expressions roll across my face like ripples in the water. Smiles, breathless pouts, a furrowed brow. Give me more.
He talks to me "I bet you can't tell me any jokes now".
I respond "I bet you can't tell me any either"
His thrusts and strokes become more insistent. I ask if he'll stretch me, push harder, I tell him that I like it when it hurts a little. He pauses then obliges me. He can sense the desperation. I mumble deafly.
"So, so wet, this feels so good".
He "mmms" at me.
"If you keep doing this I'll come for you"
Its a good incentive. He thrusts, I buck and touch and do my best to keep as quiet as I can. The contractions hit and the pleasure follows, convulsing, aching, pulsing. I clench his fingers inside me, flush with colour, my hands shake.
My breath is gone, faltering, back, heavy. I beg him to stop. He yanks his fingers from me and I gush onto the bed. Lay still. Still still. I pull his hand to my lips and lick his fingers clean. Stroke them across my mouth and down my neck, briefly hold them.
He has to go. Fair enough.
"Thank you"
"No problem. I wanted to put a smile on your face".
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