He sat comfortably on the chair in the corner of his home office. I had already put our son to bed and checked the camera to the screen in our bedroom was online. He was working late, some book he was fast proofreading to beat a deadline, but when he saw me looking the way I was – nude, glistening from the massage oil I had applied on myself and some syrupy liquid dripping between my legs – he stopped what he was doing immediately.
With the grace of a deer I impaled myself on his erect phallus. I slipped in with ease, what he loves, and settled at the base of his penis. Just for effect, I looked him in the eyes, so I could see how his desire mounted and mine in his eyes. I felt his hand on my back, then on my ass. I returned the favour by caressing his chest. I leaned to kiss him, teasing him a bit so he won’t devour me like a fox.
His hands on my buttocks, he drew my pelvis towards him and completely filled my open vulva. I felt him bulge inside me, and begin to twitch. I knew what was coming next, but the pre-orgasmic level made him stop and focus his attention on the crown. In that way he would guide the sexual energy upwards.
I too wanted to do that, guide the sexual energy along the spine towards the crown in order to avoid his early ejaculation and my banks from bursting. I am every woman’s fantasy – I squirt every time I have sex.
We seesawed, touched, caressed, kissed, nibbled and tugged at each other until it was not practicably possible. And then all the basic energy that we had sublimed into deep happiness and amid thudding of the body.
My body shuddered, legs too weak to support me, thighs doing a kind of a dance I was familiar with as I drained all my liquids on him like a waterfall.
“Enough of the foreplay, let’s get down to business,” he said as he carried me, leaving a trail of my dripping squirt on the floor, to the bedroom and laid me on the bed.