good, that was all I could think for seconds, minutes... maybe years at a time. He threaded his fingers through my matted hair, told me how proud he was, what a good girl I was.
In that moment, I was his, thought and heart. Every part of me belonged to him, ached for him, worshipped him. It was that clarity, that beautiful singularity that I'd craved all those weeks without him.
"Are you ready for your reward?" he whispered and a smile, broad and free, slid over my features.
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
He, too, smiled. Then he laid me down, on my back this time. He pushed my legs up sharply, until they pressed my breasts against my chest and he could look down at his handiwork. He blew over my exposed labia, then softly traced them with his finger. They were sore, but more than anything, I could feel how huge and swollen they were, slippery and hot. He dragged some of my juices down to my ass, and I closed my eyes, letting my body go limp with pleasure as he went back to fucking it with his fingers.
I could tell there were more of them now, that there was an aching sensation of pressure, of strain when he slipped in and out, but it didn't matter. Everything was pleasure with him, everything made me whimper and wriggle, and plead.
"Please fuck me? Please, Sir?" I found myself panting, my voice sounding strained under the pressure of my legs. "Please? I need you so much, please fuck my ass? Please? It's yours, please make me all yours, please?"
I didn't think he would, but then his hold on my legs lessened and he looked down at me. I could see it in his eyes, the impatience, the pent up need, and then he nodded and pulled his fingers from my ass.
"Get on your hands and knees, now."
I scrambled around. A moment ago I wouldn't have thought it possible, would have promised I hardly had the strength to move at all but it was easy now, propelled by his demand. I heard the sound of his zipper and the plastic tear of a condom wrapper. I pushed my face into the mattress, spread my knees.
I felt a soft breeze on my red-hot cunt and then something large at the other entrance. I held my breath—not because I was scared, though. I held it because the moment felt sacred, and it extended into the silence like a universe from a single point.
Then he pushed and with every fraction of every inch, he laid claim to me, body and soul. Hazily, I remembered that first time between us, when he had spoken of religious experiences, and that was exactly what I felt when he stretched that ring of muscle, until I screamed into the duvet, until his balls fell hard against my swollen cunt, and both of us paused to breathe.
"You're mine," he whispered hoarsely; his fingers pressed against my sore bottom.
"I'm yours," I breathed, then I craned my neck back to look at him. "Sir."
His hand reached up over my back, but he couldn't quite reach my face. Our eyes stayed locked a moment longer.
"Why'd you have to be so fucking pretty when you cry?" he whispered. His fingers found my hair and he grasped a swath to hold onto. I felt a shooting sensation all the way down to my clit. Then he pulled my neck taut, and he started fucking me in earnest. I groaned some animal sound against the wall in front of me and then everything went dark.
There was lube of course, but it could only do so much to help me accommodate his girth, his driving speed that he'd held back for hours of teasing and touching me. Now it was unleashed, hard and fast and unrelenting. Each time he bottomed out inside of me, he pushed my face deeper into the mattress, as though he was trying to fuck me through the bed, through the floor, somewhere deep into the ground, again and again.
Eventually, he let go of my hair for a better grip on my waist. I bit my own my arm to stifle the sounds, to grasp for control as I braced myself against the headboard—and still he went on. He went on until I gave up on pushing back, on keeping myself upright, he fucked me into oblivion, until
In that moment, I was his, thought and heart. Every part of me belonged to him, ached for him, worshipped him. It was that clarity, that beautiful singularity that I'd craved all those weeks without him.
"Are you ready for your reward?" he whispered and a smile, broad and free, slid over my features.
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
He, too, smiled. Then he laid me down, on my back this time. He pushed my legs up sharply, until they pressed my breasts against my chest and he could look down at his handiwork. He blew over my exposed labia, then softly traced them with his finger. They were sore, but more than anything, I could feel how huge and swollen they were, slippery and hot. He dragged some of my juices down to my ass, and I closed my eyes, letting my body go limp with pleasure as he went back to fucking it with his fingers.
I could tell there were more of them now, that there was an aching sensation of pressure, of strain when he slipped in and out, but it didn't matter. Everything was pleasure with him, everything made me whimper and wriggle, and plead.
"Please fuck me? Please, Sir?" I found myself panting, my voice sounding strained under the pressure of my legs. "Please? I need you so much, please fuck my ass? Please? It's yours, please make me all yours, please?"
I didn't think he would, but then his hold on my legs lessened and he looked down at me. I could see it in his eyes, the impatience, the pent up need, and then he nodded and pulled his fingers from my ass.
"Get on your hands and knees, now."
I scrambled around. A moment ago I wouldn't have thought it possible, would have promised I hardly had the strength to move at all but it was easy now, propelled by his demand. I heard the sound of his zipper and the plastic tear of a condom wrapper. I pushed my face into the mattress, spread my knees.
I felt a soft breeze on my red-hot cunt and then something large at the other entrance. I held my breath—not because I was scared, though. I held it because the moment felt sacred, and it extended into the silence like a universe from a single point.
Then he pushed and with every fraction of every inch, he laid claim to me, body and soul. Hazily, I remembered that first time between us, when he had spoken of religious experiences, and that was exactly what I felt when he stretched that ring of muscle, until I screamed into the duvet, until his balls fell hard against my swollen cunt, and both of us paused to breathe.
"You're mine," he whispered hoarsely; his fingers pressed against my sore bottom.
"I'm yours," I breathed, then I craned my neck back to look at him. "Sir."
His hand reached up over my back, but he couldn't quite reach my face. Our eyes stayed locked a moment longer.
"Why'd you have to be so fucking pretty when you cry?" he whispered. His fingers found my hair and he grasped a swath to hold onto. I felt a shooting sensation all the way down to my clit. Then he pulled my neck taut, and he started fucking me in earnest. I groaned some animal sound against the wall in front of me and then everything went dark.
There was lube of course, but it could only do so much to help me accommodate his girth, his driving speed that he'd held back for hours of teasing and touching me. Now it was unleashed, hard and fast and unrelenting. Each time he bottomed out inside of me, he pushed my face deeper into the mattress, as though he was trying to fuck me through the bed, through the floor, somewhere deep into the ground, again and again.
Eventually, he let go of my hair for a better grip on my waist. I bit my own my arm to stifle the sounds, to grasp for control as I braced myself against the headboard—and still he went on. He went on until I gave up on pushing back, on keeping myself upright, he fucked me into oblivion, until
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