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Recklessly jerking ourselves around to keep our lips locked and tongues furiously lashing.
Ending up with Wes flat on his back, leg spreads wide, with me facing away and mine dangling over his curled arms as my nails scratch at the mattress for stability while struggling to withstand the force of his frantic bucking isn’t at all how I imagined our makeup session unfolding.
I arch myself forward into the frenetic fucking, body being bounced around as if I weigh practically nothing.
My inability to do very little, other than concede to having my pussy stretched further and further, leads to me squeezing my eyes shut.
Letting my head fall forward.
My jaw to my sweat covered lap.
Air relentlessly fights to find its way into my burning lungs but is repeatedly banished by barbaric blow after blow.
Hisses are continuously expelled during the heaving.
Growls around the savage thrusting.
Grunts when his strained arms flex to primitively pound harder.
Deeper.
Manically mold my helpless, contorted frame into a misshaped mess that belongs to him and only him.
“Mine,” is practically barked in between pants. “Only. Mine.”
It’s impossible to answer as my tits pitilessly bounce and my pussy pleads for a moment of reprieve.
The tighter the sopping wet muscles grow the more determined my fiancé becomes not to allow it. “Say it for me, baby.”
His gruffly spoken words grate along my spine.
Send shivers through my sore legs and curled toes.
“Say you’re mine.”
I don’t hesitate to do what I’m told, yet the turbulent thrusting hinders my capability.
“Say. It.” Wes demands during additional pumps. “Say what I wanna hear.”
Another attempt to cry out is ceased by a rough stroke.
One that causes my dripping wet pussy to anxiously constrict.
Threaten to come undone.
“Say what I need to hear, little prey,” the man of heart purrs, untamed thrashes faltering. “Say that you’re still mine.” His dick swells in warning that he’s also on the brink. “Say you’re still mine to fucking worship.”
Melting is effortless.
“Mine to fucking have.”
There’s no resisting the orgasmic tidal wave rolling in.
“Mine to fucking love.”
“Yours,” finally escapes in a whispered surrender during one last shudder. “Always yours, Wes.”
Without further vacillation, we erupt into thousands of tiny, trembling, delirious pieces again and again and again, until we’re left with no choice but to rhapsodically recreate something built from blistering bursts and unremitting pulsations.
