Lynn and I have never had much luck making each other cum from oral ministrations alone, and I starting to think (with some relief) that the same would happen here. But it was not to be. After what seemed like an hour, but was really only about three full minutes of tongue fucking her hole, she started to buck again. It must have hurt his face, but he didn’t show it. In fact, he took both hands to hold her ass, bringing her closer and closer as she came for so long it was probably really two orgasms on top of each other. That he didn’t drown was a credit to his skills in cunnilingus.
Slowly, she disengaged her pussy from his mouth, and climbed down from the couch. Her fingers were red and her knuckles still white from gripping the back of the couch so tight. She stood next to him, legs together, breathing heavily. Her hair was kinked and disheveled from his fingers running through it earlier, probably mixed with a little sweat.
She’d never, ever, in her life, looked more beautiful, more desirable. She was at that moment the very definition of pure sex. She didn’t grin. It wasn’t exhaustion even though she’d earned it. She was looking at my dick—which I was again stroking—with what I could only call hunger.
She came around the coffee table, knelt, and pulled my hands away as if they were an annoyance. Her mouth, hot as blazes, enveloped my dick and I gasped with the pleasure. I shot a quick glance at the guy on the couch, expecting to see disappointment, but I think he was now experiencing what I’d been going through: the joy of the voyeur.
Her mouth almost burned my cock after my rubbing and squeezing it so hard, but I never wanted her to stop her head moving up and down on it like that. Ever.
She lifted a hand to my face and I could smell her. She’d coated two of her fingers with her pussy juice. I swallowed them as deep as I could, sucking off every drop.
Then as suddenly as she’d come to my chair, she was done. She went back to her young stud. He smiled. She didn’t. Fucking was serious business now. She stood in front of him, her back to him. She faced me. She spread her legs and backed up. He held his cock out, positioning it for her. Once she felt the head where she wanted it, she sat down, like she was plunking into a chair after a long day on her feet. Only this chair had a steel-hard shaft engorged with blood.
His cock penetrated her without a hint of resistance, but she paused without taking it all in, bounced up a bit, gasped, said, “Christ that’s good,” and went down again. This time, she took the entire dick into her slippery cunt.
She looked at me as she bounced up and down, up and down, on the shaft. She looked almost like a child bounced on a parental knee, but for the fact that she was naked, glistening with sweat (drops of which gathered between her breasts just waiting to be licked away), and had spread her legs enough to work her middle finger against her clit. She rubbed it in little clockwise circles.
I love you, she mouthed to me, no sound coming out except moans and the moist sound of their loins slapping together. It went like that for a while, her doing all the work, moving her hips up and down, hands again on the back of the couch but now spread like they were all that prevented her from collapsing backward into the guy’s body. His hands roved over her pink skin, stopping to pinch her nipples, making them jut even more. At one point his finger found hers clit and he rubbed it, rougher than she had herself, but that didn’t bother her. “Oh, fuck, yes,” she said, head back, red hair in his face.
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