Fuck Me Gently
"That's it... down... down... hold it there... slowly... "
She organised the entrance of his penis into her vagina like a crane driver, manipulating steel girders over a dozen helmeted heads. Jesus, he thought, by the time she's ready I'll be asleep, let alone limp.
"Now!" she gasped, then anxiously with a shriller note "Come on! Come on! Push it in you filthy fucker!"
Lifting his hips up from the industrial-strength hotel carpet, with one smooth inexorable move he pushed himself into her. He didn't understand the precautionary efforts, she was wet and easy to enter. She tremored as he did so, and he began a slow, deep pump, calculated to hit her G-spot every second thrust. Pump - "Oh!" - pump - "Oh!".
He grasped her back and held her head up from the floor. She wouldn't appreciate that until later. He began to count, and estimated that it would take 226 of these with a little simultaneous clitoral stimulation at the end before she was spent. At least she was a single-O woman. Declining to play his normal counting game, in his mind he ran through the rest of the week, ticking off tricks. It was Tuesday, she was his last. There were sixteen to go until Friday, when he would visit the gym, pick up some new clothes, keep his regular appointment with the old-fashioned barber - "Something for the weekend, sir?" - and then he was on a plane south, into the sun, with the money from the past six months tucked discretely into a holdall.
Sometimes it was no fun being a priest.
She organised the entrance of his penis into her vagina like a crane driver, manipulating steel girders over a dozen helmeted heads. Jesus, he thought, by the time she's ready I'll be asleep, let alone limp.
"Now!" she gasped, then anxiously with a shriller note "Come on! Come on! Push it in you filthy fucker!"
Lifting his hips up from the industrial-strength hotel carpet, with one smooth inexorable move he pushed himself into her. He didn't understand the precautionary efforts, she was wet and easy to enter. She tremored as he did so, and he began a slow, deep pump, calculated to hit her G-spot every second thrust. Pump - "Oh!" - pump - "Oh!".
He grasped her back and held her head up from the floor. She wouldn't appreciate that until later. He began to count, and estimated that it would take 226 of these with a little simultaneous clitoral stimulation at the end before she was spent. At least she was a single-O woman. Declining to play his normal counting game, in his mind he ran through the rest of the week, ticking off tricks. It was Tuesday, she was his last. There were sixteen to go until Friday, when he would visit the gym, pick up some new clothes, keep his regular appointment with the old-fashioned barber - "Something for the weekend, sir?" - and then he was on a plane south, into the sun, with the money from the past six months tucked discretely into a holdall.
Sometimes it was no fun being a priest.
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<< eh?