Gods but she shivers at the sound of that. Loves it at her core the way she loves that hand against her throat and his body caught behind her forming a trifold sense of stacking compression. The anchor that lets the soft clicking of that camera's shutter roam in places that they can't. Places that if she shuts her eyes (and she does as she's told solely for the thrill of it) she can very well picture with ease in absolute reverse: glassy front mirroring the rise and fall of her tender chest, or the faint kiss of avid slick leashed between her inner thigh and the soft bead of her clit where it rests at the very crest of a faintly parted slit....
Her groan is tight where her throat (and her lungs) feel pliantly slack. Mouthwatering in the surest sense, there's no cap on the temptation to perform exactly as he implies, posing and stroking ( —is that still the term?) at herself till dawn with him laid rapt beyond her heels, unable to do anything but pant. Grit his blunted teeth. Whisper again and again what he'd do to her if given half a chance.
....Much like this, she supposes, rocking back into the full breadth of him.
Slipping her right leg to rest more openly for show, baring scalding contours in ways that let them shine....]
....how many of these are you going to take, my restless coniunx?
no subject
Gods but she shivers at the sound of that. Loves it at her core the way she loves that hand against her throat and his body caught behind her forming a trifold sense of stacking compression. The anchor that lets the soft clicking of that camera's shutter roam in places that they can't. Places that if she shuts her eyes (and she does as she's told solely for the thrill of it) she can very well picture with ease in absolute reverse: glassy front mirroring the rise and fall of her tender chest, or the faint kiss of avid slick leashed between her inner thigh and the soft bead of her clit where it rests at the very crest of a faintly parted slit....
Her groan is tight where her throat (and her lungs) feel pliantly slack. Mouthwatering in the surest sense, there's no cap on the temptation to perform exactly as he implies, posing and stroking ( —is that still the term?) at herself till dawn with him laid rapt beyond her heels, unable to do anything but pant. Grit his blunted teeth. Whisper again and again what he'd do to her if given half a chance.
....Much like this, she supposes, rocking back into the full breadth of him.
Slipping her right leg to rest more openly for show, baring scalding contours in ways that let them shine....]
....how many of these are you going to take, my restless coniunx?