You

My fantasies are of you.

When I come home, you are naked, seated, by the window, one leg over an arm of the chair. Open. Eyes closed. Your fingers circling the center of your pleasure, the middle two. I watch and take of my clothes. The two fingers disappear inside and you press your palm onto your sex. You spread your lips as you withdraw those fingers. Glistening. The wet rhythmic smack resumes, accelerates, contrapuntal to the muted scritch-scritch-scritch sound of the coarse hair caught in your act. I can smell you; intoxicating. My belt buckle jingles when it hits the floor. Your eyes languidly open, look at my face, see where I'm looking. Your gaze drops to my cock, alive with my pulse, rigid, ready. Again to my eyes, then you roll yours up and close them as the tension arches your back and your abdomen trembles. I nuzzle your fingers gently aside and catch your release as I dance my tongue where your fingers played.

You use your mouth on my nipples. A tongue. Teeth. My cock in your hand, rubbing the head, pumping slowly. My balls, fingernails tracing, a squeeze. You offer me your breast, nipple touching my nose, lips. My one hand slides over the small of your back and over your round ass. I press the palm of my other hand onto your unoccupied nipple, circling becomes a slight pinch. My tongue flicks. You turn and offer your sex to my mouth. As I suck and flick your clit, you masturbate me. You switch from hands to mouth. My fingers penetrate. You turn again and settle back with me inside you. Rising and falling then writhing and pressing. Watching your breasts bounce and shake, I catch the nipples and roll them in my fingers, draw you down to my mouth. As you tremble, I thrust and my release comes.