As with everything I write, you should assume that this scene takes place within the context of a safe, sane, and consensual dynamic. Please enjoy responsibly.

Sit down.

Don’t whine, just do it.

That’s right, put that pretty peach of an ass in my lap and grind. You can feel me, can’t you? Call it a rod, a shaft, a cudgel, or a shillelagh–with a nice, gentle bend and a thick-ass knob--against your tight little breach. Nothin’ but panties and a tee tonight, eh? You know how much I like it when I can feel you warming up your thong.

But you’re gonna whine and squirm and give me attitude, eh? Just the way I like it. Just the way I want it. Pout and grind and throw a fit about how fucking pent-up you are. Is that my problem? Of course it is. And I know just how to fix it.

Am I gonna fuck you? Of course. Absolutely. Utterly. Completely and positively and fully. How is that even a question? But babe, wait, do you hear what I hear? Yeah, that’s the sound of my index finger slipping inside that dripping slit. And you’re gonna bend back against me, grind harder in my lap, bite your lower lip, squeeze my thighs, and beg for me to just do it already.

But first–yeah, hold up–c’mere, before we get to that, I’m gonna taste you. I need to fucking lick you, suck you, play a fucking carol on your little bell. Sweet and tangy and a bit salty. Love that taste when, well, you’re fucking vibing.

And you’re gonna whine and moan and squirm while the moon cuts in and casts pale broken crescents across your soft skin. And the man on that moon is gonna be so fucking embarrassed to see you dripping down my lips–my hands gripping your ass as you tweak your nipples and cry in shivering, shaking moans for the whole neighborhood to hear.

That syrupy drop of slowed R&B ain’t gonna drown out your delightful squeals when I’ve got my tongue flat against your bulb. I’ll push it slowly upwards, my tastebuds dragging roughly across your little pecan while you tweak your nipples and purr.

That’s it. Lemme hold my tongue like a point and shove it between your soaked lips. Then up again. Small circles around your clit. Then…sucking. Pulling gently. Pushing it back and forth between my lips like I’m playing with hard candy.

“Please…please…”

You always end up whining incoherently.

“Please just…fuck me…”

Yeah, yeah, of course you wanna be filled. What type of slut would you be if that wasn’t what you needed. You live for my cock. Need it once a fucking day at least. But, here, listen, don’t squirm away from me. My grip will just grow tighter around your ass. I’ll pull you right back down where you fucking belong. Because, honey, sweetheart, babygirl, princess, you’re gonna fucking cum against my beard.

That’s right. Cum, cum, cum, while I’ve got my cock in my hand and my mouth on your pussy. Rub it up and down. When I’m finished with sucking your clit you’re gonna see your wetness glistening against my chin. Like biting into a mango and letting it drip. And you sure fucking leave little dewdrops when I’m leaving fingerprints all over your skin.

Now your ankles are wrapped across my shoulder blades and you’re slouching towards Bethelhem. Yeats wrote the Second Coming about precisely this moment: my face against your nub while I slide two fingers inside of you.

You're tight. Really fucking tight. But so goddamn wet. You’re making a mess, sweetheart. Do I need to put down a towel the next time I tonguefuck you? Make you sit in it when I’m finished? A warm and wet reminder of what I do to you? For now, I’m gonna unwrap your bow, spread you wide with my fingers, and let your run your hands through my hair while your hips rise, rise, rise and finally…Shake. Shiver. Shudder. Quiver. Convulse. And finally fall in a flutter, your heart pounding in your chest.

And with that–I got exactly what I needed. That joyous whine. That thundering crescendo and quick fall. LIke a long exhale after an aching desire fulfilled. Now rest. Go to sleep. Because when you wake up, I’m gonna do it again.