My pussy tauntingly squeezes his shaft, needlessly reminding it how deep he is, how deep he can be felt, how deep he can reach, all of which tips him from captain to warrior.
Kirk to Klingon.
J.T. grips my sides tight enough to bruise and slams into me even harder than before.
An attempt to pull my mouth away from his is foiled by his tongue furiously lashing against mine, whipping it for wanting to be elsewhere.
Demanding it stays exactly where it is.
Succumbing to it the same way his cock is commanding submission from my soaking wet pussy that’s ruthlessly working to survive every stroke.
Trapped moans get lapped up one right after another while his greedy groans vibrate their way through both of us.
My fingers anxiously claw at the nape of his neck for freedom.
Air.
More.
Less.
Faster.
Slower.
The revolving set of needs and wants and wants and needs ceaselessly continues throughout his unremitting pounding.
Grazes of my clit are unsteady and inconsistent, yet so deliciously executed that my toes can’t help but curl.
And my thighs can’t help but flex.
And my sopping wet muscles can’t help but tense, which pushes him to hammer harder.
Quicker.
Grunt and piston his hips to the point my body is being flailed around like a ragdoll.
Mercilessly heaved as though the end goal isn’t to get me off so much as make sure I remember no one else can ever get me off like he does.
That no one else can ever fuck me like he does.
Have me like he does.
Misplaced awe causes my chest and pussy to constrict alike, an action that encourages his shaft to noticeably swell more.
Clumsily, J.T. changes tactics.
Stops bouncing and begins grinding.
Pulling me forward.
Caressing my clit with his cock.
He drops one hand to my ass and skates a single digit along my crack to roughly bump the tip of it against my back hole.
Roll it around.
Nudge.
