The couch—where she kissed me nights ago, my lips soft in sleep, her tongue tasting me, her pussy aching—was our sacred altar. I carried her to it once more, never pulling out, her pussy clenching my cock, the wet squelch deafening, and sat, her ass settling on my thighs, my cock buried to the hilt, the head kissing her cervix.
She moved.
Her hips began a slow, filthy twerk, a professional dancer's rhythm, her asspopping and rolling, the reddened cheeks jiggling with precision, the slick heat of her come smearing my thighs, the texture of her bruises rough under my gripping fingers.
Her waist twisted, the silken curve shimmering with sweat, the muscle beneath rippling like a strip-club goddess, her pussy milking my cock in tight, rhythmic pulses, the glistening lips stretched to ruin, juices dripping in obscene streams, coating my balls, pooling on the couch.
