You were cold. Not because it was cold outside, but because you were stripped naked in your own home, shared home. Abby was probably cold too, but- well, she didn’t show it as she watched you from above on the soft comforters of your bed. She was sitting on the edge, her legs spread beside you as you waited on your knees for her. You weren’t on your bare knees on the floor, she placed a pillow down for you, ever the gentlewoman, even holding your hand as she always did to lead you to the floor. You waited for her as she settled on the sheets, adjusting so her hips were pushed forward, encroaching on the ledge as she was leaned back, her hand ready to coax you deeper down her silicone.
You had your hand on it, the other massaging and gripping the meat of her thigh, soft and warm even in the cold air of your home. The hand succoring the floppy utensil used to penetrate you like your pussy was grade a steak, was helping you keep it steady as you eased yourself down, backing our whenever it touched your uvula, which was a record breaking one second. It was warm in your mouth at least, sloppy and sopping as you bobbed as much as you could, letting your eyes squeeze a bit whilst still keeping her calmed, almost poised face in frame.
It was almost a tearjerker, not her face -though she was that beautiful- but how hard it was to keep it down your throat. She liked when you wetted it, but you were afraid she was as saddened, disappointed in your act of barely keeping it down without her help. As if hearing your thoughts, she let one of her hands from behind her move, instructing, “Spit on it.” The offer was taken as you moved off, residue of your mess on your lips, bruised form your acts and how roughly she kissed you before you spit, aiming on the tip and hitting your fingers a bit. You slid it around as much as you could before her hand came and found your head.
It slides unlike your hand, gentler as it found your scalp, massaging it not in urgency like your hand to her thigh, but more certitude of her actions, her effect on you. She nodded for your hand to be off, words pouring off of her lips like honey to your tongue of tea, “Take your hand off.” You do as she says, letting it trail to her other thigh before it moves to settle between your two thighs, pushed together from her acts of assurance. You love being loved by her., you hope she knows that as she acts upon you like a sacred being to worship.
Slowly, just as gently as before, she lets your lips work over her tip, moving to stretch and almost pout against the silicone before they don’t stretch so much as they elongate, suction against the film of your spit, moving deeper as you wince slightly. She doesn’t care, adding praise like honey to a bear, a declawed, tiny, itsy-bitsy bear. Meaning it’s just for you, not so much her as she’s entranced with the scene below her, eyes riveted with your licentious obedience, “Take it just a bit deeper love, I know you’ve got it for me.” The tip bobs against your back, laden as you swallow around it. You feel embarrassed, something she doesn’t share as you gag, wrench around the length, your throat and mouth constricting, stretching unlike your lips. No, your throat, your lips have to part and accommodate this, it’s not frivolous it’s tantalizing.
She’s focused, beguiled by your lips just as you saw from her eyes, though this time it’s burgeoned to her face, the goading nod of her head, the space between her lips as both hands find you now. It’s enthralling, maybe if she were doing this, if you were her, you’d feel the same, but your throat is already so sore, and she’s so messy. You wince again, this time swallowing it down with a few more gags, both her hands finding you, though the other traveling to your throat, letting it feel around the straining pressure afflicted upon you before your other hand is reignited, finding her other thigh and not ghosting it, but pushing against it. She doesn’t snap out of it so much as she relents, her will power always present.
She doesn’t let you pop off quickly, but slowly raise, a bit of training like you promised as you wipe the spit, accretive about your mouth. You move to wipe it up, commenting with a rough throat, “You’re so freaky.” One hand is still on you, her form a bit slouched- more towards you as her warm hand guides your face to look to her. “I’m freaky?” Sass sails on her raised brow, her eyes dipping over your form. You pout, dimpling flesh around your mouth as you bite, “I’m cold now, it’s not my fault you’re warmer.” She seemingly weighs your words a bit, letting her hand move to weigh your cheek, now guide it and still gentle as she hums out, “I’ll stop now -being freaky I mean-” A simper dimples her mouth in turn. “But only so I can see how well you take it elsewhere.”
You let a little huff of bemusement find your tongue, puffing out like a cloud as she offers her hand, yours finding hers in an instant. Her fingers massage your own, helping you up onto her lap, your legs against her, her body pushed back into the bed so your tush can feel the security of the fabric and not air. The strap is wet, wet enough that she barely needs your own slick to coat it. You had enough though, always have, if the silicone wasn’t wet enough.
You hands meet her shoulders, her hands finding your flesh as she moves to your back, pushing you into her. Her hands trail lower, head moving agasint you to see as her hand spread you from behind, moving the strap from behind you to beneath you, as you were to her. The glistening wetness cools the burning heat of your warmth. It’s something that makes chills of flames freeze you, fingers gripping her bare shoulders, slightly freckled from loving kisses of the sun.
She -you think mindlessly at this point, second nature like blinking to wind- kisses you in reassurance, letting the tip prod at your entrance, sinking in just enough to make sure it doesn’t pop out before both of her hands find the juncture of your but and thighs. She grips your meat as she moves back to look at you. You trust her wholeheartedly, it’s hard to when the proof is so physical, visual, tactile as you move against the years of work built into her, something you try not to show how much you like. But fuck is it hot to have someone so strong, so confident and smart beneath you, holding you like you’re porcelain, like your skin is not your skin- or is, and because it’s yours, it’s just that precious to her.
You trust her, and it must convey in your eyes because she melts with a question, “Good?” You nod hand moving to the stretch of her neck, thumbing her jaw whilst she still shares her eyes with you. “Good, thank you,” you breathe, moving against her lips with a wetness that’s slightly dried, befuddling as you move into her, move to deeper- lose yourself in what you have, what you’ve been granted in this life of yours. A shared life.
She lets her fingers dip into your flesh -never dig- as she slowly slips the toy into you, letting it slip into you unlike steak, but a puzzle piece, when it’s on her hips it’s a puzzle piece found. It fits snuggly inside of you, moving into your walls like perfect neighbors, finding out every groove of you and kissing you, massaging you, greeting you in a way only her fingers could match. She spears you down as she kisses you, or lets you kiss her as a distraction from the pleasure, lips bruised and befuddled with wetness as she parts, your lower body on hers. “Anything for my baby,” she breathes against your lips, letting you adjust as her hands move to on your flesh again, almost like you’re clay to be molded- or dried clay to be felt, moisturizer to be massaged into her skin, breathe life into her age once again.
Once her hands find the juncture of your bent hips and panting waist, you grind into her, moving your naked chest against her as you whimper. You beg her silently, her lips stretching in another simper, though this one from your pleasure, your pleasure against her clit as she breathes, “Does my baby want more from me?” You nod, panting because you know she wants words no matter how much you crave only her actions in this moment, “Yes, please, I want more Abby- Please give me more, Abs.” She leans into your flesh, moving her lips down from yours to your pulse, letting hers trail, languid and heavy against your slightly sweating, definitely beating skin.
You feel so alive, so breathed life into like her dick in you is CPR. She moves, letting you grind against her and her hands pick you up for the pace of her hips. She moves for you with you as she grips your flesh, dips her fingers int your flesh, blunt nails on your skin and tickling you with that sensation of warmth. It’s chilling how warm you are, how perfect she fits against you, how wet she makes you between your legs- her legs because it drips, you drip for her, and she doesn’t care. She craves more, you swear as you moan against her, as she moans against you, and you call her name like a fallen angle with broken wings. Except she answers, she answers because she’s God in your eyes- more than that she’s a fellow angel, she’s your person, someone you can grasp even if you feel you shouldn’t, even if you were never meant to. “Oh- Fuck Abby ‘m going to-” “Cum with me, angel.”
You sounds rock your ribs, against her chest- her moans against yours, her heart beating as fast as yours as you reach it, grasp the light in the sky and let it burn you for the heaven that descends on your being, sweaty and wet and glorious in the afterglow, with her touch singed into you and your grip singed into her. You almost envelope her like a tongue to the seal, grasping her with shakes as she returns the favor, her own cum leaking onto the sheets because she’s one with you, and you’re one with her.