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“Mm mm mm,” she cooed, reaching her hands out, stroking his hips before moving to his groin. The silky feel of his dick always turned her on, especially when he would get so turned on that thick veins strained under the skin…like now.
Sharon stroked Brian, kissing his head. He shuddered. She licked down the length of him before rubbing her mouth along his balls, humming on them. She took her time, leaving no spot of his balls unattended. She sucked and kissed as her hands worked magic on his throbbing dick.
Sharon felt Brian’s fingers slither into her short hair, silently begging her to take him into her mouth. Without hesitation, she did, taking him whole.
“Ahhh!” he cried, always amazed at how Sharon never went slow, always going straight for the gusto the first time out.
Her jaw worked his muscle like a pro. Brian had to look down, take in the sight of his baby’s full lips wrapped tightly around him. Just the view made his hips pump toward her mouth, made his dick harder, made him feel lightheaded.
“Ooh shit!” His hands were firmly on Sharon’s head, guiding her up and down his muscle as his hips pumped in unison. Almost angrily, he pushed her off him, watching her softly land on her bottom. She looked up at him questioningly. Brian gave her a devilish smile before yanking her up from the floor. He kissed her hard and deep before turning her, pressing her back tight against his front. Sharon could feel his dick against her ass and she felt faint.
Brian bent her over the back of the sofa. His hands moved to her skirt. He unzipped it and removed it with a swiftness before ripping her panties right off her ass. He knelt down, kissing each of her round brown ass cheeks before parting them, running his tongue down her crack to her wet, dripping center.
“Gawd,” Sharon whimpered, bucking her ass back to Brian’s face.
“So sweet,” Brian whispered against her wetness.
“Take me, Bri!” Sharon yelled, turning her head back to him.
He looked to his right, seeing the fire glistening in her eyes, and without thinking a second longer, he stood, rubbing his hands from the nape of Sharon’s neck to her ass. He stroked himself before letting the tip gently probe down Sharon’s ass to the wetness that developed at Sharon’s entrance.
“Umph,” she grunted, as Brian gave three short pumps against her hot box before pushing soundly into her. She screamed. The initial full, long stroke always caused pain for her, but she quickly recovered, Brian fitting her like a glove.
Brian’s hands gripped Sharon’s shoulders as he swiveled his hips and long-stroked Sharon. She milked him with each stroke. “Harder,” Sharon grunted out. “Harder, Bri…ooh, Gawd.”
“Mm hmm,” Brian whispered, giving her three short pumps for every long stroke. “You’re on fire, baby…and I’m about to put this sweet pussy out.”
Sharon’s eyes rolled up into her head. She could feel Brian damn near tapping into her belly and she felt weak in the knees and overheated.
“Baby!” she yelled, bucking hard against him, “I’m coming! Shit!”
Brian moved with pistonlike precision in and out of Sharon until he felt he would rip from his skin. “Ahhh shit,” he groaned. “Ahhh shit.”
Deeply planted within Sharon’s hot, throbbing pussy, Brian c
ame, crying out. Their heavy breathing ricocheted off the living room walls as Brian’s almost lifeless body lay on top of Sharon’s.
The phone rang and they both glanced at it over on the coffee table. Their exhaustion didn’t afford them the chance to get it before the machine clicked on.
“Girl!” It was Sharon’s cousin. “Where you at? Your mother and I are waiting at the restaurant. Hit me on my cell, peace.”
Sharon and Brian broke into laughter as soon as the beep sounded on the machine. “So, are you going to go?” Brian asked, rising from Sharon’s back before giving her a little smack on the ass.
“After my gym time…and all this exercise?” she asked, slowly turning to face him. They kissed. “I’m famished!”
Midnight Letter to Fran
Tenille Brown
My sweet Frances,
I can’t get two good hours of sleep without you creeping into my thoughts. You have invaded my mind once again, and I had to crawl quietly out of bed, sneaking away to jot down all these things your vision makes me feel. Night after night, I see you all around me, your face on these ivory walls dimly lit by the moon, your legs tangled with mine under this crisp white comforter, your hands in mine helping me touch you. Then, I jerk myself awake to the sound of your voice after coming hard in my sleep, and I find that it is only he, this unforgiving and unkind husband of mine, breathing his sourness into my face. This is my cold reality. This is the life I chose in spite of what we had together, in spite of myself.
Listen, honey, I know you told me not to even look your way until I had my shit figured out, but I think I’ve got it. Now, I don’t claim to be coming with all the answers, but this is what I do know. My body experienced its awakening at the touch of your hand. My mind became open to experiences real and new and fantastic, and every year of the thirty-one we’ve shared as friends took on new meaning when our lips touched and parted and our tongues joined for a slow, sensual dance. And risking everything doesn’t seem like such a bad idea at all, now that I’m thinking about it, now that I’m waking up in the middle of every night with my pussy and nipples throbbing and my tongue darting at the empty air and calling to you. My intent was to save face, to put my family life first, even if it was only a front to cover up the dual feelings I had for my husband and my lover. But four months, two weeks, and six days have passed me by and my life has proven to be the biggest comedy act to ever hit the center stage. But, you see, Fran, I’m the only one laughing. I mean, after the fallout, when he has finally won, the bastard doesn’t even bother to touch me anymore. I remember back in the day (pre–you and me) when the two of us couldn’t even walk a block without him reaching for my hand or stroking my back. Now this king-sized bed we’ve loved in, whispered in, argued in hushed tones in for thirteen years, has been distinctly divided into two halves, appropriately titled his and hers.
But I can’t say that his no longer touching me is the problem really, and it’s not like his touch has thrilled me that much lately anyway. I mean, a little tickle of the dick is good, but it’s no more than what I can do with this trusty little machine of mine (I am grateful every day for that little gift from you). The problem may really be that he has never touched me and will never be able to touch me like you do. You have that marvelous way of sifting your fingers through my cropped waves of hair, touching the sharp nose I have despised since puberty, and tickling my chin like I’m your adorable little baby. What makes me the biggest fool of all is that I knew all this when I told you to go.
In the days when he made the effort to at least let the hair on his chest brush my bare back under the covers at night, I would imagine his heat was your heat, and that his bristled chest was the top of your head buried in my back. Now he has taken even these small, yet vital thrills from me, as he lies in the same space with me and jacks himself to ecstasy while I wait for the bed to stop rocking so that I can settle into my own naughty dreams of you. My favorite is you and me in the shower, sliding against each other’s lathered bodies, or me and you in the closet at your mom and dad’s fiftieth anniversary party, your fingers probing deep into me, rubbing my clit into oblivion. Damn, Fran, it’s been hell. Do you forgive me yet?
