He wraps me with his strong arms, nearly smooshing me. I’m luxuriating in the glow of my first swallow and I see that my inner thighs are slick with my own juices and I remember my drenched pussy being more sensitive to the touch than it’d ever been. The sound that fills the air as they stroke themselves is hypnotic: a wet squishing, and slapping as they bring themselves closer and closer to release. I’m relieved that it’s free of semen stains or someone might find me bent over, licking the cushions clean. The wrinkled sack, damp with sweat, hangs low and has a solid heft as if it were filled with stones. I can’t resist darting forward to lap it up, worrying that it will go to waste. My friends and family, not to mention my fiancé, have always said that I have a face that belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine.
