Let’s not make this a long discussion, hm?
You knew it’d have to be this way, from the moment you bit your bottom lip to give it that extra **pop** of blood plumping color. Sitting at the dinner table, legs crossed, black dress–fucking **that** black dress–riding up your thighs. Like I didn’t see you scotch around in an attempt to pull it down. As if that’ll prevent me from taking a peek under the tablecloth to see what skimpy piece of lace might be barely concealing your *place*. Your warm embrace. My homebase.
Tie and blazer cast aside with little regard for their fate as soon as the apartment door was thrust opened and then kicked close. My hands were pulling at the stretchy fabric of your dress—which you always tease me for finding so enchanting–to find what ensemble you hid beneath. Sometimes it’s **nothing**. And nothing can be a *very* nice gift. You always have a tendency to pout and playfully squirm when my hands advance down that gorgeous dip of your child-bearing hips. Then they’re rolling inward towards the pearl clutched between your thighs.
I’ll fall to my knees right here in the foyer, scrunch up the hem of your dress–and you’ll surely roll your eyes at the way I wrinkle it–and shove my tongue against your lace.
“Already **soaking** through your panties?”
My words always sound a bit more powerful when my lips are a perfect vacuum around your clit. I’ll just tease you for a little while, my tastebuds pushing ever so slightly through the gaps in the fabric. Then I’ll hook my finger through that drenched thong, pull it aside and replace it with my tongue. I’m not one to disappoint. Maybe you’ll cum shivering against my face right here, your fingers searching for support along the wall or through my hair.
And it’s all so that–
When you’re on your back, mouth half-open in the drooling pleasure of a mind-melting fuck, your pussy will already be soaking wet with *my* spit and *your* cum. I can slide right into that warmed up room and fall into a drumroll rhythm until I finish. And you know when I wrap my fingers around your neck, thumb over your trachea, my cockhead goes swollen with anticipation. Tighter and tighter and tighter makes me drunk with ball-bursting need.
Do you know how simple-minded men are? We like to mark what’s *ours*. So let me paint a sticky, dripping portrait of webbed sperm inside your picture perfect pussy. Let me ruin it with a temporary mess. And when I pull out I’ll be sheathed in the uncourtly mingling of your juices and mine, so when you suck me off like a good and proper slut you can taste the culmination of our **fuck**. Then I can pat you on the head, smack you on the ass, and help you clean up too.
Of course it wouldn’t always happen that way. But I don’t see how I could *possibly* pull out when you’re on your belly, face smushed into a bevy of decorative pillows–why do you have so many fucking pillows?–and both of your ass cheeks squeezed between my palms. I’ll push inward, your legs pressed tightly together, so that I can see them get slightly displaced each time my cock disappears inside your bright red cunt. And, god, it’s fucking tight. Do you have any idea what it feels like to count each individual *rugae* drag over my taut, sensitive skin? You’re fucking **ribbed** for my pleasure, so what do I need a bullshit condom for?
Speaking of the proper term for those **glorious** ridges, did you know they’re there so that your perfect little slit can stretch *just* enough to accomodate *me*? I mean, you *have* to fit me somehow, don’t you? God knows you’re much to shallow without a little bit of **elasticity**.
Are you gonna *unnnnnnffff* when I stretch you out? Because when my fingers are digging in enough to leave the slightest purple of bruises, I can’t hear anything other than that wet sliding of dick and suction, those muffled moans and frantic breathing, and the bed frame creaking from our sacrilegious sex (our neighbors must hate us).So, really, can I stop then and remember to pull out? Can you even afford to remind me? When my entire weight is on top of you, driving my brutally swollen cock as deep as it’ll go, are you really going to care if I squish my sack against your outer lips and empty a tablespoon of semen against your cervix?
Let’s be real. You **want** it. You always grab at me, your nails slipping and sliding until they dig a little into my shoulder blades. Your legs closing around my hips in a needy embrace. You know that you want to feel that violent convulsion of my cock unloading like a pop of champagne. Pumping and pumping and finally dripping the final threads of an elixir that soothes you better than any bubble bath or lavender oil or pedicure.
Now come on, I’ll ask one more time, can I finish **inside**?
Because when we’re done and sharing a bit of Rocky Road in bed, I want to know my cum is dripping down your legs.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/wvsfm8/on_the_imperative_of_creampies_or_a_brief