I am always so conflicted when I’m fucking Max. Her insistent body language, the sight of her incredible body, a tightness that I’ve felt in few others, impact me in a tingly rush that begins at the top of my head and ends you know where. I can never last long the first go-around. She rushes me into her like it’s urgent, whispering *harder* in my ear, her hands gripping both cheeks of my ass as if seeking to amplify the force of my thrusts. Then with raised eyebrows she regards me, surly, after I struggle for two minutes and then give in to my orgasm, slower and slower tempo changes unable to prevent the inevitable. It’s after this diminutive session that things start to get more fun. I’m ready to go again in five minutes, the sight of her ass as it flows downwards into the curve of her back helping to shorten the refractory period. She’s as insistent as ever, pushing me to go faster, harder, the sound of her moans and explosive exhales increasing in concert with my rhythm. This time, I’m not going to come for awhile, and I pound her in position after position, glorying at the shape of her collarbone in missionary, the rippling bounce of her ass in doggy, or the upward salute of her nipples in cowgirl. She comes, once and then twice, with short, violent moans, shoulders rolled forward, and the sudden tight grip of her lips telling the tale. I am only mortal, and so I collapse, spent, after a couple thousand (hundred? million?) thrusts. We look at each other, tired and sweaty and panting, her slack, relieved expression making it clear that her need has finally been satisfied. In the times between, I think about the sensuousness and connection of slow sex. I miss staring into eyes level with mine, I miss the smooth slide of skin and the steady but unhurried crescendo. That feeling can’t be replicated, but neither can the one I feel with Max.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/c0d9w9/my_mind_on_max_mf