“Mm… I love being with you,” he said as he wrapped his arms around my naked body and pulled me closer to his.
“You’re so curvy and soft,” he kissed my hairline and stroked my hair while his other hand slid along my exposed hip and buttock, “and I could just pet you forever and ever. I don’t want to stop.” His hand gripped my skin and kneaded it gently.
I cuddled in closer and hitched my knee up higher over his thigh and wound my legs through his. This didn’t even feel real.
Looking into his big green eyes didn’t seem real. Watching his broad shoulders square off above me didn’t seem real. Feeling his rock hard cock deep inside of me didn’t seem real. Breathing his breath as I came hard like a river pounding down a mountain didn’t seem real.
“I wish I could stay here all night,” he murmured against my temple.
“I wish you could, too.”
He’d arrived with a blast of cold air at his back and scooped me up into his arms and maybe called me Baby. His lips were cold and the dog tried to steal my thunder. I poured him a glass of white wine and we talked about our week apart across my kitchen island.
He periodically came around behind me and nibbled my neck and ear as I shared my silly travails. I periodically walked around to his bar stool and stood between his knees, a perfect fit for a kiss with this ridiculously tall man.
I ran my hands along his lean sides and I melted into him. Nothing felt more sexy than his wanting to talk to me about my day. No one is ever interested in my day. But Peter is.
And so I took his hand and led him into my pink bedroom with the soft afternoon light and lit a candle. When I turned around he was on his knees, his face squarely at breast height. We laughed at the hidden bonuses of being such different sizes and I crushed his pretty face between my jugs. Oh, Peter.
Our afternoons together are not predictable, but I rely on their presence in my life and he predictably listens, laughs, licks, lusts, and empties his balls into me at least twice so I may leak with his jizz as I go about my night. No aroma is better than a well-fucked woman with rosy cheeks, after all. Eat your heart out, perfumers.
We like to compare ourselves to the Joy of Life painting beside my bed while we bask in our sweat and the fluffy remnants of our orgasms. Sometimes we are the couple on the lower right, that afternoon at one point we were the couple on the middle left, upright and reaching for one another.
No matter what, we’re on the right track for finding joy in life: naked, together, wanton, dancing in a motherfucking field of velvet hedonism with meadow-scented air.
And if we were actually in that painting, then Peter would never have to go home.