The call came from across the house, muffled and distant, “Hey, babe…can you gimme a hand?!!”

I don’t like being interrupted. He knows that. It’s why he does it.

I got up from my writing and padded abrasively across the hardwood floor toward the the location from which I assumed his voice was coming.

The bedroom.

There he lay, shirtless, jeans unzipped, cock exposed, a Cheshire cat grin on his unshaven face.

I love his cock. I love tasting it, touching it, holding it, riding it. And I can’t say no to it. He knows that. It’s why he does this.

I slipped my loose sweatshirt over my head, stepped out of my leggings, and crawled on to the bed where I straddled him, kissed his chin, and ran my lips down his chest, inhaling his scent deep into my lungs.

Taking his cock in my hand, I pulled the foreskin down, exposing his very pink, very sensitive head. The loose skin makes jacking him off so much easier, no need for lube, just my spit and my hands, au naturale.

“No,” he says, when I begin to take him into mouth.

I look up at him, unsure, confused, and not a little disappointed.

“Just fuck me.”

Smiling at his simple request, so easy to fulfill, I’m happy to oblige. I rise above him, take his cock in my hand, and guide it into me, easing myself down his shaft slowly, squeezing him, teasing him, and humming with satisfaction the whole way.

When pelvis meets pelvis, I feel my natural lubrication take over, as if my pussy has instinctively woken and melted at the notice of his welcome entrance. He pushes up, his hands on my hips, gripping and guiding and pressing me down, while I rotate my hips, grinding into him. I can feel his zipper scraping across my ass, his jeans rough against my skin, and the added sensation makes me clench him more tightly.

He palms my breasts, squeezing them, pinching my nipples. And like an electric shock, I feel the sensation transferred directly to my clit. I cry out, which causes him to pinch harder, and I bounce and rock until I feel myself on the verge of letting loose an entire flood.

“Cum,” he says through clenched teeth, calmly, quietly, and every ounce of my being yearns to fulfill his command.

I gush…feeling the warmth of wetness soaking his jeans beneath me…because of me…because of him.

And he cums…his own heat filling me.

I collapse on his chest, my breasts pressed against him, his hair tickling my still erect nipples.

“Thanks for the help,” he says.

“Hey, no problem…but you know I don’t like to be interrupted.”

“I know. That’s why I do it.


This story was written for Masturbation Monday.
Click below to see what other lovely, sexy goodness was inspired by this scrumptious image from @GeeknGrind.

 

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https://brigitdelaney.com/2018/06/thatswhyidoit/

7 Replies to “That’s Why I Do It”

  1. I’ve ‘summoned’ my wife a few times – usually with a 50/50 success rate. It all depends on how busy she is. Your guy (fictional?) was lucky this time! ๐Ÿ™‚

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