“But,” he continued, “like all men, we fogies do ultimately need our satisfaction.”
“Oh you do, do you?” she said, challenge sparkling in her eye.
“Oh yes,” he said, gripping her wrists and pinning them to the mattress on either side of her head, “we do.” With that, he took one nipple in his mouth and let his tongue make a soft, wide circle around the areola. He sucked lightly and then kissed a delicate trail down the underside of her breast to her ribcage. While Oliver repeated this on her other breast, Charlotte lay with her wrists pinned near her ears and grinned with easy pleasure. He laid a delicate trail of kisses along each biceps and into the crease of her elbow. Locking his fingers into her, he placed his mouth on first one wrist, then the other, blowing lightly on the area of moisture left by his tongue. His erection grew, pressed against her belly. She released a humming sigh and flexed her spine happily under him.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” he warned when he heard her sigh, and he pulled both her wrists over her head. He clamped her thighs together between his own, putting her spine in traction. Laying his full weight over her, then, he kissed her deeply, selfishly, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and drawing her into his. Between his weight and his mouth on hers, Charlotte could scarcely breathe; when he moved his mouth to her neck, she gasped for air. Her lightheadedness mingled with the sensation of his skin against hers and made her clitoris tingle with desire. Her hips rocked a little under him, to press her clit against his pubic bone. He responded with a low growl and pressed his erection against her vulva. Kissing her again, he rocked his hips with hers, the head of his penis slipping tantalizingly over her clitoral hood, and Charlotte gasped again.
He slipped his shaft between her legs and pressed her thighs together even more tightly between his. Thus trapped, Charlotte’s belly tensed and her breath quickened. Lifting his hips, be began to stroke his penis between her thighs, slipping along her wet vulva and over her clit.
“Woah,” said Charlotte, closing her eyes. She made an effort to pull her wrists away and wrap her arms around him, but he tightened his grip. Charlotte rocked her hips upward and moved with him, feeling the tension build in her hips and thighs and abdomen as he slid steadily up and down over her clitoris.
With the gradually accelerating rhythm of his thrusts against her clitoris, the muscles in her thighs and buttocks and abdomen seemed to contract in waves, conspiring to grip his cock between her legs, press him harder against her. Her deep, heavy breaths and sighs transitioned to shallow, labored gasps. A film of sweat beaded between their bodies so that, as she rocked her hips with his, her breasts slipped against his chest. The sensation from her nipples seemed to communicate directly with her clitoris.
When her grunts transformed into the high-pitched, raucid braying that signaled an agonizing level of arousal, he pulled away swiftly and flipped her over, her legs still close together. He pulled her hips upward and he thrust his cock into her unceremoniously. He fucked her, hard.
“Christ almighty,” Oliver groaned, “you look amazing.”
Charlotte rose to her elbows and turned her head to watch him. His eyes were trained down, watching his penetration into her. His hands traveled over her round ass and thighs and along her arched back. She rose to her palms, her arms spread wide before her, and moved with him, thrusting back onto him, demanding more intensity, more depth, more pressure. Her breasts swung with the motion and her nipples brushed along the mattress. The intense penetration rang deep inside her as the angle of penetration honed in on her g-spot. She squeezed her thigh muscles with the rhythm of his fucking, generating waves of pleasure from her thighs to her pelvis.
She was unaware of the growling grunts she was emitting, was aware only of the impossible tension in every muscle from her knees to her sternum. Every cell of her body seemed to vibrate at the same desperate wavelength. The pressure on her g-spot bordered on painfully intense, and every stroke added incrementally to the congested sensation in her abdomen. Little by little, her arousal grew; when she thought her arousal could get no more intense, it grew again, exceeding every limit. And again, from a new and ecstatic level of pleasure, she rose again, surpassing every limit she thought her body had.
Oliver maintained his steady, rhythmic fucking, watching her. He knew that she needed nothing to change. Her lungs and throat burned with her labored breath and raucous grunts; her arms trembled with tension and effort; her pussy stung and glowed and radiated her needy, desperate pursuit of satisfaction.
She released guttural cries, inarticulate and moaning, louder and louder with every thrust. If she kept going, she thought, she would faint or explode or simply die of pleasure. But she could not stop, longing for the exquisite release that would inevitably come. If her usual orgasms were like fireworks, this was like the tide coming in–slow, inexorable, roaring, and massive. And at last it crashed, in widely undulating waves that washed through her, tsunami after tsunami. She screeched and clutched at the shaft inside her. She clawed at the sheets and squeezed her eyes shut and arched her back and the flexed it, all the while gasping with hoarse exclamations of, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…”
Her body collapsed, utterly drained onto the bed. Oliver lay over her, kissing her neck gently.
“Holy shit,” she breathed.
She rolled onto her back and gave Oliver a cross-eyed look, panting and gasping and sweating.
He did not respond, but straddled her legs and drew her right knee up to hitch her thigh across his right hip. As he positioned his cock at the mouth of Charlotte’s vagina, she said, “Oh honey, I’m beat, really, I can’t!”
“Oh yes you can,” he ordered, and he slid into her.