You Make Me Feel Like a Porn Star

It always starts so innocently. This time it’s just a little question from Whitman.

“Aren’t you going to change?”

The next thing I know it’s two hours later.

I’ve danced like a stripper in my short short skirt, knee-high socks, and six-inch heels, boobs and ass hanging out everywhere.  I feel like it’s the first time he’s seen me naked, although it’s the zillionth. Whitman has watched from the couch, slack-jawed like a horny guy at a strip club waiting for a 20-year-old dancer to show him a whole new world. There are twenty dollar bills everywhere. I grind on his lap: clothed, half-clothed, then naked. We fuck. On the sofa and then the bed.

Whitman’s nearly knocked the mattress off of the bed with his power thrusts. Everything is knocked off of the night stand, there’s a glass plug in my ass, and his thick cock in my pussy. We’re both slick with lube because in our hurried desire for more more more (more sex, more lube, more of everything) we had some silicone over-spill. It doesn’t matter;
it feels so. damn. good.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he growls. My head is hanging back off the side of the bed, and his cock is in my throat. He pulls it out and begins stroking over my face and breasts, while my tongue bathes his balls from below. I reach my mouth up to lick and suck – balls, taint, asshole. I rub my clit until I’m moaning into his ass; moaning and whining for more as he steps back a little  to ejaculate on me. There is cum everywhere – my mouth, my tits, my face. I’ve never been covered in this much cum, I swear.

I love this man so much it brings tears to my eyes. The passion is overwhelming, the lust, the afterglow, the love, the contentment. The pride.  “You make me feel like a porn star fucking a porn star.” His declaration makes me smile. I love nothing more than when Whitman feels like a God – a powerful fucking sex God. Because he is.