Page 71 of Last Love

Presley

Discussion Topic 10:  Be Your Own Ally

This is so not how I thought I would receive my birthday hits.

“Quit that!” I fuss on a giggle while trying to reach for a piece of the freshly cooked bacon sitting on the kitchen counter. “You’re not Henry Lundwicks!”

Ry lands another flawless tap on my finger tops. “Henrik Lundqvist.”

My whined rebuttal is done in tandem with me shaking out my fingers. “Close enough.”

“You can have points for the hockey goal tender reference attempt, you can have points for flattering me in the process, and you can have points for the fact it’s your birthday, but you cannot have,” he swats at the air again right as I begin to reach again, “bacon until breakfast is served, baby.”

“But I want it now…” I playfully pout, bare feet stomping on the freshly polished floor.

Not entirely sure if he mopped it before he started cooking or if it’s still this shiny from the cleaning lady’s visit.

What I do know is that we’re both off today, he somehow got up early after banging me late last night, and is holding thick cut, applewood-smoked bacon just out of reach.

He’s a monster.

A sexy, tattooed, sporting black boxer briefs and nothing else, monster.

And by far the best gift I’ve had in years.

“It doesn’t usually take that long for me to make chocolate chip pancakes,” Ry sweetly states prior to pointing the cooking tool my direction, “but you’re making this shit last twice as fucking long. Could you please go wait at the bar, birthday brat?”

“I am not being a brat!”

His expression instantly becomes sarcastically stern.

Another childlike pout is presented.

“Give me like six minutes.”

“Fine.” I lean forward with pursed lips for a quick kiss while nonchalantly reaching around with one hand to grab a piece of meat.

To my surprise, success is had!

Also to my surprise, punishment is immediate.

The second my boyfriend spots the food in my hand, a swat with the spatula is made. When he misses thanks to a Matrix style dodge, he rushes after me, strikes aimed for my barely t-shirt covered butt.

We run around the kitchen island with me squeaking and chomping and trying not to choke on laughter. Ry – who could have easily caught me on the first lap – simply half ass chases and swings his tool until I’ve finished what I stole. At that point, he wraps one arm around my stomach to capture me, relocates my wiggling frame to the nearest stool, bends my body over it, and hikes up the Pretty Woman movie poster t-shirt I love to sleep in exposing my bare backside.

“Birthday spankings time,” he announces split seconds before popping me on the ass.

The first strike sends me to the tips of my toes on an objected squeak.

The next, however, receives a needy moan.

Ry leans over to press his lips near my ear. “You like that, baby?”

There’s no reluctance to meet his gaze.

Nod.

Whimper.

Untamed growls seep free and the spanking continues causing me to close my eyes.

Melt into the ecstasy.

And as he continues to swat, redden one cheek and the other, his breathing becomes staggered.

Choppy.

Almost not existent.

My body shudders profusely at every strike, pussy growing wetter and wetter and wetter with each one.

There’s barely time to suck in a breath between the tool being abandoned on the bar countertop and his cock diving deep. The soaking wet muscles are savagely stretched to their limits. Immediately conquered and commanded to accommodate his thick size. My fingers claw at the leather cushion underneath me for leverage while he presses his palm into the middle of my back to keep me pinned. Voracious thrusting is met by equally rapacious bucking. Despite my trapped nature, I throw my lower half into every wild pump, wanting and desperately needing to feel all of his body barbarously colliding with mine.

Fingers from his other hand glide themselves into my hair to latch on. They yank my head up allowing the previously smothered screams to echo throughout the kitchen. Slick, sloppy sounds from his relentless pounding join the stream of cries pouring past my quivering lips. Burning builds between my thighs, creating an anxiousness to give my clit the tiniest rub, yet due to my sexually seized nature there’s no reaching it.

No helping myself over the edge of an orgasmic cliff.

I’m simply left to dangle and whine and chase the toe-curling sensations his balls cause when they brush against it. My pussy swells and releases and swells again, using its own version of Morse code to command the need for more stimulation.

More pressure.

As if professionally trained in reading my body, Ry relocates his hand from my back to the very spot I need it most. He instantly pushes, receiving an airy moan of gratitude before rolling his digits around in body shaking circles. The faster they begin to move the greedier I grow for their frantic rubbings, and the more frantic they become the faster my ass works itself against his unyielding hammering.

Unlike our usual rounds in which I get off at least once first, the two of us explode together in a fit of breathless screams and airy huff. Torrid torrents from him crash into sweltering surges from me overwhelming the tight space with sticky secretions. Cum drips past where we’re smashed together as though determined to create a need for an immediate shower, and the feeling of it trickling down my leg has me mindlessly moaning to go another around in that location.

So, we do.

Breakfast is abandoned for a second session in the shower which is followed up with being personally dried by Ry’s towel and tongue.

By the time, we’re finally settling at the bar for breakfast, I’m sexually stated but physically fucking starving. This time the bacon blocker lets me eat freely. Scarf down as much of it as I want without worrying about himself whatsoever. We devour the spread of eggs, bacon, pancakes, fresh fruit, and orange juice while reminiscing on the birthdays we had without one another.

His tales are heartbreaking.

They include gifts of 8 balls and bongs.

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