Page 40 of The Songbird of Wychwood

“Oh, I like the sound of that!” What followed was the snick, snick sound of George rubbing the oil onto his stand, and then I felt a slick finger at my fundament, rubbing oil on me. I came to full awareness when George tapped his crown against my crease then began rubbing it up and down. I gritted my teeth as I anticipated the pain when he pushed in.

“I’m gonna to go slow, don’t clench, ease back onto it so we get past your ring,” he directed.

George rubbed his crown up and down my oiled crease again, it felt divine, and then there was pressure at my entrance. The discomfort was worse as he pushed forth. I told myself wanted this, I wanted to please my beau, but by god, it hurt like the blazes, as bad as I’d imagined. I cried out, pushed back and suddenly after a burning sensation I was full…of George. We were connected, as one under God.

“Easy there, love, breathe, take your time, and tell me when to move.”

I wanted the intrusion gone and the words to tell him this were on the tip of my tongue, but involuntarily my hips moved, easing his prick deeper inside me. It touched something, a place inside me that sent a flood of pleasure and need through me.

“Move, please, gods, move, damn you!” I exclaimed, and George did, pulling his prick nearly all the way out and then sinking back down to hit that pleasure point. He did it again and again. I cried out with the bliss of it as my darling George undid me thrust by thrust.

George lay atop me and pounded his pego inside, grunting with the effort.

“You okay love?” he asked at my ear.

I turned my head and gave him a soppy grin. “Never better. I can’t get you deep enough. Now fuck me!”

George snickered and we kissed then. It was messy, all tongue and teeth with no finesse. I eased my hips up to meet each downward thrust and we soared together, my prick throbbing as it rubbed between the bed sheet and my abdomen. All too soon George cried out in his crisis and filled me with his hot spend. My own climax came on just as intensely, my untouched prick spurting once, twice; three times until every drop of semen I had oozed out of me. The feeling of George’s spill inside my body was strangely intimate, and I wanted to keep his prick there, locked inside my back passage like a dog waiting for his bollocks to empty. But alas, as soon as his prick started to soften, he eased out and rolled over flopping on the bed beside me. He turned his lust drunk gaze on me and grinned wolfishly.

“That was fun…for me anyways. How was it for you?”

“I think you might have killed me. I can’t move, even though I’m lying in my own mess and I have yours seeping from my rear,” I chuckled, still riding on the wave of euphoria our love making had produced.

“I’ll clean you up love, don’t fret.”

That was the second time George had called me love. Was it a turn of phrase, or did George’s feelings go deeper than lust? I hoped so, because, after what we’d just done, I was sure my feelings did.

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