In unison, we both declared, “I can hardly wait til Tuesday!” After we hung up, I left my vibe on my bed, at the ready should I need it again in the middle of the night. And I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Dreaming of Tuesday. The next two days of waiting were my own private hell. Made worse by my husband returning home Sunday, only to start up on his usual ranting nonsense about how I plotted with that rich family against him, his brother, and their father, even though all of that happened twenty or more years before I even met Frank. Finally, Tuesday morning arrived. I dressed for work in a crisp white blouse, no bra underneath. Navy blue miniskirt, my favorite tiny baby-blue lace panties and black two-inch spiked heels. I wanted to wow him. I wanted to make him very hard, to make him want to eat me sweetly and fuck me powerfully, non-stop, for the entire five hours we would have that motel room. I wanted him to want me to suck him over and over and over again, emptying gallons. I sat upright, took hold of his hard shaft and pointed the head at my cunt. I moved it along my gash, dipping into my entrance before circling my clit, over and over. I had fantasized about this moment for so many nights. Then I shifted his cock back and engulfed in it my pussy. As it slithered into me, I could feel it push against the bulbous end of the butt plug. The feeling of them squeezing the soft tissue between my rectum and pussy was exquisite, and the added tension made my vagina feel even tighter on his cock. I focused on that feeling as I pushed downward, rocking back and forth until I was sitting on his pelvis. I raised and lowered myself using my legs, hearing the soft clap of our bodies. I did this over and over, my canal squeezing and massaging his shaft, encouraging his cock to achieve its evolutionary function. I could feel the head of my son’s cock kissing my cervix each time I bottomed out. I pictured how it would soon be dripping with his thickening.
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