She slid her fingers out from her hot, wet pussy and brought them up to his face, rubbing them over his nose and lips and allowing him to hungrily suck the essence from her digits.
“Do you like that?” she purred.
“Yes,” he croaked. Deeply.
He went back to sucking her tits while she continued to finger herself, hips reciprocally thrusting against her fingers. He moaned. He wanted that pussy. He wanted to eat it and fuck it and be consumed by it. Worship it. Die for it.
She brought the fingers up to his mouth again. He again sucked them clean.
“Can you taste me?”
“Sit back. Watch me.”
He got back up on his knees, one inside her open legs, the other outside, and watched her sink her fingers into her snatch and rub and pinch her own nipples. And he moaned. How he craved her body. How sexy she looked playing with herself. The penis, freed from its containment specifically for this event, bobbed and throbbed and leaked nectar. He couldn’t touch it. Only she should. He couldn’t come. Only she could. He could do nothing unless she said. And what she said was to watch. So he did. And it burned.
How long had is been since he was last inside her? A month? More? How long had it been since he last climaxed? Four months? Still so long to go, if it ever happened. If she ever let it happen again.
Once more, the fingers in his mouth. He wanted her so badly and her scent and taste were powerfully received as every masculine receptor in his body yearned for her like a daisy reaching for the sun. He ached for everything she was. He was near tears because of it. And so grateful that she knew what he needed and gave it to him. The loving torment. The adoring torture. His body sang with cravings she would not sate. She knew, that’s what was best for him. For her. For them both.
Squirm. Suffer. Love.