My hair is messy. I haven’t brushed it yet, just gathered it loosely up into a knot. Stray strands hang down, curling along my neck and sway as I move. I have no makeup on and am aware that I am not at my best, but we are comfortable together, you and I. There is no rush to change yet.
Your computer occasionally clicks with a brief staccato when you tap the keys with quick fingers. You are seated off to the side, bare feet poking out of jeans, doing whatever it is you do. I don’t ask; the companionable silence is enough for me. In any case, I have my own tasks I am doing.
From time to time I see you glance my way with a slightly bemused look on your face, as you watch me over your slowly emptying coffee cup. Upon spying that look, I break off self-consciously, no longer half dancing and certainly not giving voice. But it doesn’t take long before I forgetfully resume my singing and little dancing steps again.
My cleaning supplies are stored under the sink, and every time I need a new cloth or more soap I bend over at the waist, flirty hips bouncing a little with the music. You are doing more watching and less work now, but the chores are almost done, just the cleaned dishes to be put away. I stretch up, putting the glasses on the top shelf of the cupboard. The shirt rides high over my black cotton covered bum, showing just a flash of pale skin, before I drop my arms and with them the shirt. I repeat the process again, and yet again, as I empty the drainer.
“Come fucking here, You,” my boy growls, interrupting me in my work. I turn around, questioning, wondering what I have done. Looking over, I see you sitting there with your cock straining your jeans tight. A smile tugs at my lips; I know what it is that I have done and what you want from me. We have been here before, but the game excites me still.
Dancing steps closer, I ask innocently, “Yes, dear?”
You reach out and grasp the hem of my old tee-shirt, tugging me close. I slide into you, hands gripping your firm shoulders, as you bury your nose in those black knickers. Your warm breath on my bare skin tickles and I squirm, giggling.
“Distracting minx,” you scold me, “Naughty angel.” Fingers still cold from the morning chill slide under my tee-shirt; your thumbs rub across my nipples, teasing. They respond by standing hard, drawing the skin tight. I moan in response, already dampening those nuzzled panties.
“Do you see what you have done?” you demand in that low growl, the one that turns me molten.
Doe-eyed, I inquire, “What should I do about it?”
“Fix it,” you say, standing and shedding your jeans. Your cock is already rock hard in your hand as you grasp the knot of hair on my head. I sink easily to the floor, tongue darting out to wet my lips with anticipation.
My lips slide round your cock with practiced ease. It always stretches them tight. I push down, drawing your hard cock deep, skin smooth as satin drawing across my tongue. I sigh contentedly as you fill my mouth, lips forming an O around you.
“That’s my girl,” you groan as I go to work pleasing you. I draw hard with my lips, puckering them as they squeeze tight. They bunch and pull as I move along your shaft. I struggle to take your length, but you are patient with me, knowing ultimately you will be buried, completely sheathed in my mouth. Lips, hands, mouth and tongue are all coordinating, working with one goal in mind.
I feed you in and out of my mouth hungrily. My tight lips are moist, and a drop of my spit has worked its way out to collect at the corner. Your cock makes wet noises as it passes across them.
“Good Angel,” your hands are tight on my hair, holding it by the very convenient handle the knot has made. Looking up at you from the floor, I smile, lips still tightly wrapped around your staff. I look you in the eyes, even though I know you don’t care for the scrutiny. but I see your face, and know that my effort is being appreciated. Locking eyes, mine on your hazel ones; I drive down with my lips. Down to the base, I take you. My eyes water with the effort, and if it weren’t for those puckered, straining lips I’d never make it. I hold, still locked on your gaze, showing you my devotion. Withdrawing, I gasp a quick deep breath and return to my task.
“Come on, Baby” you demand, “Finger that pretty puss.” Eager as always to do your command, I slip busy fingers into my sopping snatch; I started to get wet the moment you called me from my chores. Here, on my knees, with your hand buried in my silky strands and your cock stuffing my mouth, I am surrounded by and possessed by you. I work busy fingers in and out, filling my need. I am fast approaching a quick climax, fueled by your cock, and my, your, fingers in me. You have stuffed me full, dear boy.
Your hand holding my hair guides me. It gently pushes up and down, sometimes in short, fast strokes, sometimes long and slow, holding at the end. It is this hand taking the control that pushes me over the edge, gasping and moaning in release through sealed lips. I gasp quickly, panting really, as I come; your Dirty Angel, dripping pussy juice down my fingers onto the hardwood floors. In an irrelevant kind of way, I think of the mopping that will need to be done again.
“Best, distracting, pretty girl,” you hold my hair affectionately until my quaking subsides, then pull me from the floor. I feed my cunt flavored fingers to you, knowing you like the scent and taste of me. Your eyes are cloudy with lust as you suck them clean. I remove my fingers and replace them with my lips, kissing you. I taste myself on your lips, my wetness painted there with my dirty fingers.
“Turn around,” you order and like a bitch in heat I do, spreading my legs for you. A slight push from your hand still buried in my hair and I bend across the overstuffed arm, knowing exactly what is needed. You hook your thumbs in my cotton pants and tug them down impatiently. I lift first one leg and then another obligingly, leaving them discarded on the floor.
Your cock is pressing against me now, and again I am moaning with my desire. I want you to fill me, but you are making me wait. I lean back against you, feeling your glorious cock brush against my dampened lips as you rub my ass, thumb brushing across my little button.
Whimpering with my need now, I whisper, “Please.”
“Please, what?” you ask, making me beg for it.
“Please. Pleaaase,” I plead. You rub your cock across my lips again in response.
“Tell me what my girl wants,” you demand of me.
“Please fuck me!” I beg.
And you do. Sinking into my wet pussy, you fill me tight. I rock back against you, as you grasp my hips and thrust, claiming your prize.
“Dirty girl,” you groan, “My slutty angel.” My tits bounce with each thrust, jiggling under my shirt. I gasp with sharp inhalations each time you push deep.
My fingers are working furiously again, rubbing. This is no slow lazy fuck. Rather this is an urgent coupling, hasty, passionate. Straining, it is selfish and demanding.
As the need grows deeper, I raise up on toe tips, straining. My muscles clench tight, squeezing, and I ride that delicious high edge. You are filling me, taking me, and I belong to you.
“Come for me again, Girl,” you insist, and like the slut you make me, I oblige, crashing over the edge.
Moaning, panting, I start to rise with my orgasm, but your hand still holds on to my knotted hair and keeps me down. Thwarted with my chest still down over the sofa, my legs shake. I am exploding under you, my juice running in streams down my leg to the once clean floor. Your cock makes wet squishy sounds as it drives into my hungry cunt, pumping into me. The cushions are balled into my clenched fists.
You continue to fuck me through my fury, but you are approaching your edge too. I can tell from the subtle change in your rhythm. You’re taking long, strong end strokes, and my last pussy twitches are about to finish you off.
Grunting, you lean back, spilling your seed deep within me. I smile a satisfied grin as you hold my hair, pulling it in gentle tugs with each shudder. Your cock twitches and as you finish filling me, you release your grip on my hair.
The loosened knot tumbles free in a tangle down my back and you pillow your head on it. My boy and his girl resting there, hearts racing, skin to skin; we aren’t saying a word. But then words aren’t always necessary. Sometimes, all you have to do is just breathe together.