You ease your jaw open with a sensual yawn, your eyes closing with his as you press your lips to the velvet sheen of his glans, feeling the smooth thick throb of his loving cock pushing over your tongue and slowly filing your mouth.

Gently stroking your head forward and back, feeling the rub of his cock stretching your lips. Hearing his pleasure groaning above you, his one hand held high, hoisting your wrists, his other hand clenching to a fist, gripping and releasing your thick hair as you dare to draw more of him inside you.

“Fuck!” he groans with gratified approval, and the sound of his arousal turns you on far beyond the rub and throb of his slow-moving sex sliding inside your mouth.

With devious intention he lets his grip slip from your hair and dropping his shoulder he stoops, his arm reaching low, pushing his hand down inside the open neckline of your dress, his fingers spreading out to smother your chest, cupping and squeezing the firm of your breast, your nipple rolling under his palm, hardening, getting trapped between his knuckles and aching for the playful pull of his pinch and grip.

His hips gently begin to sway, his thighs, glutes and abdominal muscles flexing and contracting, gaining a slow and easy rhythm, a rolling motion of soft fucking, as his cock rubs full inside your mouth. Until you sense a tightening in his stroke and a shortening in his breath, his cock flexing, hardened, rigid, aching to cum. He’s so close.

Low on your haunches, thighs spread, you feel the weight of your sex, pressing wet into the stretch of your knickers. Your mind spiraling again, summoning thoughts of his fingers pawing and clawing at your aching cunt, peeling your panties away to finger-fuck you with horny demand.

He feels your wrists snagging at the leather noose of his belt and he knows you’re close, your clit tingling with a desperate need for attention, wanting to feel her hood feathered and stroked. His thighs and buttocks clenching tight, his balls gripped with fighting to hold on, but he knows he’s reaching the edge of his self-control.

Another fantasy flashes through you. The front door bursting open and your husband in the hallway, his listless eyes now igniting with fury and indignation, finding his wife, crouching on her haunches, sucking passionately on her lover’s big fat cock.

You imagine his expression slowly twisting, a black look of wide-eyed shock, his naivety slain, a thunderous storm of ferocity and outrage rolling over him, robbing him of his usual smug apathy, realizing the depth of his underestimation, his focus fixing on the stretch of your mouth and the muffled movement of his cock slowly sliding and rubbing inside.

“Fuck!” your lover cries out, crashing through the layer of this fantasy, his vertebrae flexing, tendons tightening, musculature in spasm, his lungs gasping for air as his orgasm bursts through his lower spine, a splintering of shrapnel shattering his senses, his eyes rolling, head tipping backward until he’s close to toppling, his cock throbbing with cum.

You swallow the thick cream of his sweet spunk, oyster rich, decadent and dirty. His body crumpling above you, exhausted. His one hand slipping from the bruise of your gripped breast, the other lowering, leaving the leather belt noose tied around your wrists to slacken.

He offers his hand and helps you to your feet and you use his arm to steady yourself against the giddiness and light-headedness that follows, all the while trying to straighten your disheveled dress and regain your composure.

His burnt hazel eyes fix with yours, your lips bruised with rouge kissing, their desire undampened. “Let’s get you upstairs” he insists, knowing full well you’re close and in need of his finishing touches.

“I can’t” you complain, “he’ll be home any minute”

~

Reaching the edge of the final field you drift back into the present, departing from your casual daydreaming to look up into the sky and catch the last of the light fading.

With your hands hidden in their respective pockets, you squeeze the smooth pebble and think of me, while curiously wondering what you might find written on that tiny scroll of paper, buried deep and rolled so tight inside that little silver-chained glass vial?

Should we go on…?