He will have some fun with Sigríður

Simon let the afterglow settle for a moment, Muriel still draped across his chest, her breaths slowing into soft, contented sighs. Part of him considered calling Sigríður over, the thought was having her kneel between Muriel’s thighs, tongue working to lap up every trace of his release, swallowing it down with the same reverence she now held for him. Before his command she had been openly lesbian, or at least that was the impression the building gossip gave; making her devour his cum from another woman would have carried a certain poetic symmetry.

But he held back.

The vindictive streak running through Simon tightened instead. Sigríður had not merely stood by while his relationship with Emily slowly decayed. Tkaing advantage after the fact would not be an issue. That she had actively accelerated the process with quiet conversations in the gym, late-night texts, and carefully planted doubts that sharpened Emily’s natural frustrations into something far meaner was the issue.

Now, Simon was of the opinion Emily had always been capable of her own choices, and she had made them. Regardless, Sigríður had been the steady hand guiding the knife, turning Emily not only against Simon but also against her father, her brothers, and every man who had ever mattered in her life. The outcome was a girlfriend who became entitled, hostile, ungrateful, arrogant, and thoroughly unpleasant. It had gotten to the point where Simon had already resolved to end things long before this power entered the picture.

The two women she’d brought home that night had only confirmed it. Ashlynn and Lauren tangled in his guest room while Emily slept it off on the couch. If Simon hadn’t gained this ability, the relationship would have ended in shouting and slammed doors. Instead it had flipped entirely in his favour: three women now bound to him, lovers by decree. Convenient. Satisfying.

It still didn’t erase Sigríður’s role.

He had already given her far more than he’d taken. Attraction. Knowledge. A perfect professional identity. Healthier body, sharper skills. If anything, stripping away the steroids and testosterone cycles had only improved her. Yet some people would always find a reason to resent the gift.

Simon’s mouth curved.

“Sigríður,” he said.

The blonde’s pale blue eyes snapped to him instantly, lighting with naked eagerness at the sound of her name.

“Watching my penis inside Muriel, watching me cum, caused you to orgasm harder than you ever have before.”

“Ye—sssss—”

The word fractured into a long, guttural moan. Sigríður’s knees buckled beneath her. She dropped hard to the carpet, back arching in a sharp, involuntary bow as the climax tore through her body without warning or touch. Her massive shoulders shuddered violently. Thick thighs clamped together with **** ****, every powerful muscle standing out in stark, sculpted relief beneath the clinging black trousers. A low, broken sound ripped from her throat, half cry and half plea, as her frame convulsed in helpless, rolling waves she could not contain.

Her crisp white shirt stretched impossibly tight across her heaving chest. The thin fabric molded to the heavy swell of her breasts, outlining every curve while stiff, prominent nipples pressed insistently against it, begging for attention. Sweat bloomed across her brow and upper lip, glistening in the soft light like liquid diamonds. Fists drove hard into the carpet; her knuckles bleached white under the strain.

The orgasm pinned her in place, relentless and merciless. Each throbbing pulse echoed the command Simon had spoken, ripping fresh shudders through her towering frame. Sweat slicked every inch of her skin. Her body quaked—raw, unfiltered ecstasy rolling from deep inside until no part of her remained untouched by the overwhelming release.

When it finally began to ebb she collapsed forward onto her hands and knees, panting hard, chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. A faint tremor still ran through her powerful frame.

Simon eased Muriel off him with gentle pressure on her hips. She slid to the side, settling onto the sofa beside him with a dazed, sated smile, legs still parted, the evidence of their coupling glistening on her inner thighs. His erection stood tall and proud between them, slick and flushed.

“Crawl forward to me on your hands and knees,” he said, voice calm. “Bring your face close to my dick, but do not touch it.”

Sigríður obeyed without hesitation. She moved across the carpet on all fours, broad shoulders rolling with each deliberate advance, powerful arms flexing and bulging beneath the taut white shirt. When she reached him she knelt directly in front, then slowly lifted her upper body until her face hovered inches from his erection. Her short blonde hair fell forward, framing eyes now dark and glassy with raw hunger, lips parted as her warm breath ghosted over his sensitive skin.

“You will not touch it until I command you to,” Simon continued. “For now, you will simply savour the scent. It is the best thing you have ever smelled.”

Sigríður nodded once, small and fervent, then closed her eyes. She leaned in close, nostrils flaring as she pulled in a long, deep breath of his scent. Her jaw went slack at once. Full lips parted on a soft, helpless whimper. She inhaled again, slower, deliberate, savouring every note as her broad chest swelled and her heavy breasts strained the white shirt tighter. Drool welled at the corner of her mouth, a glistening thread slipping down her chin. Her breaths turned quick and shallow, ragged pants laced with needy little moans. Thick thighs shifted restlessly beneath her, powerful muscles flexing and clenching as fresh, aching heat coiled deep in her core.

She stayed there, held in place by a in dutiful stillness. Face hovering so close that Simon could feel the warm rush of every breathe against his skin..

Simon smirked, the expression slow and deliberate as he looked down at Sigríður’s flushed, upturned face.

“My rod needs polishing,” he said, voice low and even. “You can take the full length.”

The words settled into the air like a key turning in a lock. Sigríður’s glassy eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then fluttered half-shut as reality adjusted around the command. Her throat visibly relaxed, jaw loosening further, the muscles along her neck and shoulders softening in anticipation. A fresh shiver ran through her powerful frame, thighs clenching once more beneath her as the compulsion took root.

Simon felt the wet heat swallow him to the root in one greedy, unbroken glide. Sigríður’s throat rippled perfectly around every inch, lips sealing tight at the base while her cheeks hollowed with immediate, hungry suction. The sudden enveloping warmth yanked a rough groan from deep in his chest. Her tongue pressed flat underneath, cradling his full length as though it had always belonged buried there.

She held him deep, motionless for one long, aching heartbeat. Those pale blue eyes lifted to meet his, pupils blown wide with worship, shimmering with unshed tears of strain and adoration. Drool escaped the stretched corners of her mouth, sliding in slow glossy trails down her chin until it dripped onto the carpet. A muffled moan vibrated straight through his shaft, pulling another jagged sound from his throat.

Then came her withdrawal, slow and deliberate, torturously drawn out. Sigríður’s lips dragged firmly along every swollen vein and raised ridge, applying delicious friction that made Simon’s breath hitch. Her tongue swirled lazy teasing circles around the flushed sensitive head, flicking the slit once before she plunged forward again, swallowing him whole in one smooth ravenous stroke.

Slick glucks and wet filthy glides echoed through the room, broken only by her needy muffled whimpers that vibrated straight down his shaft. Simon’s fingers sank deep into the leather sofa cushions; his hips jerked upward once as raw pleasure knotted hot and tight in his gut. Broad shoulders rolled powerfully with each descent. Thick arms braced hard against his thighs, fingertips digging into muscle, anchoring her as she worked him with single-minded hunger.

Sweat gleamed along Sigríður’s hairline, short blonde strands plastered to her flushed, heated skin. The white shirt clung damply to her heaving chest, the thin fabric outlining the heavy swell of her breasts while stiff nipples stabbed insistently against it with every frantic bob of her head. Thick thighs quivered beneath her, hips shifting restlessly as dark wet patches bloomed across the black trousers, arousal pouring from her core and soaking through in visible streaks. Yet her rhythm never faltered. Every slide of her lips and every greedy swallow remained reverent and relentless, an act of pure, trembling devotion that owned her completely.

Now Simon's breaths rasped harsh and uneven, as he let his hand settle on the back of Sigríður’s head. He felt the powerful flex of her scalp beneath his palm as she drove her mouth down faster, never once pushing or pulling, simply anchoring himself in the rhythm she set. The wet suction of Sigríður’s lips tightened around him with every plunge, her throat yielding effortlessly, taking him deep again and again. Pressure coiled low in his gut, merciless and mounting, each slick glide stoking the fire until it burned white-hot behind his eyes.

Tipping his head back slightly Simon's eyes drifted half-lidded. From that angle he watched Sigríður’s towering frame folded into perfect submission: mouth stretched wide around his cock, lips glossy and swollen, drool coating his shaft in thick shining strands that dripped steadily to the carpet. Every massive muscle in her body trembled visibly, quivering with the ****, single-minded need to please him completely.

Muriel reclined beside him on the sofa, legs splayed, fingers tracing slow slick circles over her swollen folds. Dark eyes tracked every movement with lazy, sated approval, lips curved in a knowing smile as Sigríður’s head bobbed quicker, moans vibrating deeper around Simon’s cock.

The pace surged. Sigríður’s cheeks hollowed deeper with each frantic pull, tongue pressing harder against the underside on every upstroke, throat opening wide to take him to the hilt in ****, hungry plunges. Her whimpers sharpened into urgent, muffled pleas that vibrated straight down his shaft, begging him silently to let go.

Drool poured freely now from the corners of Sigríður’s stretched lips, slicking Simon’s length in glossy rivers that coated every inch before dripping in thick, glistening strands onto the carpet below. Her entire body quaked. Broad muscles flexed and rippled in frantic rhythm across her back and shoulders. Powerful thighs trembled violently beneath her as fresh arousal leaked visibly down the insides of her black trousers, darkening the fabric in wet streaks that clung to her skin and traced shiny paths toward her knees.

Yey Sigríður never broke. She stayed locked in worship, utterly consumed by the act, every slick glide of her lips and greedy swallow of her throat a pure, trembling surrender offered up to him.

Simon’s fingers tightened in the short blonde strands of Sigríður’s hair, the heat of her scalp radiating against his palm as her head bobbed with frantic devotion. His hips rocked forward once more—shallow, instinctive—before the coil in his gut finally snapped.

A low, guttural groan tore from his throat as the first thick pulse erupted. Hot ropes of cum flooded Sigríður’s mouth in heavy spurts, coating her tongue and splashing against the back of her throat. Her cheeks puffed out instantly, ballooning with the sudden volume as she fought to contain it all. Wide pale blue eyes flicked up to his, shimmering with worshipful hunger, pupils blown black.

She didn’t pull back. Instead she sealed her lips tighter around the base, throat working visibly in greedy, rhythmic swallows. Each convulsive gulp pulled more of his release down, cheeks deflating slightly only to puff again with the next powerful jet. Drool and cum leaked from the corners of her stretched mouth in thin white rivulets, mixing and dripping in glossy strands down her chin to splatter onto her heaving chest and the soaked white shirt clinging to her breasts.

Sigríður moaned around Simon’s pulsing shaft, the deep, muffled sound rumbling straight through him and drawing a fresh shudder from his core. She swallowed eagerly, desperately, gulping down every thick spurt as though his cum were the single thing she had ever truly craved. Her tongue stayed pressed flat along the underside, stroking and milking him with firm, rhythmic pressure to coax out the last drops while her throat rippled in continuous, greedy swallows.

Wet, obscene gulping sounds echoed through the room, each one punctuated by her soft, needy whimpers of pure satisfaction. She kept her lips sealed tight, cheeks still slightly puffed from the volume she had taken, refusing to let a single drop escape until she had claimed it all. Her pale blue eyes remained locked on his, shimmering with raw adoration and the quiet thrill of total surrender.

Simon’s hips jerked again, shallower now, riding out the waves as the last spurts coated her tongue. She held him deep until the final tremor passed, cheeks still slightly rounded, then slowly drew back. Her lips dragged along his oversensitive length one last time before she released him with a wet pop.

Sigríður’s mouth stayed open for a heartbeat, showing the thick white coating on her tongue before she swallowed once more—slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving his. A thin trail of cum clung to her lower lip; she licked it away with a slow swipe of her tongue, then licked her swollen lips clean, savoring the taste.

Sigríður remained on her knees, chest heaving with heavy, uneven breaths that pushed her swollen breasts hard against the soaked white shirt. Saliva and the last traces of his release still shone on her chin, cheeks flushed a deep, feverish pink.

Without waiting for any word from him, she leaned forward once more. Full lips parted softly as she took the oversensitive head back into her mouth with reverent care. Simon hissed through his teeth at the first gentle contact—still tender from release, every nerve raw and alive. Her tongue moved in slow, deliberate circles around the tip, lapping up every lingering bead of cum with tender, wet strokes that sent sharp aftershocks racing up his spine. She sucked lightly, drawing the final faint drops from the slit; cheeks hollowed just enough to create gentle suction, and the soft pull made his thighs tense, fingers flexing against the leather sofa.

Drawing bakc ina slow gradual motion, Sigríður's lips dragged along Simon’s shaft in one lingering glide, collecting every last trace of glossy drool and semen until his length gleamed clean. The slow friction pulled a low, involuntary groan from him, the oversensitive skin prickling with each pass. At the base she paused, tongue flicking out to trace the thick vein in a single slow pass. Then came the swallow, so soft it was barely audible, yet Simon felt the subtle ripple of her throat travel through him like a quiet echo. Long, flat upward licks followed, erasing every remaining streak; each one dragged fresh sparks along his length, making his hips twitch despite himself.

A quiet wet pop sounded when her mouth finally released him. The sudden cool air against wet skin made him shudder. She swept her tongue across swollen lips, catching the final stray drop that clung to her lower lip, eyes locked on his the whole time. A faint, satisfied hum rumbled low in her throat, vibrating through the silence. Settling back onto her heels, she let her chin stay glistening, breaths still ragged, powerful frame trembling faintly from the lingering intensity.

She lifted her gaze to Simon. Pale blue eyes shone glassy with pure adoration, lips parted and wet. The sight—her flushed face, the shine on her chin, the way her chest rose and fell in heavy waves—sent a fresh, lazy pulse of heat through him even as the last tremors of release faded. He exhaled slowly, still catching his breath, watching her wait once more for whatever command he chose next.