Reverse cowgirl

With a sudden, forceful movement, you gripped her waist and shifted your weight, sliding out of her with a wet, suctioning sound. You sat back against the plush cushions, your legs spread wide, and hauled her up until she was straddling you. You guided her hips, positioning her so her back was turned to you, her spine a delicate curve of ivory against the amber light. Maya sank down onto you in one slow, agonizing descent, her breath hitching as she felt the full length of you stretch her open once more.

She began to ride you in a reverse cowgirl rhythm, her hips grinding in a slow, circular motion that maximized every single nerve ending. From your vantage point, you could see the rhythmic sway of her breasts and the way her champagne silk dress draped over her shoulders like a fallen curtain. The sight was a visual feast, the contrast of her pale skin and the crimson velvet creating a vivid, erotic tableau. She leaned forward, her hands searching for purchase on the couch, her movements becoming more frantic as she chased the ghost of the peak you had promised her.

The pressure inside you reached a breaking point, the tight, wet clench of her walls squeezing your shaft with every downward plunge. Your breath became a series of shallow, jagged gasps, your fingers digging into the soft meat of her thighs to anchor her. You could feel the buildup in your loins, a tidal wave of heat that threatened to crash over you. As she accelerated her pace, her movements becoming a blur of desperate friction, you felt the first violent surge of your climax beginning to erupt, the world narrowing down to the singular, electric point where your bodies collided.

You don't want to withdraw. The idea of pulling away from this warmth, of leaving her empty, felt like a waste of the tension you had carefully cultivated. You want to leave a permanent mark of your presence inside her, to saturate her with the weight of your release.