Cowgirl

With a sudden, possessive grip, you gripped her waist and shifted her body, guiding her to sit atop you. You felt her breath hitch as she adjusted, her legs bracing against the leather of the couch for stability. As she lowered herself down, the sensation was an electric shock, her tight walls sliding over your shaft with a slow, gripping pressure that made your vision blur. You locked your arms around her, pulling her chest flush against yours, and began to thrust upward with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The champagne silk of her dress was now a crumpled mess around her waist, a shimmering remnant of the woman she had been an hour ago.

You watched the frantic bounce of her chest in your face, the way her breasts strained against the thin fabric of her dress with every jarring impact. Her breathing was a series of broken, staccato gasps, her head tossing from side to side as she fought to keep her balance. You could feel the slickness of her pussy coating your thighs, a wet, slapping sound accompanying every deep, driving stroke. You tightened your hold on her, your fingers digging into the soft curve of her hips, anchoring her to you as you drove yourself deeper into her core, pushing her toward a second, more violent peak.

The pressure in your gut began to coil, a tightening knot of heat that radiated from your balls to the base of your spine. You felt the internal contractions of her pussy tighten around you, a rhythmic squeezing that signaled her own approaching climax. The world narrowed down to the point of contact, the visceral slide of skin on skin and the heavy, wet thrum of your heartbeats syncing. You could feel the orgasm building, a tidal wave of release that threatened to shatter your control, leaving you poised on the jagged edge of a total, blinding surrender.