Suck it.

Your words come out in a husky rasp, the hangover making your voice rough as you lock eyes with her, hips thrusting up into her hand. 'Why don't you suck my dick?' She pauses her strokes, arching a brow with that predatory gleam, then chuckles low, sliding down the bed without a word. Her lips part, tongue flicking out to lap at the sore head of your cock, tasting the salty pre-cum before she engulfs you in wet heat. She sucks hard, hollowing her cheeks, bobbing her head with sloppy enthusiasm, no mercy on the tenderness, her teeth grazing just enough to make you buck and groan. Saliva drips down your shaft as she takes you deeper, throat relaxing to swallow around you, humming vibrations that shoot straight to your balls. You tangle fingers in her hair, guiding her rhythm, the ache blending into throbbing need as she works you relentlessly, one hand squeezing your base while the other teases your stretched hole, dipping in knuckle-deep to curl against your prostate.

It doesn't take long, the buildup from her earlier teasing pushes you over fast. You grunt, hips snapping up as you flood her mouth with hot spurts of cum, her swallowing every drop with greedy gulps, milking you dry until you're spent and twitching. She pulls off with a pop, licking her lips, a string of saliva connecting her to your softening length. 'There, all better?

Panting, you swing your legs over the bed's edge, the room spinning faintly from the hangover. Your body's a map of aches, thighs quivering, ass clenching around phantom fullness, cock slick and raw between your legs. Without a second thought, the ****'s lingering fog nudges your hands toward her drawer instead of yours. You snag the sheer black stockings first, rolling them up your calves and thighs, the nylon hugging your skin with a silky whisper that feels oddly right, garters snapping into place to hold them taut. The g-string follows, thin fabric wedging between your cheeks, cupping your balls and the base of your dick in lace that scratches lightly against the soreness. You clasp the matching bra around your chest, the cups empty but the straps biting into your shoulders, a strange comfort settling in your gut. Over it all, you pull on loose gym shorts and a baggy tank, the outfit hiding the feminine layers beneath, but every shift of fabric reminds you, the suspenders tugging, panties riding up as you stand. Your wife watches from the bed, smirking, not commenting yet, just eyeing you like she knows exactly what's brewing under that casual cover.