Doggy style but it turns into him on top of you, chest pressed against your back, his weight on top of you as he fucks into you with pretty groans…..
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Doggy style but it turns into him on top of you, chest pressed against your back, his weight on top of you as he fucks into you with pretty groans…..
Neeeeed that kind of head where he’s got an arm wrapped around your thigh pushing your legs open further so he can really, really get in and properly bury his face in your cunt nice and deep like you deserve. The kind of head where you can tell it’s still not enough and he wants more, more, more of you, moaning into you loudly and holding you firmly in place so you can’t squirm away from his mouth. He wants you so intensely, has such a visceral longing to taste you and pull pretty sounds from you, and he won’t stop until he’s had his fill or until you physically can’t take it anymore, whichever comes first.
Craving slooow, deep, worshipful, sleepy sex. Hands grabbing my waist from behind, their hold firm as their fingers dig in just a little bit…. Fucking me nice and deep so I jolt forward a little bit into the soft pillows with their thrusts. If my eyes feel heavy, they don’t need to stay open. If my head feels heavy, I don’t need to keep it up. I can just be soft and loved and taken care of and know that this is making them feel good, too. Warm and pliant and sweet for them. Always so good for them.
I just want that fictional man to fuck me absolutely stupid. His smart, sharp-tongued girl reduced to a babbling, whimpering mess as I gasp out broken pleas for his cock, for him to go deeper, faster, give me more. My gaze going all pretty and glassy, my mouth falling open with shameless moans, and I can barely string a sentence together, mostly just the occasional whine of his name or “please” or various swears. The more he makes me feel good, the more my mind floods with pleasure, the less I can even manage an intelligible answer when he asks how it feels, if I’m close, if he should keep going. It’s okay. He knows what those frantic nods and whimpers mean: don’t fucking stop. I crave it. I need it. I love you.
Ahem. Telling your f/o that they give your pussy butterflies when they sweet talk you, but not just leaving it at that—giving them a demonstration of exactly what you mean. Having them nestle inside you and say what they said again, whatever sweet praise or pet name made your head spin, specifically so they can feel the way that you flutter and pulse around them. Watching the realization dawn on their face that oh, you really weren’t kidding, weren’t just saying that to be sexy or cute. No, you meant that they really do turn you on that much, that just some pretty words or the way their voice sounds can make you respond that way, your pretty little cunt so eager for them.
Fictional man pushing inside you for the first time and stopping to exhale a low, shaky groan, tipping his head back as his eyes flutter closed for a moment because you’re just so hot and tight and perfect around him. He fits so perfectly inside you, and he has to try to make himself focus as your walls flutter and pulse around him—like that pretty pussy is trying to pull him in deeper, greedy for more. It was already a snug fit, but you feel like soft, wet, needy heaven wrapped around him, and he thinks he could get addicted to you very easily.
I need him pulling me in with a firm hold on my hips, fingers pressing into skin as he moves me closer, quick and smooth and leaving no room for argument. I need him tugging me closer on the bed before burying his face between my legs, his hands strong and warm and certain as he holds me still, holds me open for him, keeping me pressed up against his face so he can devour me, my hips tilted up to get the perfect angle. I want him keeping me from squirming away from the sensation as I start to writhe from the intense pleasure. He’s going to take his damn time tasting me, and he’s going to make sure I enjoy every second.
I would let him hit in any position he wants honestly