The Lick

He lay beside her nude body and cupped her breasts as he thrusted into her. She moaned with pleasure as she felt the extension of his body in her own. They had been waiting for this moment of sex for a long time; he was a writer and was always traveling and she was a lonely woman of the house. The man, determined to perform well, was focusing on anything he could to ensure that his climax was not premature.

"I would like a little more speed," she moaned. He answered he request with a little more speed. Not too much though, because that would cause him to cum. As his thrust occurred, he found himself facing an unrelenting force of cock-stimulation. He tried to think of sports, but it was too much. He thought of a heavily armored space craft in the heat of battle; that did nothing as well. He was concerned about an early splash, even though she was moaning like a waterfall. He had to figure it out. Was it her pussy, the lick or maybe both? Her vagina had a piece in it that by all means should be called a tongue. However, in hopes of keeping tongues mouth-exclusive, they called it the lick and carried on fucking like normal sex-fucks.

He reached his hands into the air as he felt his blow coming. It was definitely the lick; he had determined this when he rested his cock for a brief second and still felt the pleasure-touch. He felt the orgasm coming and let it release. The cums shot into her tightness and the lick moved them about. His penis had become sensitive after the cum and the lick was too much. He quickly pulled out, accidentally hitting his head on the corner of the nightstand. He passed out cold.

The next morning the man woke up to breakfast in bed with his fuckable wife. They fucked amongst eggs and toast and hoisted a banner of the American flag above the sex. Post-cum wounds always led to breakfast-fuck and he knew it.