The Liberation Of Father Mortimer
- 3 years ago
- 67
- 0
Home Time free porn video
Hello! Just a short little story about you finally coming home after a long day. Enjoy!
Home Time
You come home from work. I can tell by the tense set of your shoulders that it's been a long, busy day, that you've been dragged through at least one boring meeting, and that you have been looking forward to 'decompressing' for many hours, which must have felt like days. I dislike your job a little on your behalf because I see what it does to your mood and your energy sometimes.
Then again, I'm going to be the one to profit from that. Right now. If you had a physically demanding job, you would be all tired in the evenings... and your desk job gets you nice and frustrated with pent-up energy that can be put to... other... uses... So maybe your current employment isn't all that bad...?
You step out of your shoes, wriggle out of your socks and pull your pants down with a flourish, your tie already dangling loosely around your neck. Your mind is either blurry from after-hours fatigue or focused on the tasks ahead because you don't see me sitting there until I say, with a firm voice, “Leave that on.”
Your hands still instantly on the shirt button they had been undoing. Your gaze lands on me and I swear I can feel its weight on my skin. My bare skin. I'm showing you a lot of it, lounging in your bedside chair as I am.
I'm wearing the same lacy underwear your favorite porn star is wearing at the start of that one movie you bookmarked. You know the one. The lace bralette through which you can see my nipples, peaked and tight as they are already. The almost see-through black boyshorts with the hot pink side ties that end in little ribbons. Garter belt, black silk stockings. The killer heels I like to call Fuck Me Shoes because fucking – preferably while lying down – is pretty much the only thing I can do in them.
I'm wearing nothing else. Nothing--- on the outside, at least...
I uncross and re-cross my long legs at a very leisurely pace, feeling like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct for a second, and while I'm spread out, your gaze slips exactly where I wanted it to go – where I meant it to go when I put the crotchless panties on... and put the pink plug in, earlier. I know you can see the finger loop peeking out between my cheeks, glistening a little with lube. As if hypnotized, you make the step toward me, for closer inspection, no doubt. I smile, let you come just a little closer while you absent-mindedly fiddle with your tie, and then say, “Stop.”
Like the good boy you are, you do. I gesture with one slow hand. “Onto the bed. On your back.”
You give me another slow once-over, and I know you are considering the pros and cons of disobedience and submission in this scenario. Three times out of five, my schemes backfire on me, the tables turn, you prowl toward me instead of complying and I am the one on the bed, on her back.
Whichever way things go, there are really only winners.
This time, though, you indulge me. You sit, lie back and stretch out in the center of the mattress, one gimlet eye fixed firmly on me. Waiting. “Arms over your head,” I say, and you turn your head up to find my cuffs there, half-hidden under the pillow and fixed to the headboard. I can heard you go “ahh” as you realize where this is going, a smooth, deep rumbling sound, and I do believe the outline in your boxer briefs is becoming more defined. You don't know half of it yet, though. I smile, slowly get up – both to give you a good show and to allow my body to find its bearing on ten inch heels and with a silicone plug up my rear – and walk over to you, to the foot end of the bed. With a practiced curtsy and pull, I bring up the two other straps from where they had been resting on the floor and show them to you. “Legs apart,” I say, then clamp the soft leather cuffs around your ankles as you offer them to me.
From your ankles, my hands slide up your legs. They are strong and defined, dusted with hair just right. I reach and stretch until I have to put my knee up on the mattress, then the other one. Letting my hands slide up further – all the way up your thighs, over your underwear – avoiding the bulge for now – over the shirt you didn't get to unbutton, up your chest... Your eyes take in the movements of my body as I slither up on you, focusing more and more on my breasts.
And indeed, while I get busy cuffing your wrists as well, I can't help but press myself into your face a little. You hum and nuzzle up against my skin, nipping at me through the flimsy lace bra. It takes me a long, long time to bind your hands properly. When I'm done, my bra is clinging to my skin from where you got it wet. Straddling your chest, I wriggle around in my now-moist garment, re-arranging it where your teeth have pulled it out of shape and adjusting my breasts until they are comfortable again, and tsk at your shenanigans. Your eyes are fixed on my hands, and I can almost feel your wish for those fingers to be yours instead.
Not today. Or at least not now. I play around with myself until you strain against your cuffs for the first time. Flashing you a wicked grin, I cease my teasing. Or rather – I cease this kind of teasing. Time for some retribution.
I scoot downward along your body, only very, very slightly nudging against that curve in your briefs with the soft, spongy flesh barely tucked into the split gusset of my panties, and position myself so that my hands can properly roam across your wide torso. Your shirt is straining, both from the way you're lying there with your hands raised over your head and from your muscles. I often wonder if there are women or gay guys at your workplace who get to admire the way your shirt hugs your chest and shoulders all damn day. A little aggravated by the thought, I rake my nails across the fabric, from your shoulders across your pecs all the way to your flat stomach. And then I do it again because of the noises you make at that. “Oh, this must be so vexing,” I comment and pout sympathetically and repeat the motion one more time, digging my claws in a little more and paying some attention to your pebbled nipples that clearly show under the silky material. Next, I lean down, open my mouth and bite one of them, pinching it with my teeth through the shirt, then lapping my tongue over it, saturating that spot of your shirt with my saliva, until you squirm nicely under me.
Then I move to the other one. Gotta be thorough.
My hands have found their way under the seam of your shirt, worming in under that tight fit and roaming your stomach and chest, feeling your ribs, brushing down your sides, feeling your breathing speed up. Especially when I fold my knees more, lower my ass and rub against your bulge eeeever so gently. This makes you buck your hips up to increase the friction, but I'm having none of that. Also, it earns you a hard bite that makes you hiss. “Aw, did that hurt? Poor thing,” I croon. “Here, let me kiss it better.” I reach up to unbutton the third button of your shirt, then gently kiss and suck the newly exposed skin, all of it, thoroughly. Then the fourth button, giving that area of your chest the same treatment. Then the fifth.
I know you are getting impatient, and frustrated. Frustrated and impatient equals desperate, and desperate you, with all that bottled-up energy, is a fantastic fuck, just the right kind of rough and fast. Also, the sight of you, bound and writhing helplessly, makes me wet. My underbelly tingles with the thoughts of all the things I could do to you before you manage to rip yourself loose. I would make it hurt so good...
But for today, I may have tortured you enough already, and you deserve your recompense. I unbutton the last button, press some kisses against your belly, then scoot farther downward to kiss and suck that spot above your hip, and finally, finally, let my fingers skim over your cock. It is twitching in your underwear, and there's a small wet spot at the tip that I can't help playing with – first with my fingertips, then with my mouth, trying to suck the taste out of the fabric. “It's no good,” I whine, giving you a pitying, crestfallen look and getting a heated glare in return. “I need to...” I trail off as I fold the waistband of your underwear back slowly, slowly, to uncover your straining erection, and then wrap my lips around the source of that sweet, musky taste as soon as it's accessible to me. Your groan of relief and appreciation sends warm sparks through me.
Having worked your underwear down as far as it will go, I wrap my hands around you as well and attend you as thoroughly and mindfully as ever. I swirl my tongue around on the glans and very gently nibble underside of the sensitive ridge while my fingers massage and stroke up and down your shaft, down to the root, tugging and pushing in time with my mouth, brushing your balls with every downstroke.
You moan, and I moan in response to create that vibration you love, and I know that I've worked you up enough to close in for the kill. The gentle fingers of my right hand slide down to your balls and search for that sensitive spot just beneath – aha. I press on your perineum, giving you a massage. Simultaneously, I suck your cock deep into my mouth and press the head against my palate with my tongue, while the tip of my tongue can play with the sensitive underside of your cock.
Judging by the sounds you are making, and by the way the muscles in your abdomen and thighs contract, I'm doing well and doing good. Now just some more suction, and another hum against your hot, hard flesh, and a glance up at your face, all contorted in pleasurable agony...
There is no adjective to describe the taste of your come, or the feeling I get when I feel it fill my mouth and shoot against the back of my throat. All I can think is “Oh, fuck, yes.” Your pleasure is mine, too.
Which reminds me of the pressing ache between my own legs that demands to be soothed. Now. Even in the Bible it says that you should pay like with like, and do as you were done by, and give back as you were given. Therefore, as I climb up on you, arrange my legs and your arms and get comfortable on your face, I figure that it is the will of the heavens to have my pussy eaten by you right now.
Lucky for me, you and I are apparently practicing the same religion. You are willing and eager, glory, hallelujah. Your tongue laps up my juices and spears into me without any hesitation, your head tilt invites me to grind my clit against your nose. I curse as I do exactly that, bury one hand in your hair to hold you just where I want you, and reach back with the other to tug on that fingerpull just a little. “Jesus fuck,” I gasp, and then my brain cooks up 'And then I sat on his face – now I'm a believer', and then, nothing much except expletives and moans and fireworks.
Boy, do I love it when you come home.
Home Time
You come home from work. I can tell by the tense set of your shoulders that it's been a long, busy day, that you've been dragged through at least one boring meeting, and that you have been looking forward to 'decompressing' for many hours, which must have felt like days. I dislike your job a little on your behalf because I see what it does to your mood and your energy sometimes.
Then again, I'm going to be the one to profit from that. Right now. If you had a physically demanding job, you would be all tired in the evenings... and your desk job gets you nice and frustrated with pent-up energy that can be put to... other... uses... So maybe your current employment isn't all that bad...?
You step out of your shoes, wriggle out of your socks and pull your pants down with a flourish, your tie already dangling loosely around your neck. Your mind is either blurry from after-hours fatigue or focused on the tasks ahead because you don't see me sitting there until I say, with a firm voice, “Leave that on.”
Your hands still instantly on the shirt button they had been undoing. Your gaze lands on me and I swear I can feel its weight on my skin. My bare skin. I'm showing you a lot of it, lounging in your bedside chair as I am.
I'm wearing the same lacy underwear your favorite porn star is wearing at the start of that one movie you bookmarked. You know the one. The lace bralette through which you can see my nipples, peaked and tight as they are already. The almost see-through black boyshorts with the hot pink side ties that end in little ribbons. Garter belt, black silk stockings. The killer heels I like to call Fuck Me Shoes because fucking – preferably while lying down – is pretty much the only thing I can do in them.
I'm wearing nothing else. Nothing--- on the outside, at least...
I uncross and re-cross my long legs at a very leisurely pace, feeling like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct for a second, and while I'm spread out, your gaze slips exactly where I wanted it to go – where I meant it to go when I put the crotchless panties on... and put the pink plug in, earlier. I know you can see the finger loop peeking out between my cheeks, glistening a little with lube. As if hypnotized, you make the step toward me, for closer inspection, no doubt. I smile, let you come just a little closer while you absent-mindedly fiddle with your tie, and then say, “Stop.”
Like the good boy you are, you do. I gesture with one slow hand. “Onto the bed. On your back.”
You give me another slow once-over, and I know you are considering the pros and cons of disobedience and submission in this scenario. Three times out of five, my schemes backfire on me, the tables turn, you prowl toward me instead of complying and I am the one on the bed, on her back.
Whichever way things go, there are really only winners.
This time, though, you indulge me. You sit, lie back and stretch out in the center of the mattress, one gimlet eye fixed firmly on me. Waiting. “Arms over your head,” I say, and you turn your head up to find my cuffs there, half-hidden under the pillow and fixed to the headboard. I can heard you go “ahh” as you realize where this is going, a smooth, deep rumbling sound, and I do believe the outline in your boxer briefs is becoming more defined. You don't know half of it yet, though. I smile, slowly get up – both to give you a good show and to allow my body to find its bearing on ten inch heels and with a silicone plug up my rear – and walk over to you, to the foot end of the bed. With a practiced curtsy and pull, I bring up the two other straps from where they had been resting on the floor and show them to you. “Legs apart,” I say, then clamp the soft leather cuffs around your ankles as you offer them to me.
From your ankles, my hands slide up your legs. They are strong and defined, dusted with hair just right. I reach and stretch until I have to put my knee up on the mattress, then the other one. Letting my hands slide up further – all the way up your thighs, over your underwear – avoiding the bulge for now – over the shirt you didn't get to unbutton, up your chest... Your eyes take in the movements of my body as I slither up on you, focusing more and more on my breasts.
And indeed, while I get busy cuffing your wrists as well, I can't help but press myself into your face a little. You hum and nuzzle up against my skin, nipping at me through the flimsy lace bra. It takes me a long, long time to bind your hands properly. When I'm done, my bra is clinging to my skin from where you got it wet. Straddling your chest, I wriggle around in my now-moist garment, re-arranging it where your teeth have pulled it out of shape and adjusting my breasts until they are comfortable again, and tsk at your shenanigans. Your eyes are fixed on my hands, and I can almost feel your wish for those fingers to be yours instead.
Not today. Or at least not now. I play around with myself until you strain against your cuffs for the first time. Flashing you a wicked grin, I cease my teasing. Or rather – I cease this kind of teasing. Time for some retribution.
I scoot downward along your body, only very, very slightly nudging against that curve in your briefs with the soft, spongy flesh barely tucked into the split gusset of my panties, and position myself so that my hands can properly roam across your wide torso. Your shirt is straining, both from the way you're lying there with your hands raised over your head and from your muscles. I often wonder if there are women or gay guys at your workplace who get to admire the way your shirt hugs your chest and shoulders all damn day. A little aggravated by the thought, I rake my nails across the fabric, from your shoulders across your pecs all the way to your flat stomach. And then I do it again because of the noises you make at that. “Oh, this must be so vexing,” I comment and pout sympathetically and repeat the motion one more time, digging my claws in a little more and paying some attention to your pebbled nipples that clearly show under the silky material. Next, I lean down, open my mouth and bite one of them, pinching it with my teeth through the shirt, then lapping my tongue over it, saturating that spot of your shirt with my saliva, until you squirm nicely under me.
Then I move to the other one. Gotta be thorough.
My hands have found their way under the seam of your shirt, worming in under that tight fit and roaming your stomach and chest, feeling your ribs, brushing down your sides, feeling your breathing speed up. Especially when I fold my knees more, lower my ass and rub against your bulge eeeever so gently. This makes you buck your hips up to increase the friction, but I'm having none of that. Also, it earns you a hard bite that makes you hiss. “Aw, did that hurt? Poor thing,” I croon. “Here, let me kiss it better.” I reach up to unbutton the third button of your shirt, then gently kiss and suck the newly exposed skin, all of it, thoroughly. Then the fourth button, giving that area of your chest the same treatment. Then the fifth.
I know you are getting impatient, and frustrated. Frustrated and impatient equals desperate, and desperate you, with all that bottled-up energy, is a fantastic fuck, just the right kind of rough and fast. Also, the sight of you, bound and writhing helplessly, makes me wet. My underbelly tingles with the thoughts of all the things I could do to you before you manage to rip yourself loose. I would make it hurt so good...
But for today, I may have tortured you enough already, and you deserve your recompense. I unbutton the last button, press some kisses against your belly, then scoot farther downward to kiss and suck that spot above your hip, and finally, finally, let my fingers skim over your cock. It is twitching in your underwear, and there's a small wet spot at the tip that I can't help playing with – first with my fingertips, then with my mouth, trying to suck the taste out of the fabric. “It's no good,” I whine, giving you a pitying, crestfallen look and getting a heated glare in return. “I need to...” I trail off as I fold the waistband of your underwear back slowly, slowly, to uncover your straining erection, and then wrap my lips around the source of that sweet, musky taste as soon as it's accessible to me. Your groan of relief and appreciation sends warm sparks through me.
Having worked your underwear down as far as it will go, I wrap my hands around you as well and attend you as thoroughly and mindfully as ever. I swirl my tongue around on the glans and very gently nibble underside of the sensitive ridge while my fingers massage and stroke up and down your shaft, down to the root, tugging and pushing in time with my mouth, brushing your balls with every downstroke.
You moan, and I moan in response to create that vibration you love, and I know that I've worked you up enough to close in for the kill. The gentle fingers of my right hand slide down to your balls and search for that sensitive spot just beneath – aha. I press on your perineum, giving you a massage. Simultaneously, I suck your cock deep into my mouth and press the head against my palate with my tongue, while the tip of my tongue can play with the sensitive underside of your cock.
Judging by the sounds you are making, and by the way the muscles in your abdomen and thighs contract, I'm doing well and doing good. Now just some more suction, and another hum against your hot, hard flesh, and a glance up at your face, all contorted in pleasurable agony...
There is no adjective to describe the taste of your come, or the feeling I get when I feel it fill my mouth and shoot against the back of my throat. All I can think is “Oh, fuck, yes.” Your pleasure is mine, too.
Which reminds me of the pressing ache between my own legs that demands to be soothed. Now. Even in the Bible it says that you should pay like with like, and do as you were done by, and give back as you were given. Therefore, as I climb up on you, arrange my legs and your arms and get comfortable on your face, I figure that it is the will of the heavens to have my pussy eaten by you right now.
Lucky for me, you and I are apparently practicing the same religion. You are willing and eager, glory, hallelujah. Your tongue laps up my juices and spears into me without any hesitation, your head tilt invites me to grind my clit against your nose. I curse as I do exactly that, bury one hand in your hair to hold you just where I want you, and reach back with the other to tug on that fingerpull just a little. “Jesus fuck,” I gasp, and then my brain cooks up 'And then I sat on his face – now I'm a believer', and then, nothing much except expletives and moans and fireworks.
Boy, do I love it when you come home.
Jerri
- 28.09.2020
- 5
- 0
