EPILOGUE: SIX MONTHS LATER
Minnie
“Oh, God. Oh, Jesus, Mr. Matheson!” I moan as he nuzzles my neck and his fingers work magic between my legs. I don’t have any frame of reference for my body these days. It’s like Brock transforms me from a normal woman into a woman particularly receptive to pleasure, some kind of sexual being with an absolutely endless capacity for sexual bliss.
I slide my hands up his side and take hold of his head, lifting his face so we make eye contact. “God, I need you inside of me. Please, Mr. Matheson!”
He smiles a kind of cocky smile and growls, “Patience, little girl.”
For Pete’s sake! Cocky smile. Growl. Baby girl. All three of those things may as well be a vibrator pressed against my clit and turned to the highest possible setting. Talk about particularly receptive to pleasure! When a smile, a growl, and a pet name translate into little bursts of pleasure and even more desperate arousal, you might as well call me a sex goddess.
No. I guess it’s more like Brock is some kind of sex god and I’m his devoted… what are those people called? Priestesses? No. more helpless.
Acolyte. That’s it. He’s a sex god and I’m his acolyte. “Mr. Matheson!” I cry as my orgasm hits. He keeps his hand at my clit and I can’t speak. The moment I get breath, I’ll beg him to fuck me.
No, I won’t. The kids are in the house.
Wait. Yes, I will. The kids are in the house but it’s Brock’s house and that means they won’t hear me because the house is huge and they’re probably at the pool right now hanging out with Melanie home for winter break.
Of course, none of that matters at all because I can’t fucking breathe!
And then brock moves suddenly. He flips me over, lifts me by my hips, and slides into me from behind. I let out a loud moan, gulp in some oxygen, and cry out, “Yes! Oh, yes!” I’m flat on the bed, not up on my hands and knees. In fact, only my ass is up, just enough for him to get into me. This angle is particularly good, shockingly good.
He leans down from behind me and kisses my shoulders as his hands slide up and take hold of my breasts. He pinches my nipples softly, and that’s all it takes to drive me over the edge. I can’t tell him I’m cumming as once again my ability to speak disappears. The pleasure shoots over me and my body shakes as he moves with even more speed and power.
When he cums, I manage some noise but it can’t possibly be described as speaking.
Later, in the shower, he asks, “Are you always going to call me Mr. Matheson during sex?”
“Probably,” I say with a giggle.
“Well then, what if I start calling you Miss King?”
I giggle again. “You won’t get much sex at all if you call me that.”
He smiles and asks, “Okay, what about Mrs. Matheson?”
I snort. “Not until you put a ring on this finger, mister.”
I guess I should see it coming but I don’t.
I’ll give you the short version.
That night we’re at it again because even if he’s a tiger, we go at it like rabbits. As I like to, I call him Mr. Matheson. At the time, he has hold of my wrists in one hand, pinning them to the bed as he drives his cock into me. I feel something moving on my fingers and he says, “God, you feel good, Mrs. Matheson.”
He’s right.
I feel very, very good.
***
