I stood on the coffee table in my living room, the wood cool under my heels, feeling like some kind of absurd performer in a one-woman show that had veered straight into the X-rated zone. The afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, turning the dust motes into lazy confetti, and there you were, Peter, sprawled on the couch like you'd claimed it for the empire. Your eyes locked on me, that half-smirk pulling at your lips, as if you knew exactly how this was about to unravel. We'd been dancing around this tension all week—flirty texts, accidental brushes in the kitchen—but now, with the house empty and the air thick with that electric hum, I was done teasing.
I gave a little shake of my hips, playful at first, like I was testing the waters of some forbidden game. It worked better than I expected; my knickers—those flimsy black lace ones I'd picked out just for this—slid right down to the table with a soft whisper of fabric. I stepped out of them, kicking them aside with a grin, and parted my legs just enough to feel the air kiss my skin. Lifting my pleated skirt was effortless; those things were made for moments like this, bunching up easy as pie. God, I was so turned on I was almost vibrating, my pulse throbbing in places I didn't even know could throb that hard. Heat pooled low in my belly, and I could feel myself slick, ready, aching for you to notice.
You looked up at my moist entrance—it didn't feel moist, no, it felt totally wet, like I'd been dripping anticipation all day. Your hands reached out, sliding around the back of my legs, stroking up and down with this feather-light touch that sent shivers racing straight to my core. Every pass of your fingers was deliberate, teasing the sensitive skin just above my knees, then higher, mapping me like you were memorizing every inch. You bent forward, your breath hot against my thighs, and started licking and kissing along the giggle line—the top edge of my stockings, that naughty border where silk meets bare skin. It's called the giggle line for a reason; once you cross it, you're in for a laugh, or in this case, a whole lot more. Your tongue traced lazy patterns, warm and insistent, dipping just under the lace but never quite where I wanted it most.
Then you upped the ante, your tongue gliding up one thigh, slow and wet, until it brushed across my pussy in this torturous graze that made my knees buckle. A gasp escaped me, raw and unfiltered, as you continued down the other thigh, reversing course like you were painting me with your mouth. Again and again, that slick path: up, across, down, building this rhythm that had me clenching my fists at my sides. Fuck, it was maddening—your stubble scraping just enough to sting, your lips sucking gently at the soft flesh, turning my legs into jelly. I could smell my own arousal mixing with the faint scent of your cologne, and it was intoxicating, like we'd bottled the moment and cracked it open.
I couldn't take it anymore. My hands found your head, fingers threading through your hair, and I tilted your face up to meet my eyes. Our gazes locked, yours dark with hunger, mine probably wild. "I want you to do me," I said, my voice husky, laced with that desperate edge. "Do me, Peter. I don’t need any foreplay or fiddling—I'm ready and need you inside me. Just put me on my back on the couch and fuck me how you like." The words hung there, bold and unapologetic, and I saw the way your pupils dilated, your grip tightening on my thighs.
Slowly, I crouched down, feeling my pussy open as I did, lips parting wide like an invitation you couldn't refuse. I wanted you to see it all—the slick folds glistening, swollen and begging. Your eyes drank it in, and a low groan rumbled from your chest. My hand slipped down to your trouser zip, fingers trembling just a bit as I tugged it open. Your cock strained against the fabric, so big and hard it looked like it was trying to punch its way free. I wrapped my hand around it gently, pulling it out into the open air, and bent my head to give the tip a light lick—salty, warm, pulsing under my tongue. You were ready to go, thick and veined, twitching at the contact. I swirled my tongue once more, tasting the bead of pre-cum, before straightening up with a wicked smile.
I stepped down off the table, the floor a shock after the height, and backed onto the couch, laying myself out for you. Legs parting wide, I pulled my knees to my chest, exposing everything—the curve of my ass, the wet heat of my pussy framed by the rumpled skirt. "Do me, just do me now," I urged, voice breaking on the last word. My hand reached down, fingers brushing my clit before guiding your cock to my entrance. You pressed forward, and I gave a deep moan as you forced your way in, stretching me inch by delicious inch. The fullness was overwhelming, your thickness filling me up like nothing else could.
"Take it slowly," I said, breathless, locking eyes with you again, "or do it fast—your choice." You chose slow, thank fuck, easing in and out with these deep, deliberate thrusts that made my toes curl. Side to side, then round and round, like you were stirring my pussy with your cock, exploring every ridge and angle inside me. It was filthy, intimate, the kind of motion that had me gasping, my walls clenching around you greedily. I wrapped one arm around your neck, pulling you closer, our breaths mingling hot and fast. My other hand slid down to your firm arse, gripping it lightly, nails digging in just enough to urge you deeper. I pulled you in time with your thrusts, letting you go on the outstroke, syncing us like we were made for this.
You leaned in, your mouth finding mine in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, tongues tangling as your hips rolled against me. The couch creaked under us, the coffee table forgotten now, scattered with my discarded knickers like evidence of our impulsiveness. I broke the kiss to nip at your jaw, whispering against your skin, "Harder, Peter—fuck me like you mean it." That flipped a switch; your pace quickened, thrusts turning sharper, deeper, slamming into me with a rhythm that echoed through the room. Each plunge sent jolts of pleasure sparking up my spine, my clit grinding against your base every time you bottomed out.
But I wasn't done directing this show. As you pounded into me, sweat beading on your forehead, I shifted my hips, angling so your cock hit that spot inside—the one that made stars burst behind my eyelids. "Yes, right there," I moaned, my voice a throaty command. Your hands gripped my thighs, spreading me wider, and you obliged, grinding against it relentlessly. The pressure built, coiling tight in my core, my pussy fluttering around you like it was trying to pull you in forever. I reached between us, fingers finding my clit, rubbing in frantic circles to chase the edge. You watched, eyes hooded, and it only made me bolder—sliding my hand lower to cup your balls, rolling them gently as you fucked me.
The room filled with the sounds of us: skin slapping skin, my wet pussy taking every inch of you, your grunts mixing with my whimpers. I wanted more, needed to feel you everywhere. "Flip me over," I gasped, pushing at your chest. You pulled out with a slick pop, and I scrambled onto my knees, ass up on the couch, skirt hiked high. You didn't hesitate, hands spreading my cheeks as you lined up and thrust back in, this angle letting you go even deeper. Fuck, it was intense—the way you filled me from behind, your hips snapping against my ass, one hand snaking around to pinch my nipple through my blouse.
I arched back, pushing into you, loving the rawness of it. "Touch my ass," I demanded, voice muffled against the cushion. Your thumb circled my tight hole, teasing, pressing just enough to make me clench around your cock. It was electric, that dual sensation, and I rocked back harder, urging you on. You spat lightly, slicking your thumb, and eased it in shallow, the stretch making me cry out. "God, yes—fuck my pussy while you play with my ass." You did, thrusting steadily, your thumb matching the rhythm, turning me into a quivering mess. The fullness was overwhelming, pleasure bordering on too much, and I felt the orgasm building like a storm.
But you weren't finished surprising me. Pulling your thumb free, you slowed, almost to a stop, and leaned over me, breath hot on my neck. "You want it all?" you murmured, voice rough. I nodded, frantic, and you withdrew, flipping me onto my back again with effortless strength. This time, you hooked my legs over your shoulders, folding me nearly in half, and drove back in—deeper than before, hitting spots that made me see white. Your hand wrapped around my throat, not tight, just enough pressure to make my pulse race, consensual edge play that had me soaking the couch.
"Fuck, Peter, I'm close—don't stop," I begged, nails raking down your back. You grinned, feral, and picked up speed, pounding into me with abandon. My fingers dug into your arse again, pulling you impossibly closer, and I felt it crest—the wave crashing over me. My pussy spasmed around your cock, milking you as I came hard, a gush of wetness squirting out around us, soaking your balls and the cushions. It was messy, intense, my whole body shaking as I cried out your name.
You didn't let up, chasing your own release, thrusts erratic now. "Where do you want it?" you growled, and I locked my ankles behind your head, holding you deep. "Inside—fill me up, cream pie me." That undid you; with a guttural groan, you buried yourself to the hilt, cock pulsing as you came, hot spurts flooding my pussy. I clenched around you, drawing it out, feeling every twitch until you collapsed against me, spent and slick with sweat.
We lay there, tangled and breathless, your cock softening inside me, our mixed release trickling out. I traced lazy patterns on your back, a satisfied hum escaping my lips. "Well," I said finally, smirking up at you, "if that's what happens when I stand on the coffee table, I might start using it as a damn stage every day." You chuckled, pulling out with a wet sound, and kissed my forehead. "Just don't expect me to applaud next time—I'll be too busy booking the encore."
The afternoon stretched on like that, lazy and sated, but as the sun dipped lower, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the opening act. Who knew what other furniture in this house had secrets waiting to be uncovered?