My husband was fucking me and my thoughts were of the antique grandfather clock downstairs. I began to see weird things. It was as if I was looking at the painting on the clock, only the patterns on the paint were moving. As the clock continued to chime I came harder than ever. Each chime of the clock caused my pussy to clinch. It was as if I had become one with the clock. As the clock continued to chime my pussy continued to clinch. Suddenly, the clock stopped. My husband pulled out of me and his six inch member began to squirt on my stomach and bush. My legs fell limp and I gasped to catch my breath. Mike turned and walked back into the bathroom to clean up. ‘Damn,’ I said to myself softly. I needed more. It was always the same old crap, a quick fuck in the same old boring position. I heard my husband turn the water back on in the shower. I closed my eyes and reached down to my still smoldering pussy. I began to rub my clit as my mind once again wandered to the image on the clock.. “Wendy mam can we fuck out here first please, I just love it here.” She shrugged then as he rose to his feet she kissed him, and the game was on. Tongues entwined, lips crushed, hands roamed on backs, the time for talking over. His hands groped at her breasts, squeezing, caressing, exploring. Her`s in turn tracing first his butt, then his bulge, impressed by the package on offer. Buttons began to fly, lips still together, her soon in her electric blue bra, blouse forgotten on the floor, hot fingers tore at his shirt, it too soon on the floor, his muscled top half fit and lean, the product of his upbringing, street wise and with a fat free diet. Her eyes ran over him, the lips temporarily parted. He released the bra and she shucked it off her breasts to his joy shaking as she did, in a most provoking way. She was he mused in better shape than he had expected, in his experience most white women after a stud being in their 30’s, or the older like this one, but shriveled, slack titted.
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