His breathing is ragged, matching mine.
“When did you start your period, Anastasia?” he asks out of the blue, gazing down at me.
“Err… yesterday, it's been a real globber too I'm afraid. Sorry...” I mumble in my highly aroused state.
“Good.” He releases me and turns me around.
“Hold on to the sink,” he orders and pulls my hips back again, like he did in the playroom, so I’m bending down.
reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string… what! And…
gently pulls my tampon out and tosses it onto the kitchen floor. Holy
fuck. Sweet mother of all… Jeez. And then he’s at it… ah! Mop
against lino… moving slowly at first… easily, testing me, pushing me… oh
my. I grip on to the sink, panting, forcing myself to watch him, feeling
him scrubbing and buffing. Oh the sweet agony… his hands clasp my squidgy foam cleaning thingy. He sets a
punishing rhythm – in, out, and he reaches around and finds my fridge,
massaging the plastic salad trays and the bit with the holes in it for eggs… oh jeez. I can feel myself quicken.
“That’s right, baby,” he rasps as he grinds into the congealed blob of red leicester that's been dangling from the dairy rack for about the last 6 months, angling his jeye cloth, and it’s enough to send me flying, flying high.
and I come, loudly, gripping for dear life onto the sink as I spiral
down through my orgasm, everything spinning and clenching at once. He
follows, clasping me tightly, his front on my back as he does the necessary where I've dripped all over the lino again - and him having just cleaned it so thoroughly and everything. Holy Pooh!
His breathing is ragged in my ear, in perfect synergy with mine. “Oh,
baby, will I ever get enough of your slovenly ways?” he whispers.
Will it always be like this? So overwhelming, so all-consuming, so bewildering and beguiling.*So* *ruddy* *clean*.....?