It wasn’t very convincing.
I tightened my grip on her wrists and then I circled with three fingers around and around her clit. She closed her eyes tighter, her facial expression like she was in pain. She lifted her bottom up a little, moving into my hand.
“Look at me.”
She obeyed. But her eyes…they were looking right through me, like she didn’t even see me.
“I want you to come for me. Calm down and concentrate on what my fingers are doing. What are my fingers doing?”
“Trying to make me c-come.” She groaned and her mouth opened.
“Yeah, baby. Making you come. My good girl. Moan for me. Say my name. Tell me what you want.”
She was not wet.
I leaned over and sucked on my fingers and then worked them into her. I kissed her, teasing her lips open with the tip of my tongue as I worked my middle finger inside her and pushed against her g-spot.
“Ah. Yeah, Master…” she whispered against my mouth, “Right there.”
I kept that finger there and put my thumb to her clit and strummed and stroked it.
“Master. Please don’t stop. Don’t. Ah! Damn it.” She got a frustrated look on her face. She’d been at the edge of that cliff but hadn’t gone over.
Her body went from lax to tight and she shifted, blew hair out of her eyes, used her upper arm to rub her nose and then blew her hair out of her eyes again. She was havin
g trouble. She began breathing harder, almost hyperventilating, but it wasn’t with an impending orgasm. This was stress. Full blown anxiety attack and I wasn’t doing anything to help.
I let go, grabbed the crotch of her panties, and yanked it forward without pulling them off so that I could get my mouth to her clit.
“Fuck, you taste amazing,” I told her.
She let out a whimper. I worked her with my tongue and seemed like she was getting closer. But then she started to fret, like she didn’t want it.
I flipped her over onto her belly and lifted her hips.
“Master,” she pleaded. I don’t know if she wanted me to hold her down again or what but I wanted to make her okay, so I was trying something else, something that’d maybe be a different pattern.
“No. Stay like that.” I worked my suit pants undone. Shit, I wasn’t even fully hard. I grinded against her ass, my dick still in my pants. I grabbed a handful of her hair and lifted her up by it. She was supporting herself on her palms. I held her tenderly by the throat and grinded a few more times.
Shit, I loved her. I needed to make her okay. I’d fucked up really badly and now I was on the verge of an anxiety attack, too.
What good was I? I fucked up and now I couldn’t calm her down and I could barely get it up. And people were listening. Not just that, they might even be watching.
“Beg,” I demanded. She usually got off on that. I usually seriously got off on that, too.
“Pl-please.” She whimpered.
This wasn’t her normal begging style. Fuck, but we were both struggling here. And if someone was watching this on camera, they might be able to tell.
Motherfucking Feds listening to me fail at fucking my wife. That reminder got me hard, my dick taking it as a challenge, and I pushed into her, getting resistance as she was still mostly dry.
She winced.
“You did good, you’re okay. We’re okay. Yeah, babe?” I asked.
She nodded, saying, “Uh huh” as she supported herself, hands on the bed. I got into a rhythm, moving inside her.
“Tighten for me. Milk my cock,” I said.