Ever since you allowed me to go down on you, I've been smitten by your pussy. Especially when wet, like now. Ordinarily averse to “the 'C' word” the cuss falls freely from behind smudged lipstick as you beg me to introduce a third finger. It glides in easily, wetly, back and forth alongside the others, your breathing laboured.

I adore it when you're out of control, eyes shut, cheeks flushed, drenched dark pubic hair echoing the rain-soaked hue of your tresses that cascade from the kitchen table's edge.

The front door was barely shut before our kiss made everything else unimportant. Jobs, bills, kids at a sleepover, none of it mattered in the freedom of a night away from it all. We'd burst into the house joined at the mouth, hands tearing off damp coats, impatient to explore flesh. I fumbled beneath the hem of your deep-blue dress and yanked already soaked knickers over your bare legs and boots, a thick waft of your arousal thrilling me.

Our disordered trajectory ended at the table and I pushed you back onto it, your legs parting without refinement, hunger amply represented by the matted bush on display. For twenty years I've never tired of the vision, nor your taste, spreading your sticky lips and sampling the wetness within.

My tongue came alive with your tang. First its sweet silk, then the musky base note becoming trapped in the whiskers of my stubble, a delicious reminder of our passion as we'll later snuggle in one another's arms. But my immediate focus was satisfying our need, repressed and heightened through your teasing at the restaurant. Simple acts from the suggestive manner in which you ate the breadsticks to the disappearance of your right hand beneath the table, my imagination fuelled by your eyes drifting shut amid muted intakes of breath. I watched, thoroughly aroused until you finished, glistening digits surfacing, offered across the starched tablecloth. A prelude. A promise, now being fulfilled.

Stationed between supple thighs I spied those same fingers tracing imperfect yet exquisite curves, circling from heaving chest to the soft rolling landscape of your tummy and beyond, folding back the wings of your lustrous pussy to aid my access.

I shook my head. "Hands off."

You obeyed as I returned to nuzzling your drooling centrepiece, occasionally grazing its pearlescent peak with my tongue, eliciting a sharper breath and a jerk of your hips, every last drop of your orgasm my goal. Almost as much as listening, I love watching you come. The rapture. The concentration. The faraway glint in your eye as heat flushes your chest, and private, dirty thoughts consume your consciousness.

Whether testing my resolve or on autopilot, your fingers returned to touch your core alongside my tongue. I stopped. "Hands over your head."

Maddeningly, you made me wait, fingertips retracing your body, looping those gorgeous breasts, gently squeezing a handful, accentuating nipples already prominent through the thin dress. A knowing smile precedes your compliance, stretching, gripping the cool wooden legs.

My cock thickened in my trousers at the vision of self-imposed helplessness.

I moved alongside you, hands mimicking your path, sweeping contours familiar and still striking despite your insistence that more toned would be better. The swell of your chest invited my caresses. Tweaking the tips, I lowered my face to them and first sucked, then bit through your dress and lacy bra, leaving a dark ring of saliva soaking the cotton around each jutting peak. I adored tormenting their firmness and listening as your panting elevated to moans.

You arched your back and gasped when I bit one final time.

Ready.

Deliberately circling the table to take you all in, I returned to bend between your spread legs, licking bottom to top. Parting your puffy labia I lapped the pink, juicy centre, scooping each drizzle of creamy fluid leaking from your wanton oval entrance.

You exhaled, body tense then elastic. "Fuck me."

Denial was near impossible. But you made me wait, so penetration's on my terms. Only when you can’t take any more of my teasing tongue, beside yourself with need, will I sink inside.

You sighed noisily as I drew a finger up a goosebump-laden thigh to trace your wet lips. Dipped it inside, obsessed by your groans; they always make me hard, knowing I can bring you such excitement even after all this time together.

My tongue lashed, two fingers sliding within, your breathing ragged as I pistoned, drinking every drop of desire that tumbled from your distended, reddening slit.

Your begging took me unawares, the unfamiliar coarse language slithering from your lips like poison honey. It excited me, but I wanted you hotter. Wetter. Arching off the table, hips grinding against me.

My wife.

My prize.

My now.

Introducing the third finger sets you off fully, deep breaths and animalistic groans ringing out as I pump. You're so close. Flattening my palm and lapping the exquisite juices that rain from you, I seek and circle your engorged clitoris.

The effect is explosive, your hips wriggling and thrusting, totally surrendering to my ministrations as I slather your erect jewel, awash with release. You go rigid. Silent. Come flows, orgasm wracking both body and mind, petals quivering for several long seconds before your shrieks bounce off the cupboards and unwashed breakfast dishes. Tasting everything you have to offer is what I live for. Such moments only make me love you more, so beautiful and strong, yet vulnerable in your moment of ecstasy.

I let you calm just a little, cheeks rosy, the skin of your thighs damp as your hips drift back to the table. Sated, it would seem. But your eyes flick open, hunger still raging, watching me the whole time I unzip my trousers and free my solid prick. Veins pulse as my fist pumps it, spreading pre-come around the flared head, stepping towards you. Aligned. Poised.

You mouth, "Fuck me," and this time I don't hold back.