Page 63 of Compassion

Slowly, the MMA fighter whose name I can’t remember now for the fucking life of me, starts to fingerbang the very girl he’s been trying to resist since the show started.

Why is the fucking series mocking me?! What type of bullshit is this?! Did I do something to deserve having to suffer through watching the very thing my hand is breaking itself not to fucking do?!

Jaye follows that surprise with one of her own. She begins to grind her ass slowly against my cock back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

The motions alone are enough to get me groaning but hearing her breath become choppy each time she brushes my shaft has me airily huffing.

Burying myself in the crook of her neck to grumble for mercy.

Permission.

Both.

The weak whisper of my name damn near causes me to come in my shorts. “Archer…”

“Yeah, Jaye?”

A breathless whimper escapes as she angles her head over her shoulder to face me.

Relocating my lips to hers is done like an automatic response that can’t be stopped. Determined to capture that deliciously maddening sound, determined to suck it straight out of her into me like it’s the only thing that’s going to keep me alive, has my tongue roughly rolling around hers, searching every inch of her mouth for where that cock-swelling sound could be hiding. More muffled moans encourage me to dive deeper. Search harder for the sources to the audible treasure. Momentarily disregard the way her legs are parting. Thighs spreading. Hand guiding mine lower.

The instant my finger skims the outside of her bare pussy, my mouth fumbles from hers to confess, “Once I start, sweetheart, I won’t stop until you fucking finish.”

She heavily pants against my lips in response.

“And you know I’m a man of my word.”

Her hips anxiously rise leaving no reason to further deny myself.

Fighting my instincts to rush through the moment requires strength I didn’t even know I fucking had. The determination to give Jaye the best experience possible works double time to override the selfish nature that’s tempting me to skip exploring and get straight to handing out orgasms. Allowing my fingers to gently brush the outskirts of her wet, lower lips, tracing them, teasing them, taunting them, receives hitches in her breath.

Trembles her thighs.

Causes her to grab a handful of my tee shirt and tug me closer.

Gliding the edge of my finger around her clit in gradual circles is done next and thankfully, the response is even better than before.

Those hitches become huffs of need.

Those trembles transpose to couch shaking shudders.

And the tugs at my shirt transform into untamed scratches attached to desperate pleas, “More, baby.”

Whatever gentleman code of honor I was following is hastily tossed out the window. Dipping one finger into her soaking wet heaven elicits a loud whimper of my name but replacing one with two and curling them in tandem receives the type of moan I thought people had to pay to fucking hear. Withdrawing the dripping digits, just to harshly thrust them back inside, results in my girlfriend’s head dipping backwards.

Her back arching like its possessed.

Pussy thrumming in warning that it’s unprepared for whatever I’m capable of.

I repeat the motion again and again and again, growing more barbaric with each passing pump. Her slick muscles ceaselessly swell, sucking the pair in deeper, wildly riding them while my thumb brazenly works the slippery nub in desperate need of rubbing. I fight the urge to bury my face in her neck knowing that I don’t want to miss a single sexual offering being submitted to me yet can’t stop the craving to mark the exposed skin.

Leave behind a bite.

A hickey.

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