I expect I look much the same. Just my sword as destined to find its home in your sheath, our lips are bound together by a shared passion. Your legs lock around my hips as the tempo of my thrusting increases. Our hands scrabble over each other’s bodies, groping and caressing sweat-slick skin. As always, when the intensity of our love-making rivals the blazing sun in the morning sky, my manly pouch tightens in anticipation. I can feel the pressure growing around my member, from without and from within. The muscular convulsions of your womanly folds are beyond my control, my beloved. But the growing tide of impending release in my manhood can be held in sway, for a while at least. As always, I seek to hold back the dam and prolong this carnal pleasure with my goddess for as long as possible. And as always, my strength fails in the contest with biology. Our voices rise in a lustful chorus, fingers intertwined, heralding the climax of our amorous theatrics. Your hot, wet folds constrict. Somehow that made it worse. Even in my current state I was more of awife to this man than my wife had ever been to me, and the conclusionabout my own masculinity from that statement alone was enough to make mesob slightly."You OK, Sarah?" said Sharon, pausing between shots.Sarah. That was the name I'd chosen and as far as this man wasconcerned, that was me.Simon pulled back, his tongue leaving my mouth, his taste still present.He looked concerned.In the depths of my mind a decision was made. I couldn't be angry,couldn't shout. I'd signed up for this, allowed myself to be dressed,taken the tour. I was wearing a dress and looked more like a domesticgoddess than my wife had ever looked."I'm fine. Would you a cup of tea, darling?" I said to Simon.He smiled."How's about a couple of glasses of red wine?" said Sharon."Yes, that sounds great," said Simon, and both Sharon and him looked atme expectantly.It clicked, in a almost funny way. I was the housewife, it was up to meto get the wine. I.
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