Ten Times My Wife Sucks While I Watch

She knows exactly what she's doing to you. Her head moves so slowly, her long brown hair swaying with each stroke, her hands splayed on his chest. She's all focus, eyes closed, her pink top riding up with each bob of her head. You can feel your hand moving on its own, keeping time with her steady rhythm.

Her expression never changes, all concentration, her white-tipped nails digging gently into his hairy chest. The only sound is your own ragged breathing, your pulse pounding in your ears. She's a picture of passion, her slim body bent over him, her white bottoms clinging to her curves. You can almost taste the intensity of the moment, feel the heat building inside you.

You know you won't last long like this, your ache growing with each passing moment. She's completely in control, her slow strokes driving you closer and closer to the edge. You can feel yourself getting harder, your hand moving faster, trying to keep pace with her relentless rhythm. And then she looks up, her eyes locking onto yours, and you know you're done for.