She watches the rose. The ceramic rose. The rose on her bedside table. Lifting her head, staring at the rose, she bites her lip as her husband plunges especially deep. He is not particularly talented, or romantic, but he has staying power, and he is big.
With each thrust she gasps as her cunt expands, as his hips crash into hers, as he drives her down and forward into the waterbed, barely supported on her knees and her left elbow as her left hand pinches her own nipple, and her right hand, reaching back beneath herself, strums across her clit. Her cunt muscles grabbing hungrily at his huge plowing erection and her eyes, watering with tears of pleasure, focusing, focusing on the rose.
It is a beautiful rose, an erotic rose. It opens, she imagines, as her cunt opens to his cock, as she tenses around him, opening and closing, imagining herself as the flower opening to the light and closing in the evening.
She hears him grunt. She is driving him crazy. She loves driving him crazy, loves the way she can control her hips, the way she can thrust back and forth and rotate around and around, can squeeze and relax. She loves the way he thrusts, harder and faster. The more she moves, the harder he thrusts, flesh slapping violently against flesh.
She knows she is going to come soon. Multiple conflicting sensations and images flood her brain. The slosh of the waterbed, the thrusting of her husband's cock, the tension and relaxation of her cunt muscles, the yellow petals of the rose, the bucking of her hips, the grazing of her nipples against the sheet, the primitiveness of the fucking. the romance of the gift, opened in the back seat of her car two nights before Christmas, half naked, disheveled, the windows fogged from the heat of passion against the cold dark snow drifts of the deserted supermarket parking lot.
She is losing control of conscious thought, feels the madness spreading from the base of her brain, hears the voices babbling in her head, drowning in the pleasure of her coming, feeling her husband's cock contract, expand, and spurt and spurt, sending his seed deep inside her, pushing her into a primal scream, biting her lip hard this time, hard enough to taste her own blood, crying freely with pleasure and a little bit of pain, but still focused, still focused, still focused on the rose, the yellow rose, the yellow rose her boyfriend gave her.
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