1. The Incubus' Wife: Pleasured At Dinner


    Date: 5/29/2017, Categories: Fiction, Anal, Authoritarian, BDSM, Wife, Young, Author: Liv Beornwulf, Rating: 80, Source: sexstories.com

    PLEASURED AT DINNER Mason’s eyes are the most dazzling green that I have ever glimpsed; green as the bottomless sea on a lukewarm and sunlit day; green as the leaves of a tree in an unbounded and never-ending forest. As I stare into his eyes, gradually and with deep infatuation, he strolls towards me, throwing his brief case—which he has brought with him from work—farther away. While he draws closer to me, I feel my breath weaken and die away from my reach. What is he going to do to me precisely? The desire in his touch is too extreme to put up in words. He tweaks my hair, hauling me towards himself, and when he is gripping me by both sides of my waist, he gazes down into my eyes and breathes delicately, “I am starving for you, Emma, this very night.” I am Emma Jenkins. I wedded to this Incubus of a man known as Mason Cox. He is different from commonplace, fashionable human beings like me found out there. As a substitute, he is both paranormal and inborn to nature, having in his possession both human elements and features, as well as those of the ghostly or unearthly ones. The only thing that he feeds on is lust and sex, and thus it is my responsibility as his wife to satisfy this of him. I set my hands on his behind—or buttocks. These buttocks may be his. But they are mine to embrace and stroke unreservedly; mine to love and rejoice in. I don’t lay my hands on his stark-naked buttocks. He is clad in a pitch-black suit, and it is on the haunches of his slacks that I settle ...
    my hands on; we are both un-stirring here inside the well-lit dining room where we are taking our stand, gawping and gazing open-mouthed at each other. I think he should have his dinner now—or must not he? “Don’t we have to proceed to our bedroom, Mason? You can have your dinner there.” I question in a relaxed and polite voice, trusting that he is going to pick up some bit of sensibility in my decent proposal. He doesn’t, but instead nestles—or stands firm—on what he wants to get see agreed to and executed. “We are not going anywhere, Emma. We shall have sex here in our dining.” After he is done stating this to me, he snatches me by my throat and thrusts me down to the dinner table erect just four feet away from us. I can’t breathe for a split second. But then I finally pull in air into my lungs as he slopes and tilts himself down towards me, snogging my lips inch by inch and progressively, grasping me more firmly and securely. I swallow saliva down my throat. I can’t accept that this is at last happening. Right here inside our dining room? Where I am meant to have my dinner in noiselessness and isolation from the public world? I love him; with all my heart and soul assuredly. And I am going to fully surrender and yield myself entirely to him. This is precisely what I am doing right now. The Incubus is all mine, for tonight at least. His hands reach for the buttons of my blouse and starts to work them free. I feel this immense sexual-stirring emotion race and shoot its way ...
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