Perceptual Receptor

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I take my clues from your breathing. Your deep slow breath tells me you are still in deep slumber.

On the other hand. I mean in my hand; I have awoken. The visions of last night have me aroused and as hard as I was when last I was deep within your purview.

So, I gaze. I watch the expansion and contraction of your ribs. Each inhalation raises a glimpse of a hefty crescent of side boob. The vision infuses my morning wood with a surging of sonorous sap. I grasp my manifest sapling by its expanding girth and squeeze for my own edification. Satisfied I return to my respiratory fixation on you.

A low murmur. A muffled moan. A gasp. An exhale. A knee which spreads you wide, legs akimbo, releasing our mingled scent from the night before. The once crisp sheet gapes in surrender. You roll on to your side. No longer offering a morning spoon, I am gifted with your full-frontal presentation. Knee on my knee. Tits offered for my ogling blue orbs. My eyelids are wide open while yours’s flutter invitingly.

Now I roll on my side for confrontation. A body language inquiry. To say I am facing you would be an exaggeration. Your eyes are still closed, but your breathing betrays your woken state as if on the very precipice of reception.

Your pale blue eyes open.

Awake I caress you for initial receptivity response. No need for my divining rod just yet. Even so it is stiff and stands at the ready. My hands explore. Soft touches in special places. Eyebrow. Earlobe. The gentle slope of your soft shoulder. Interior crook of your elbow. That spot on your wrist where you test prospective fragrances when shopping. I am gauging response metrics in our crumpled morning bed.

You slide nearer to me in the bed. Your advance halted by my now fully realized raging hard-on. The first parley lands decidedly in your belly button. We look into each other’s eyes. Both awake. Mine overflowing with desire for you. Yours topping up quickly.

I take my stick with prurient instructions as it’s throbbing knob skitters with intent down that fluffy blond landing strip you have tended with such care. He finds your fluffy pink furrows sopping and as receptive as receptive can be.

I part that sweet fragrant mound with the intent of preparatory tilling, but you are having no truck such tending today

You grasp my wrists, roll on your back while pulling me on top of you. Legs spread wide in open invitation. Inner thighs stroke my outer thighs. Shins find their way up my torso and your heels claim the high ground on my shoulders.

“Ready to receive” you rasp.

With no further ado I thrust.

Slick silky walls of slippery pink satin reward me with each lunge.

 

Receptive

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