_backp0rchpoet

You are so worked up with the day’s full program that before the alarm goes off, you jolt awake of your own accord.

You fumble for the clock by your bed, heaving a deep sigh for the 15 minutes you are never going to get back.

Jonathan stirs behind you, his arms snaking over your torso under the covers, as he nuzzles his wiry beard into the crook of your shoulder, sighing heavily himself.

He adjusts to the new position, nestling his morning wood right along the valley of your buttocks, rubbing his semi against your plump cheeks — either on purpose or just subconsciously trying to get comfortable.

Whatever it is, that insignificant contact has gotten you all riled up now. You burrow your heated face deeper into the pillow, teeth worrying your bottom lip as you, ever so subtly, back yourself up to him, rutting your arse lazily against his hardening bulge.

You haven’t had sex in weeks, months even, if you care to count. Is it any wonder that you’re so easily turned on these days?

In front of you, your hand trails under your slip dress to your pussy, two fingers caressing along your folds to gather slick, before they twirl around your clit in slow, concentric circles to the rhythm of your canting hips.

Jonathan, who is very much as worked up as you are, responds to you accordingly, almost immediately. His arm tightens around your waist, drawing you flush against him — good morning, he seems to say wordlessly, as he nuzzles his nose into the back of your ear, nip-licking at that sensitive spot just below your earlobe.

Your mouth parts, hitching soft, kittenish gasps when his other hand wraps around your neck, squeezing gentle pressure at your angular jawline. Just enough to spur you on so your head falls back onto his shoulder, your fingers between your legs gathering pace.

His hips start rolling to your languid ministrations, his heavy-laden breaths growing dense, as he rubs his now rock-hard penis against your curved back. It’s delicious, feeling him like this — so visceral that you’re now jabbing your fingers into your cunt, mewling as your head swirls dizzy with the thought of his cock spreading you out and filling you up so full.

As if having read your mind, Jonathan grunts low, changing position once again — this time, flipping you over onto the bed and anchoring his heavier weight on you so agreeably you can’t do anything about it but surrender.

He looms over you, the sunlight filtering through the drawn curtains clinging to his salt-and-pepper curls all mussed. Beneath the deceptive halo, his darkened eyes dilate, watching you intently as you acquiesce to his every move. Writhing helplessly when he slides his cock along your very, very wet pussy. Sobbing impatiently as he teases your stimulated nub with his fat tip. Eyelids fluttering, mouth wide and groaning with pleasure when he shoves his entire length into your slippery hole in one smooth motion, bottoming out.

He drags his cock out of you, tediously slow — the tip settling right at the rim, before he thrusts back into you again. Once, twice, three times — knocking the breath from your lungs each time; just to get used to your heat enveloping him, just to allow you time to acclimate to the all too familiar stretch of his girth.

Then, he just — speeds up. Fucking into you in staccato brevity, rubbing abrasion along your walls. Yet not too deep — teasing stimulants in that interstitial space in your cunt, where it sets your nerve ends on fire. Touching you without even touching you there, where it aches for him so terribly.

Your fingers clench at his soft muscles, holding on for dear life; both of you huffing for each other’s next breath, as he chases after your highs like the devil is behind him — like there is no time to lose.

And, right on cue — right above your head, you hear the faucet turn on in the adjacent bathroom.

“Jesus,” you groan. “I told her not to leave the tap on when she’s bru— oooohhhh!”

You groan, when Jonathan’s thumb latches onto your clit, pressing quick, rough circles that match the shallow punches in and out of you.

Your body arches into him, whimpering — so loud that Ava can probably hear you over the running water.

Jonathan’s hand shoots up and clasps over your mouth.

“Shhhhhh…” his command jagged at his relentless pummels, and you have to bite down at his palm to muffle your cries.

That instead arouses him — his ridge catching on your fluttering folds so dreadfully it makes you gush even more, the lewd, squelching noise under the covers getting more pronounced with every pulverising hit.

He’s getting close. You can feel the urgency in his pounding as they get more resolute, and how he whimpers so pitifully — finally vocal as he noses the strap off your night dress, his moans sending shivers down your spine when he starts suckling at your breast, pebbling your nipple to a stiff peak under his wet strokes.

You are teetering on the edge yourself, teeth sinking into the slab of muscle across his shoulder, one leg curled around his thick waist, as you rut your cunt recklessly into him. The aggravating tension in your stomach twists tighter, your pussy quivering for an overdue release. It sucks his cock deeper, swallowing him whole as he pumps once, twice, three times — and cums inside of you.

You barely hear the faucet squeak off. You barely hear Ava’s tiny footsteps pad down the hallway to your room. Jonathan’s guttural groans fill your senses so completely, and his warm ejaculation fill your hole so abundantly — before they snap to an exclamatory halt when the door flings open; and he is throwing himself off you, his spunk spraying all over your stomach under the sheets as he huddles into a foetal position away from you.

You toss your arm over your eyes, heaving large gulpfuls of air where the penny hangs, too afraid to watch.

“Daddy — are you OK?” Ava’s voice edged with concern next to the bed.

You venture a peek from under your elbow to see her rearranging Jonathan’s tousled curls upon his bedhead, oblivious to her father’s hand still wrapped around his stimulated cock under the sheets — still cumming.

“Uhhhhh — not feeling too good, honey,” Jonathan croaks. “Think I got a uh — stomachache.”

You stifle your laugh at his rather ingenious effort to make it look like he is just rubbing his stomach, when he is still grinding his cock in his hand to finish up.

“But — who’s gonna drive me to school?” Ava asks, her bottom lip pouting dramatically.

You lower your arm with a sigh, smiling at the sweet child over Jonathan’s hunched form.

“Mummy will drive you to school, baby,” your voice coming out hoarser than you anticipated.

Heedless to say, your offer is enough to make her excited again. Your eyes widen when she jumps into bed, her foot missing Jonathan’s softening cock by a breath, as she leaps over him to your side of the bed.

You have to palm your hand over your crotch too to avert a potential disaster on your part.

“You sure?” Ava’s smile drops again when she’s had a closer look at you in the dimly lit bedroom.

She quirks a brow at your flushed complexion, laying the back of her small hand on your forehead; emulating the many times you did the same to her when she was feeling under the weather, or pretending to.

“You might have a fever, mummy,” she diagnoses with childlike confidence.

You shoot a sideway glance at Jonathan when you hear him smothering a chuckle into the sheets.

“Mummy’s fine,” you soothe, touching your forehead against Ava’s to prove that you are not feverish — also, because your hands are occupied for the time being.

“Can you make me blueberry pancakes too?” She mumbles quietly, fingers twirling timid spirals at a loose thread on the duvet.

“Of course, baby,” you brush your nose against hers until she giggles. “Why don’t you head on downstairs and bring out the ingredients — hmm? Mummy will be down in a sec.”

“OK!” Ava smacks a kiss on your cheek, and bounces back to Jonathan’s side for a quick peck on his face too. “Feel better, daddy!”

When her footsteps ebb down the stairway, Jonathan repositions himself next to you, cursing up at the ceiling.

“God, we’re terrible parents,” he mutters under his breath, a hand raking down his reddened face.

You snort, rolling over to kiss the round of his shoulder. Your hand slides up along his face, pulling him in for a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

You blink slowly, watching the flicker in his hooded eyes when you smear your slick-coated fingers across his beard, his hanging lips — the smell of your musky scent so pungent for the both of you to share.

“Your turn to do the laundry again, spunk boy,” you tease, already shimmying out of bed.

Before you can grasp for an escape, he flings his whole body over you, keeping you trapped under him once again.

“We’ll see about that,” he growls, his hand already slithering under the covers, thick, rough fingers bullying into your sensitive cunt without preamble.

“No, NO — Jonathan!” You rasp, your hand gripping at his working muscle with a flimsy attempt to stop him. “The door is open.”

“I’ll make it quick,” he reassures — his fingers wringing brutal, rapid squelches between your legs, his thumb on your clit strumming an amplified chord.

In a matter of seconds, a squirming heat climbs your body and breaks sweat through your pores, and you’re cursing breathlessly, brows pinched and nails scraping at the dishevelled curls at the nape of his neck.

“Mummy, come onnnnn!” Ava yells from downstairs, her voice travelling up the stairway into the bedroom.

“Just a sec, honey!” Jonathan answers on your behalf.

Then, in a lower, beastly tone that matches the mischievous glint shining in his dark eyes, a cocky grin curving his lips: “Mummy’s coming.”

He clamps his mouth over yours just as you tremble around his assaulting fingers, your drawn-out whine simmered to a stifled moan when the pressure crests in your stomach — and you’re finally squirting under the sheets, soaking through the mattress.

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