#jinmao

But that cute little foot so weakly pressing against his chest and trying to push him back. Although it reminded him of something she had said last night when they had arrived at the estate. “Hmmm, it does look pretty tired,” he tease, pumping cum that had spilled out of her back into her swollen, puffy cunt. She squirmed under the returned attention, so very cat like even now. His cat, no longer was she the scraggly stray that she was named for her similarity to. Collared and cute, his Maomao. “I should use something else then I suppose,” he teased. Dragging her foot down his chest, slickening it as their sweat lubricated her sole. Until he had her pressed her against his dick rubbing her foot into him, hardening what was already stirring at the sight of her so ruined by him. The soft underside of her foot against the soft, velvety skin of himself, was already enough to send his already desiring mind into a spin of want for her. The shivering of his deeply ticklish wife being stimulated by nerves entirely untouched or abused in his ravishing of her just before.

The joy on her face as she took an experimental sip at his instance, was a sight that stole his breath. The pure enjoyment of such a flavour, of his favour. “This is…” her words trailed of in a happy noise, and he felt something stirring in his heart, a warmth he saw mirrored on her cheeks. “Try not to let anyone see you with it,” he warned, as much for her sake as anyone who might see her. He could hardly control himself at the sight of her with one drop, he had no clue how he might react to her taking a true and honest drink of the stuff. He knew he couldn’t allow any one else to see it either, no that would be an offence he could not let slide, think about what they might do with the knowledge of such a face as something she could make so freely? If he let them live, he was letting a threat to her live. Killing her abductors had been easy enough, and they had only gift her to him, a man who looked at her with eyes he knew well he would carve to pieces and see how long he lasted before fading into a death he deserved worse than for wanting what was his alone.0 Maomao wore his hair stick, and would soon be entirely covered in finery he gifted onto her. After that, when she grew accustomed to the perfect life that he gave her, he would mark her in a way that only a man could mark a woman, mark her in a way that would ensure that no other ever dare to think of marking her in the same manner. Maomao was his, even if she needed the space to realise it first.