Do it, own me.
His thrusts are gentler and slower than usual but longer, and I feel every tiny movement and twitch of his cock inside me, touching places I didn’t know could be touched. It feels too good to even groan. He strokes my back with his hand as he holds my hip, not breaking the slow, steady rhythm he’s established.
“Does it please you?” he says.
“Y…yes, does it please my prince?”
“Yes.”
“Please come for me. Come in my ass, my prince. Make me yours.”
“As you have made me yours,” he says, moving ever so slightly faster.
He reads my every movement, every clench and quiver, every little moan and movement of my head, the way my back and legs tense when he pushes into me all the way and I feel his balls pressed against my *. God, I wish he had two cocks.
He knows. He gently, very gently and slowly, takes me onto my side, spooning into my back, and his finger enters me, moving in time with his cock in my ass.
I just lie there in a haze, my muscles relaxing one by one until I forget what it’s like to move. I close my eyes as my * grips his finger and my asshole tightens in spasms, growing closer and closer to the grand finale.
“Oh Goooood,” I moan, shuddering.
He doesn’t say anything, he just grunts and comes inside me, his body shaking with restraint. He doesn’t give me his usual punishing thrust as he breaks. He impales me so slowly and holds it there throbbing while he comes.
“Fuck,” I chirp out, and then lose it.
It hurts to have him in my ass while I lose control but I don’t care. I lie there and thrash, pulsing around him, and he holds me still and rides it out.
I nearly pass out from the intensity of it then lie there groaning. He pulls out of me slowly, and for some reason when he leaves me completely it’s the only time it’s truly painful, as my body adjusts to the absence.
I flop onto my back and stare at his dick.
That was in my butt, and I liked it.
For some reason I find that incredibly funny and break out into a gale of laughter.
My prince looks at me like I’ve gone mad. Then he joins me.
After I lie there long enough to catch my breath, he picks me up from the bed and carries me into the shower. I sit on the little bench in a daze, hugging myself while he washes my hair and scrubs my back, then stands me up and cleans my legs and under my arms, lifting my limbs like I’m a doll.
He doesn’t ask me to return the favor. He washes himself down then swaddles me in a robe and towels and lays me in the bed before drying himself off.
He gives me a glass of water first and I chug it lustily, gripping the big glass in both hands. Then we each take a glass of fruity wine that starts getting me drunk after a few sips.
“You have never been so beautiful as you are now.”
“Oh, stop it,” I say.
He doesn’t, not ever.
That becomes one of his favorite things to say to me.
The spring air pours in through the open window, rustling the papers on my desk. In the seventh month of my pregnancy, even moving to adjust myself in my padded chair can be a chore. This isn’t my first rodeo but it’s the heaviest burden I’ve ever borne.
My youngest, little Elsa, is absolutely fascinated by Mommy’s belly. Unlike her brothers and sister, she’s never experienced a pregnancy before, and at six years old understands just enough to comprehend that there are three little babies in Mommy’s belly, but not much more. She pads quietly into my study on bare, grubby feet, mud flecked from running in the woods with her brothers, and sets her tiny hands on my stomach.
“Hello, babies,” she says, before saying, “Hi, Mommy.”
I pat her head. “Go clean up, sweetie. You’re tracking mud all over the house.”
She rubs her cheek on my stomach and runs back out of the room, shedding more mud on the way out than she did as she came in. My instruction to clean up is apparently forgotten as she runs back outside, whooping, and hurls herself at her eldest brother.
John is fourteen years old and nearly as tall as his father, a slender, strapping youth who has the eye of all the village girls. I can’t help but grin when he gets awkward around one girl he has a little crush on, a slender redhead named Elaine. She’s out there now, sitting beside him along the stream as he studiously ignores the fishing pole he’s propped up.
His father stands farther down the riverbank, my second youngest, David, standing beside him. Nine years old, he swings his fishing rod with the kind of serious intensity only a child imitating his father can muster. I lean on the windowsill and watch, smiling when I catch Kristoff’s eye. He smiles back, only to be startled when our son bellows,