I Think I Can Help

She kneels at the edge of the bed and works her small hands over his shoulders. Oil glistens on his skin. Her palms press deeper. Mick’s breathing slows. She moves lower, thumbs circling tight muscle, fingertips sliding under his waistband. He stays still, letting her take over. When she peels the fabric down, his cock lies heavy against his thigh. Whitney wraps her fingers around it and strokes once, slow, feeling him grow. She leans in, lips parting, tongue tracing the head before she takes him into her mouth. His hand finds the back of her head, guiding her rhythm. Her cheeks hollow and the room stays quiet except for the wet sound of her sucking. He pulls her up, turns her around, and bends her over the bed. Her palms press flat to the sheets. He grips her hips and pushes inside in one steady thrust, filling her from behind. Her back arches. He fucks her in long, measured strokes that make her gasp each time he bottoms out. When he’s close he pulls free and turns her again. She drops to her knees, mouth open, tongue out. Mick strokes himself twice and comes across her tongue, some of it landing on her lips. She swallows, eyes half-lidded, breath still fast. He rests a hand on her cheek, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth clean.