He moaned and called out, “Oh god, Twanna!”

Overwhelmed by the sensation, he leaned his head against the tall back of the overstuffed chair under him. It hurt; it felt like paradise. She sat on him so slowly that sweat broke out on his forehead. He was hyper-aware of every fraction of an inch of his length that got drawn deeper into her. He held her hips, but he did not pull or urge her to go faster, nor did he thrust. Once she had taken all of him in, her fleshy ass rested in his lap. The sight of the twin brown globes between his hands snatched the air from his lungs and left him panting.

She stilled a moment with her back to him, her legs folded and planted on either side of his to brace her weight. Her long dreadlocks cascaded over her shoulders and blocked his view of her back. He swept them to one side and ran a hand down her dark skin. He loved her skin: so smooth, so soft. He leaned forward to kiss her and ran his tongue up her spine. The experience was so intense he wanted to bite her, but the arch of her back disallowed it. Instead, he pressed his nose against the muscles splayed before him and slid his hands around to her breasts while he inhaled. Under the cover of the tropical smells of the lotion he’d rubbed into her ran the current of her scent – intoxicating! It made him feel light-headed.

He couldn’t help himself: his hips jerked to thrust, but he couldn’t really move. She encased him completely and pinned him down with all her weight in his lap.

He clutched her breasts in a firm grasp, rubbing his palms into her nipples as he rolled her flesh. She dropped her head back and placed her hands over his. Her dreadlocks scattered over him again, and he bowed his forehead against her back. He pulled one hand free to slide it down her front. He lingered at her belly and trilled his fingers there a moment before dropping further to the apex of her legs. Still moist from the massage, the skin there was slick and smooth under his frantic fingers. As he rubbed, she squirmed and circled her hips as if she wanted to get away from his touch. He knew better.

When she came, she grabbed his wrist to stop him. He squeezed her breast with one hand as she arched back and screamed. The sound caused an answering tremor inside him, and his need redoubled. She fell back against him, her head beside his, and he sucked at the chocolate-colored column of her neck. She reached one hand over her shoulder and hooked it around the back of his head to pull him to her for a kiss. Their lips and tongues entwined despite the awkward position, but at last he withdrew his head and said to her, “Now, baby, now.”

She leaned forward and planted her palms on his knees to steady her. Using her strong legs, she rocked on him. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the sensation of sliding in and out of her.  

“Faster – faster!” he urged.

He tried to speed her up with his hands on her hips, but in a flash, her hand slipped on his sweat-covered skin and she almost tumbled forward to the floor. He pushed her away and off him, ignoring her protests, and rose to stand behind her. In no time, he had turned her around and bent her forward to take her from behind while she braced herself with her hands on the armchair seat. She no longer had control of the pace or the depth of his penetration, and he made sure to satisfy himself on both counts. She groaned in time with the beat of his hips slapping against her ass and his balls against her thighs – musical sounds to him!

Eventually, she bent lower to rest her forearms on the plush seat and tilted her hips. It changed the angle; he didn’t like it. He kicked her legs further apart to force her hips lower, but then she was too low. He pulled out of her.

“Wha-?” She cast a glance at him over her shoulder.

“On your knees,” he growled.

So she knelt, keeping her arms on the chair, and he knelt behind her. Before he entered her again, he thrust a finger inside to check if she was wet enough. Pleased with the results, he held his cock to push into her, and resumed his thrusting at his previous pace. Much better, he thought. He pumped her for long moments, just his steady, fast clip. She felt good, and he enjoyed the sight of his cock sliding in and out of her.

At one point, she flipped her dreads over one shoulder to turn to him. He laughed at the bored look of reproach she gave him.

“Tired?”

She didn’t answer. She turned back to face forward, rested her torso on the chair seat, and reached down with a free hand. He knew what she was doing; the thought of her stimulating herself while he took her excited him. He pumped her even faster.

“Tell me when you’re cumming,” he said.

In fact, she did not cum. Her grunts were sounds of frustration, not ecstasy. When it became obvious to him that this wasn’t working for her, he pulled out of her again. She turned to him, crouching on her knees. She tossed her head to get the dreads over her shoulder and out of the way and waited expectantly.

“Ok, on the floor.” He gestured at the bare carpet in front of him.

She scooted to lie before him, her feet planted on either side of him. He reached down to pull up her hips and enter her once again, and she pushed her hips up to meet him. But he didn’t resume his pumping once he had buried himself in her; instead, he let both their hips rest on the ground as he bent to press his chest against hers. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he watched her face as he thrust into her this way.

He pumped away, bending his head for an occasional kiss. Eventually, her cries quickened, and she called to him, “Come on, baby, come on!”

Good old missionary, he thought. Works every time.

She came a little before he did, but he did get to shoot himself into her. Exhausted and dripping with sweat, he collapsed next to her on the floor. He bent one leg to reach his knee and rub it lightly. He’d scraped them both on the carpeting, as well as his elbows. And he had no doubt she would reprimand him later for the rug-burn on her back and ass. He just lay there a moment to catch his breath, then propped himself on one elbow to look down at her. She was covered in sweat too. At least she came, he thought. He liked to see fatigue on her face; it was certainly better than boredom or complacency.

She mumbled, “Not the armchair next time.”

“What then?” he asked with suspicion and caution in his voice.

Wordlessly, she jerked her chin toward the kitchen. He glanced in that direction, frowned a little, then turned back to her, arching one brow in surprise.

“The breakfast stool?”