Sex Du Jour
Chapter 4

Copyright© 2015 by livobeornwulf

Erotic Sex Story: Chapter 4 - A horny and lewd couple has sex in a forest while on their way to the beach.

Caution: This Erotic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/ft   Romantic   Heterosexual   Fiction   BDSM   Size   Hairy   Big Breasts   Slow   Nudism  

It is a little mite jot inebriating and intoxicating and fuddling. Yes. To some measure and stretch, I am all this boozy and stewed up and tipsy and loony what's more. The style and fashion and manner of action that Stian is seizing and gripping and latching on to my chin and mustachio; it strikes me dumb and takes away my breath and dazzles and confounds and overpowers me—everything relating to this, it is all sublime and dazzling and illustrious and gee-whizz and striking. It absolutely and verily is!

Having filched and sneaked and dobbed a two-faced, breakneck hurriedly and swiftly precipitate peek down at my ... vulva or vagina ... he gawps straight up at me and rams and slams and butts himself against me, bracing and cuddling and hugging and holding me so close and on a grand scale taut towards himself as he does so. Yeah! His legs and feet, they are settled and laid out right against and over mine, smoothing and compressing them in a sweet-tempered and dove-like and benign sort of way. Arghhhhh! What could be faithfully and word to word any fancier better and preferable than all this? What literally?

I sigh out, in a rush and like greased lightning and nobody's business, lurching and throwing and thrusting and jerking and tweaking my head straight up in a rearward (backward) style and manner that feels and is as a matter of fact so, so pearly and tickly and easy-peas' smooth like. Just like the literal and wringing exact emotions that I am undergoing and feeling right now! Yes; Stian is breathing and wheezing straight out into my face, and when I droop and dangle and sag my head down so as to stare and eyeball straight into his eyes, I feel the more happier and satisfied and elated and on cloud nine; verily...

With his very own one hand, he abstracts and pulls out his rocklike, stiff, and prickled-up penis from his sexy, come-hither underwear—which I love and dote on and think the world of so very much—and having played and toyed and dolled about with it care-freely and nonchalantly all thanks to the wield and utilization of his disengaged hands, he rubs and scours and strokes it on my pussy that is easy-going and insouciant and laid-back and downbeat in the water beneath there ... I whine and sniffle and bleat out happily and excitedly; I am wholly stirred and whetted and whipped up both carnally and sensually even right spot-on pretty damn second!

"Did that give you immense pleasure and furthermore delight and enthrall and thrill you up?' This, Stian queries and enquires me in a comparatively titillating and pink-tickling accent of voice that to some grade and extent sounds as though it is heaven-sent and rapture-inclined. I am enthralled; I am amused and absorbed and bewitched and engrossed and bedazzled solely by this. Is he human or some freaking divine angel? What verily?

"I feel that my eyes and face are clear and downright frank enough to make that explicit and cut-and-dried and blatant plain and besides, incontrovertible and unambiguous to you, or are they not that patent enough?" With a fairly mild and benignant expression, I upturn and topple over the matter and thesis back to him—doing it all generously and topsy-turvy jumbled inside-out mixed-up style.

He smiles at me brusquely and systematically; then for one terse and synoptic moment, or maybe two or three, he slithers and slinks and skitters his John Wang and plonker right undeviating into my cunt and twat, and I give my word, if I have not sailed and flitted and mounted my way farther high up past the piers and torchbearers and vaults and mainstays of heaven, then I doubtlessly and beyond the shadow of any irresolution and dubiety am in life to come right now and the abode of the heavenly Begetter itself! Possibly ... and seemingly so...

After Stian draws back and pulls out his Willie from where he has laid it—in my punani hole that is—I retrocede and regress back to realism and corporeality and exhale out heavily and delightfully. It has all been a fleetingly booshit and out of this world moment, I swear. As he cuffs and smacks and whacks and batters my bum right then and abruptly and all hurriedly at once, I wheeze and rasp and cough out another time. Before I even become aware of it, his lips are moving and skimming right over mine, pleasurably and enjoyably lackadaisical and tortoise-like, his teeth raking and sweeping and dragging them amiably and scrupulously and meticulously; thrilling and delighting and giving me pleasure in just 'bout every tack and tenor and wont and practice and approach odds-on.

"Stian," I rasp and whirr and sibilate his name out, wholly inflated and swelled and ballooned and packed and loaded with just the ideal bliss and contentment. Aren't you yourself whooping it up and larging it big time with all of this stuff existent here as well?

At a snail's pace and taking his time, inchmeal and in his own breathing space and spare moments, and lazily in a laid-back way and feel sort of comfortable and relaxed fashion, he sticks on at flouncing and sailing and breezing his lips over mine, licking my face fungus or whiskers, pinching and nibbling and clamping sweetly and pleasurably my genteely, finely, and subtly balmy lips, all up till I am cooking and simmering and blowing up a fuse with licentiousness and salaciousness and libido and concupiscence ... I have a fancy and unquenchable craving for all of this ... I yen and would eat out my heart over anything just to win possession of him to myself and do anything with him that I feel like transacting off. Yes! Indubitably!

While Stian budges and switches about his legs, I pull and tow back apart mine so that he can make a moored and staid entrance straight into me with his eyes closed and shut and without experiencing any hardship or painfulness. He is congenial and genial and complaisant and pleasant and kindly in his motion and advancement toward me. Then, as time whisks and flashes by, he prods and lunges and taps John Barry Thomas direct into my poor dear old helpless muff and starts tonking and slamming and beating seven bells out of her briskly fast and at full speed and like quid pro quo lightning. I sob and grouch and whinge out straight away. He bleats and carps and bitches out too obstreperously, but it is only for a little bit tad nom-de-plume like while and even then his voice is as not as all that rowdy and clamorous and sharply piercing and cacophonous as mine is.

Having made clear this, I place and lay my hands straight on his buttocks behind and clasp and grip them all to myself and for myself solely. Arghhhhhhh! The feeling, the sensation, the stir and commotion of it—it implodes and demolishes and crushes my senses and apprehension and understanding to non-being. I come clean out of the closet: I have never been this pleasured and thrilled and given bliss in all my good old days, or have I been franchised and honored and privileged with just that? Categorically and frankly speaking, not by any chance so!

Stian whacks and clobbers and sledge-hammers level into me—at just the ideal and point-blank perfect and foolproof and blamelessly exemplary speed and velocity. I don't know what to think of this. In fact, I can't even rack or brood my brains on just about any fast-track form of subject matter and thesis as regards this. No—I in any way and under any would-be circumstances cannot! Because if I haply and plainly smooth could, there would be no more any of this paradise and heaven and happiness and nirvana of mine! Irrefutably not so!

 
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