Anna's Seduction: One Night of Pleasure (BBW Erotic Romance) (4 page)

“Nooo!” she begs, reaching back with her right hand to hold on to my thigh.  “It feels good, Roger.”

“Better than your bunnies?”

“A hundred times!” she gasps.

“Not a thousand?”  I tease as I apply a little pressure to her slippery clit and start to treat her to some firmer slams of my hips.

“A thousand...fuck me, Roger!  A million...times better.”  She’s backing her ass against me furiously now.  “Yes!  Fuck me!”

Stilling for a moment, she then comes with a few extra wiggles of her ass.

The night is young and I’m not ready to come yet.

I keep pumping into her and feel her juices flow over my cock; she’s a mini-squirter I’d realized when she came on my face earlier.

I like that.

I like the fact that she gets so wet, her juices run out of her.  It’s her pussy’s way of telling me it wants my cock so much, it’s weeping for it.

Occasionally I have to use lube with a woman.

Anna has plenty of her own.

Did I say that I like that fact?

I straighten her legs, one after the other, until she’s flat on the bed,

Then without pulling out—my cock doesn’t want to leave her tight nook—I roll with her and our positions are reversed.

“I’m going to crush you,” she protests and tries to move off me.

“I’m heavier than you,” I tell her and trap her in place with my arms.  “I weigh almost 3
½
lbs to the inch.”

She relaxes against me and I know that her keen accountant’s brain has already done the calculation.

From our three previous conversations I know she’s bright.

I think about the other things she’s told me as we lie for a minute or two catching our breaths back.

She does a 4-day week at her job because that’s more than enough money for her needs.  She also does it to achieve work life balance and spends Fridays attending pottery classes.

“Look at us in the mirror,” I say to her.

She looks up and sees the mirror above us for the first time.

“Oh my God!” she gasps.

“Look how beautiful your breasts are.”  I pull the nipples into standing peaks and then place my hands under each of the orbs to cup and support them.  “And now open your legs and see my cock buried in your sweet little pussy.”

She obeys and I have to admit it’s an awesome sight.  Several inches of my dick are outside because of our position and her plump ass, but the remainder is sunk deep inside her.

Her pussy lips stretch tight around my shaft and as I lift my hips and sink an inch or so deeper, they fold inwards with the motion.

“Look how tight you are, baby.”

“Oh my God!” she says again, but she can’t look away.

I give her several more thrusts, but it’s not the ideal position.

“Let me get you into the right position,” I say.

She rolls off me and soon I have her on the edge of the bed, legs on the floor, thighs sprawled open.

“Play with your nipples,” I instruct her as I take my cock in hand and point it at her tight little hole again.  “And open wide for me.”

Her pussy is slippery wet and I sink deep before I encounter real resistance.  I pause and circle her clit with my thumb as soon her pussy is sucking my cock inside almost before I can shove it myself.

“You have such a warm eager pussy,” I tell her as I finally sink to the hilt.  I swat until I’m the right height and then start to work smoothly in and out of her, coming almost all the way out before driving forward again.  “It’s a joy to fuck.”

“I can’t believe you can fit inside me,” she says quietly, almost to herself.

“I need cock rings for some women, but you are naturally deep.”

Her face flushes and she immediately turns it away.

“That’s a good thing,” I tell her, hitching her body further up the bed as I come over her.  “I hate cock rings.”

“You do?”

“Hate them with a passion,” I confirm with a smile.  “Wouldn’t wear them if I didn’t have to.”

She smiles back and I kiss her as I start to move again.

Her legs come up and wrap around my hips, allowing me the freedom to move backwards to my desired distance, but pressing me deeper on my forward stroke.

“You’re made for sex,” I tell her as I break the kiss and clamp my lips around her right nipple.

She cups her hand under it and raises it so that I don’t have to stretch my neck too far.

Fuck if she didn’t innocently trigger my breastfeeding fetish.

Fuck if she isn’t going to make me come harder than I have in a while.

I get off on the idea that I’m buried in virgin pussy—her bunnies don’t count—and the knowledge that her ass won’t escape a good pounding.  Not if I can help it.

She’s soft and firm and so fucking delicious I could fuck her solidly for the next week.

I had planned to make her come a couple of times more before I come myself, but it’s too late.

I start to really pump into her.

“Yes...yes...yes!”  She comes seconds later.

“I’m going to come too, baby.”  I keep pounding into her, my balls tight with spunk, until finally I can’t hold back any longer.  “I’m going to flood your tight pussy...with my...cum.”

“Yes, come inside me, Roger.”  She wraps her arms tightly around me and I lose it.

“There!” I shoot the first load into her and then several more in quick bursts until my balls are empty.  “There!  There!  Fuck!”

For a moment I lie heavily on top of her, glad that she’s built to take my weight.  She caresses my back as though she understands that I’m drained and need a couple of minutes to recover.  Her hand is so plump and soft it’s like being touched by a feather.  It’s arousing and comforting at the same time and my cock begins to stir inside her.

I could so easily fuck her again right now, but there were other things to do at the moment.

I cup my hands over her smooth shoulders and lie on top of her for a few minutes, supporting my weight with my arms as we exchange a few soft kisses.

“Hungry?” I ask her as I finally roll off her and to the side.

“I’ve already had dinner.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”  I get off the bed and pull her off to stand in front of me.  “How about grilled wild salmon, new potatoes with dill, marinated cherry tomato salad and roasted broccoli?”

“Are we going to cook it?”

“You’re going to sit and sip wine while
I
cook,” I correct her.  “Everything is prepped.  We’ll be eating in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” she agrees and I lead her by the hand out of the bedroom.

She doesn’t want to mix wines, so she sips on a glass of the pinot noir we will have with the meal, instead of the chilled chardonnay I had planned to pour for her.

I’m comfortable around the kitchen and have no problem with her watching me as I quickly throw the meal together.

“You know your way around the kitchen, don’t you?” she comments as I deftly turn the salmon and reveal the symmetrically-spaced char marks on the skin.

“Once I decided to improve my appearance, I learned to cook to ensure that I knew exactly what I was putting into my body.”

“It smells amazing.”

“And it will taste...” I walk over to the high stool she’s sitting on, still naked, and pull a nipple into my mouth and then let it slide out slowly.  “...as good as you do.”

She laughs.

I know she’s watching my butt as I walk back to the stove.

She’d wanted to cover herself but I had forbidden it; I’m still naked except for the apron covering my man bits.

My state-of-the-art heating system keeps the entire house at a comfortable temperature.  When I’m alone I usually don’t bother with clothes, but I gallantly offer her one of my robes before we sit down to enjoy the meal; I don’t want her too self conscious to enjoy it.

I stay naked.

I serve up the meal and as we eat we discuss exercise, fitness and diets, specifically diet foods and why they are bad for you as opposed to foods that are naturally low fat or low in calories.

“Cooking your meals from scratch is the key,” I tell her.  “Plan your menus at least a week ahead and it will be easier than you think.”

“That’s okay for you to say,” she replies.  “You’re a great cook.  My food never tastes as good as the ready-made Marks & Spencer meals I live on.”

“I wasn’t at first,” I tell her.  “It takes practice and good cookbooks, but once you master cooking you will really start to enjoy it.  If you must have takeaways, have them once a week, as a treat on Thursday or Friday to celebrate the end of your working week.”

“I guess I can do that.”  She smiles.  “It will be tough because at the moment I sometimes have three a week, Thursdays to Saturdays, and a different cuisine each night.  Thai’s my favourite, but I also like Indian, Italian and Chinese.”

“You can cook all those cuisines yourself, if you get the right cookbooks,” I say.  “And it would cost a lot less than you’re spending right now.”

“Okay.  I’ll give it a try.”  She spears a tomato with her fork and pops it into her mouth.  “This is so delicious!”

She’d told me on the phone that she loves love seafood, especially salmon.

“And yet it took me no time to prepare and as you saw, less than fifteen minutes to cook.”

“The salmon is perfectly cooked.  I’m always wary of ordering it, even when I’m dining in pricey restaurants because it’s so easy for it to be overdone and rubbery.  This is perfection.”

“That’s the beauty of cooking for yourself.”

“I know.”  She gives a small sigh.  “The problem is that I’ve always asked myself, ‘why slave over a hot stove when supermarkets sell tasty ready meals?’”

“Because ready meals have little nutritional value and are loaded with a lot of sugar and salt, and other things that are bad for you!” I tell her sternly.  “So promise me that you will at least try it for a month.”

“I promise.”  She smiles and though I know that she can ignore what I’ve said, I get the feeling that she would give it a go, even if it’s for a lesser time.  “And I’ll even try to cut back on my chocolate consumption.  Honestly if I could stop eating chocolate altogether, I would probably be anorexic.”

“It’s scientifically proven that chocolate is good for you.  You just have to choose the healthier versions, like dark instead of milk and quality brands instead of the sugar-laden junk you find in every supermarket and corner shop.”

“I’m not that fussy when it comes to chocolate,” she replies.  “I eat milk, dark
and
white.”

“Just how much chocolate do you actually eat each day?” I ask surprised.

Most people have a preference of milk or dark.

She had told me on the phone that she was a chocoholic, but now I’m beginning to think that she consumed a lot more of the stuff than I’d imagined.

“Put it this way: if you were made of chocolate, I would probably finish you in a day,” she jokes.

“I would enjoy been eaten by you...especially if you started with my cock.”

She laughs and I get up to grab the chocolate-covered strawberries I made for dessert from the fridge.

“Oh my God, these look too pretty to eat.”  She takes one as I offer the bowl and immediately sinks her teeth into it.  “Mmmm.  This is positively sinful.”

“I made them myself,” I tell her smugly.”

“Liar!”

“Honestly.”  They hadn’t taken much effort.  “They’re easy to make.  You just need large, very fresh strawberries and the finest quality chocolate you can afford.”

“The taste is very intense.”  She bites off the last bit of strawberry and places the stalk on the edge of her almost-empty plate.

“It’s a great way of getting at least one of your 5-a-day.”  I pick up one myself and bite it almost down to the stem.  “I usually make chocolate-covered Brazil nuts.  They last longer and taste just as good.”

“And strangely...” she picks up another one and nibbles on the end of it “though I could be greedy and finish the whole bowl, I think two will be enough for me.”  She takes another little bite and amends.  “At least for now.”

“The better the quality the less you need to satisfy your craving.”

“I can believe that.”  She takes a last bite, places the end on the plate and sits back on her chair.  “The flavour is so intense...so complex, you feel the need to take your time and savour each bite.”

“That’s the way all food should be enjoyed,” I say as I get up to gather the dishes.  “Eating is a pleasure that shouldn’t be rushed.  Too many people just scoff food down without really tasting it.”

“I’m one of them,” she admits.  “When I get home in the evenings, I just heat up a frozen meal, plonk it on a tray and plant myself in front of the TV.  Most times I’m not aware that the food is finished until I put my fork into the container and find that there’s nothing left.”

“You should always...always eat at the table.” My hands are full of dishes, so I nod towards the table.  “I eat alone most nights, but this is pretty much the way I set the table every night.”

“You do?” Her eyes twinkle with laughter, but she manages to hold it back.

“Yes,” I confirm.  “Dinner is my time to unwind.  I listen to the radio or some jazz, but I don’t bring my phone or any reading material to the table.  I like to focus mainly on what I’m eating.”

“That’s supposed to be quite good for you.  I read it somewhere...a yoga book I think.  It said focussing on your food while eating, helps you know when you’re full, so that you don’t overeat.”  She pauses and then smiles.  “But, even when I sit at the table, I’m busy looking at Facebook or Twitter.”

“I sign off both FB and Twitter at six every evening...if I’d looked at them at all that day.  I always think that whatever’s happening in the world will probably no better or worse by the next morning—no point in letting it disturb my sleep.”

“I wish I could do that!”  She laughs aloud.  “There are times I wake up in the middle of the night, just to check Twitter on my phone for breaking news.”

“I need to switch off,” I say as I move towards the kitchen.  “I’m a full-time volunteer for a suicide helpline and that can be draining.”

I quickly stack the dishwasher and tidy the kitchen.

“You volunteer full time on a helpline?” I can see that she’s looking at me with new eyes when I return to the table.