My husband always sits on the bench by the door when he takes his gardening boots off. I usually hand him a cold glass of water and delight in the trickles and drips that run down his bushy beard, wetting his nest of chest hair. Seeing the whorls of dark wet hair suddenly dampened my underpants. Before he knew what was happening, I had unzipped his jeans and pulled out his soft cock. It was warm and sticky with sweat. I squeezed the head, pulling my sticking fingers away sharply. He moaned each time I did it. He grew with each squeeze of my fingers. When he was hard, I slid my sharp tongue around the corona of his glans, tonguing his sensitive pearly bumps. He groaned with each pass of my tongue. Whispering that I was setting his thighs on fire. I squeezed his head again, freshly wet from my mouth. I drew his cock out, like pulling taffy, pinching harder as he grew harder. Fluid dripped from his tip and coated my fingers with silk. The pinching squeeze had a gained a down stroke and soon my slick fingers were sliding rapidly up and down his shaft, his cock slamming into my palm.
Between urgent breaths, he moaned in his baritone, “Put your mouth on me Baby.”
I slid my tongue around and around and around his corona, until the pleasure was so intense that he begged me to stop. I drew my teeth over his cock head as I had with my fingers, all the while, softly but swiftly flicking his tip.