Ice CreamIt is warm in the bedroom and Jer is still curled in sleep, shirtless, the sheet a tangled around his legs. Corinne pauses to look at him in the morning sunlight. All the fine hairs on his body are illuminated in gold, except for the thicket of hairs on his slightly soft chest, which is darker, threaded through now with silver. His long arms seem to cradle the soft curve of his plump potbelly. He is not fat, merely soft. The curves stir her desire, but her heart thumps with a greater emotion. He looks, not small, but fragile. An angular shoulder blade and two upper ribs are visible. She frowns. She wishes they were covered with a layer of softness.
She would love him if he weighed a hundred pounds less or a hundred pounds more - but let’s be real, more is the much more appealing option. But she respects his choice of diet and exercise. When they were younger, she would encourage him to eat pizza or ice cream or another helping of curry. But he complained, plaintively, about gaining a few pounds. She had learned to hold back her feeder tendencies. Sometimes she suspected he was holding back his feedee tendencies, or at least his foodie tendencies. Eating little enough to maintain a toned, trim body had proved impossible for him.
She has told him how much she enjoys his thickness, has shown him with her hands and lips and tongue. Now she looks down at his beloved face, with it’s laugh lines and crow’s feet, all his worries smoothed away in sleep. His mouth has fallen open. She leans down and kisses his plush lips, trailing her fingers along the little curve of his belly.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” she sings.
His eyelids flutter open to reveal pale green eyes. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her down on top of him. He stretches, arching his back, which pushes his soft belly into hers. She kisses him again, more seriously, mouth opening.
“Mmmmm,” he hums. “Good morning. What did I do to deserve this?”
“You were being adorable in your sleep,” she says.
He laughs. She grabs his hands and pins his hands over his head. He lets her. She straddles him and grinds her crotch against his. She is fully clothed and he is wearing only boxers. Her full breasts bounce under a light cotton tee as she bounces rhythmically on top of him. Her face is flushed as she begins to shake, letting out a high-pitched moan as she comes. But this climax doesn’t satisfy, as soon as it’s done she feels the need for more. Her pussy aches, longing to be filled.
“Fuck,” she whispers as she jumps up and tears off her clothes. “Fuck me, I need you inside me. My love. My love.”
He is naked too, now, and already firmly erect. She climbs onto his lap and slides onto his cock. They both moan as he enters her wet opening, a familiar sensation but one they never tire of. The July morning is too hot, really, for this position, but she loves the feeling of their sweaty skin sticking together as they both sit upright, arms holding each other tight. Although he is much taller when standing, in this position she is slightly taller. She grinds on him again. She wishes, guiltily, that he was too fat for this position, his swollen gut making it impossible to reach his cock. Her fingers clamp on his small love handles, squeezing them as she begins to shake again. He cries out, too, burying his face in the crook of her neck and shoulders. They collapse onto the bed in a sweaty, salty tangle.
“Not bad for an old man, hey?” he pants.
“Hardly old,” she says lightly. “I want 49 more years at least, buster. And when you’re 99, I’ll still be offering you a handy in your wheelchair. I might not know your name, but I’ll know that.”
“I’ve never fooled around with a 95-year-old,” he muses.
“Stick around and you will,” she says.
Just then his belly growls.
“Poor tummy,” she says, patting it affectionately. “Making it do all this work when it’s empty.”
“Weren’t we going to check out that new place?” he asks.
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