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A husband and wife escolate their bets on the big game.

She sighed. In that sigh was every reservation she had held since the first time she had slit her own flesh, and she was in that moment twelve once again, replacing the need to bring blood to the surface with the need to have this man penetrate her until she climaxed for him and the glorification of him only. He had positioned himself between her thighs now and glanced down to examine the sex vibrating waves of heat against his unbuttoned blue jeans. He noticed then, that she was panty-less. Thinking very seriously for a moment, he affirmed in his head that he had not removed her underwear and looked up at her questioningly. He freed her hands and placed both of his palms on the outside of either thigh; one of those sweaty palms was still discretely massaging her scarred flesh.

He raised a suggestive eyebrow at her, and through her breaths she smiled, shrugging at the hint in his eyes. While she had not expected the night to end this way, perhaps her disregard for underwear was an insinuation of what she privately anticipated. The seriousness between them broke, for a moment, and they exchanged a chuckle. He had not expected her to be panty-less, and she had not predicted that he would ever had discovered she was without them.

"Slut," he whispered, thinking that he would now descend to make his mouth even with her sex.

"Your slut." Her words were quick and almost without thought, but they interrupted his descent. He gulped and tilted his head upward.

"What did you say?" He asked, almost stuttering. She recognized the change in him immediately but was unable to calculate its origin.

"I said I'm your slut." She was obviously nervous, for the first time fearful that she may have frightened him with hurried assumption of belonging. His face blank, he sat up. Removing his hands from her, he unbuttoned his jeans and extracted the erect bulge from his boxers. Slowly, but with much control and balance, he leaned himself over her, bringing his hips to meet hers and slouching so his head came to just below hers. His hands found their way to her wrists once again, and he pulled them apart to either side of her fanned, mousy brown hair. He positioned himself to where he could easily enter her stinging lips, and he looked up at her.

"Whose slut are you?" He asked, senseless at the moment. She hesitated, the playful mood that had engulfed them before disintegrated like water in the bottom of a heated pan.

"Yours." She spoke slowly and softly, and then he penetrated her. It was at this moment that his head snapped back into place. His mind, that had drifted previously into the animalistic, found its way back into reality. He felt her tense around his pleasure and grew even harder at the shrill, slipping moan she released. The thrust into her brought him even with her face, and he rested his weight on her forearms. He withdrew his shaft and plunged again. The thought of owning her satisfied an instinctual need he hadn't realized until this moment that he had been searching for. Perhaps this is why no relationship had survived the realities of real life, but in this moment, he was complete within her.

"Whose whore are you?" He grunted to her, raising and lowering his hips again.

"Yours-" She answered almost too quickly, she thought, but that unyielding answer had complimented his momentary perfection.

Now he began to make a rhythm, pressing against the depths of her sex and releasing the pressure as he backed away only to force back down into her.

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