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The young king finally marries his mother.

But he had been too eager that first day and still unable to read all her signals, and before she'd reached her mountaintop he was moving to the next step, up on his knees between her thighs, his Speedo stripped and flung atop her own a few feet away. His erection curved high and hard, his testicles hanging asymmetrically.

All too quickly he'd covered her body with his. The moment was aroused and rushed and awkward. The cool skin of his thighs pressed against her warmer flesh. Dee had strained her legs apart, bending her knees, her hands just below her kneecaps to hold herself open for him. He had smeared his shaft in her creamy slickness, and she had tried to adjust her body to accommodate to his angle. His knees had nudged up and back on that damp towel, searching to find the right position with her body and its unwaif-like hips that was so new to him.

And then, suddenly, he was inside her. At first an electric inch, then a brief retreat followed by a deeper thrust. Dee always held her breath at initial penetration, held her body still and receptive, relishing that invasion of hard flesh. She remembered how Paul had stopped, then leaned forward and just kissed her, long and lingering. It had been the longest kiss of that first afternoon, and it had surprised her how he was able to pause what had at the time seemed so frantic and to just focus on her mouth. She had tasted herself on him, inhaling her scent on his mustache.

Then, without breaking the kiss, he had driven the rest of the way up inside her, until his pubic bone pressed the weight of his hips through hers to pin her ass against the hard floor. She couldn't breathe. Dee had broken the kiss to pant, to find a place for her hands on his shoulders, his back, his behind. His thick shaft had deliciously stretched a vagina that hadn't felt a cock in more than six months.

But they didn't click right away, that first time. She'd felt out of sync, out of control. Falling behind. Paul was breathing hard, his cock already doing that thrust-twitch-stop thrust-twitch-stop that signaled how distressingly close he was to an orgasm. Dee had struggled to get back to where she was when his mouth had so abruptly left her pussy, and that was made all the more difficult by Paul's irregular rhythm.

"Wait," she had gasped. "Stop." She had pushed at his chest with her fingertips. His cock, jerking involuntarily, reluctantly retreated. Not yet, not yet, too fast, she had thought. "Let me be on top," she'd told him.

Paul had smiled and acquiesced, withdrawing completely, then had flopped down beside her on his back. His penis was an arch of glistening flesh, with an inch of angry red just below the head. Throbbing. Bobbing up and down. Alive.

She had straddled his hips. She had reached down to find his shaft, furrowed its mushroom head up and down between her labia to assure herself that she was properly spread and wet, and, closing her eyes, had lowered herself on his erection. She had impaled herself on him with a directness that had made him audibly groan. She loved to hear a man groan.

Dee's reverie was broken by the sound of water running in the shower. That was a clear sign that Paul was leaving. Her right forefinger traced the sensitive edge of her inner labia, from bottom to top, first one side then the other, then briefly checked the still gaping path to her vagina.

Dee smiled to herself and remembered back to that first time, remembered how it was so much like this very afternoon. How she'd ridden him, how she'd mashed her raw openness against his pubic bone, how her body had swirled with the heady sensations of a roughly diddled clit matched with a stuffed vagina. How she was happy. How she was being fucked.

How she was fucking him.

And how she had found her rhythm with him.

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