Only Brad's weight atop her kept Kylee from curling into a fetal ball. Her hands warped into spidery claws digging at his spine. Neck muscles strained to push her cheek through his left shoulder. Other muscles pulled her face toward the point of her pert nose. Clamped eyelids birthed galaxies of stars. Toes of the feet just below his wildly pounding ass clutched at their own heels. Her knees alternately pulled toward his armpits and pushed toward the mattress. In the twenty-four years since Morgana Williams had taught her the joys of masturbation in the first grade, Kylee had never experienced so massive an orgasm.
The roar of her own pounding blood drowned all other sounds, save for Brad's grunting in time with his frenetic humping and another vaguely familiar sound she would have recognized at any other time. Those sounds also vanished when, just before she passed out from lack of oxygen, her throat relaxed enough to let out a guttural moan and draw in needed air.
Brad groaned with his own release. She was too exhausted to do more than pant encouragement and attempt to tighten her still-spasming cunt around his spewing shaft.
He collapsed on her, gasping for air, and the vaguely familiar sound repeated. This time she recognized it and opened her eyes.
The sight of her youngest son, Bobby, frowning beside the bed widened her post-orgasmic smile. "What, sweetheart?"
"I said," Bobby stated in the patient tone of someone tired of repeating himself, "I don't understand my multiple-cation homework. Would you help me?"
She cupped a loving, if sweaty, hand around his face. "Sweetheart, Mommy's not very good with arithmetic. Daddy's better at that. He'll be home in half an hour."
© Russell Hoisington 2006