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“Those need to come down,” he said, nodding toward my pants.
 
If looks could kill, my jeans would’ve burst at the seams.
 
Having an affinity for that pair of pants, I swiftly agreed by tugging them down to mid-thigh, immediately finding myself hauled over his lap. This was not a slow introduction — but a fast and frenzied reunion of hand and cheeks.

I yelped and kicked my pants and panties to the floor as the intensity increased.
 
When he slowed, I thought that he was distracted by my undulations against his thigh, or by my undeniable arousal — a sweet perfume so strong I could almost taste it.
 
Or perhaps it was his hard length straining against his zipper that inspired him to put me in our next position: my legs straddling his hips as I faced away from him, his hand pushing me forward until my elbows and forehead rested on the carpet. The cool air found the dampness between my thighs and a shiver passed between us.

From his vantage point, I am sure he could see my tonsils.
 
He proceeded to enumerate the ways in which I was exposed by alternating between crisp swats on my taut flanks, and a knuckles-deep exploration of my wetness.
 
Pain. Pleasure. Pain. Pleasure. Until finally…ecstasy.