Chapter 11: Chelsea 11 sx1
Chelsea did not lower. On her next breath, she tightened her grip around Tyrone's shaft and held the covered crown against her soaked entrance, wholly outside. Her knees kept their wide purchase outside his, her feet planted behind the chair legs, and his hands stayed spread on the chair arms.
They were both butt naked in the amber kitchen. Chelsea's heavy breasts hung between their chests, faint blue veins visible across their pale weight; her untamed golden-blonde pubic hair brushed the dark head she held; his joined thighs made a narrow seat beneath her wider base. His testicles hung forward and free below her, damp with old saliva, raised veins branching across the hairy scrotal skin. On the tile, her clear arousal fed the glistening patch it had joined while the older saliva remained legible beneath. The repaired sink and cabinet stayed dry. Chelsea's removed clothes lay beside the chair; Tyrone's clothes and latched toolbox waited near the cabinet.
Tyrone watched her stare between them. Her wedding band flashed when she adjusted her grip. She had stripped, mounted him, and rubbed him against herself until he had nearly lost his mind, but the last breath of space had found weight. That made pride press hot through his chest. He read the weight in her stare as recognition of what she had chosen.
"Before I open this tight white fitting, tell me something, customer," Chelsea said, keeping her gaze on the point of contact. "Does that big black main ever learn manners, or does it expect every connection to surrender?"
Tyrone settled against the chair back, showing her he would not chase the pressure around his crown. "Main don't expect shit," he said. "That black line stays where the plumber leaves it. You keep me outside, I stay outside. You let me in, I take only what you give me."
Chelsea rolled his shaft a fraction in her palm, studying its breadth and the thick vein raised along the taut dark skin, then looked into his face. "Good," she said. "Because my narrow white connection is already frightened of that broad black crown, and I haven't admitted any of it yet. I can't tell whether it will fit or simply prove that I was reckless to open the call."
The honesty struck harder than another tease. Tyrone saw the pulse jumping in her throat and the stubborn lift of her chin. He wanted to boast about how completely he could fill her, but any boast would turn her choice into his claim. He held it back, quieter than restraint alone could have made him.
"Ain't gonna lie to you, ma," he said, his voice lower. "That thick black pipe built heavy. But I ain't the one lowering it, and I ain't deciding what you can hold. All I know is you got me sitting right here."
"Then keep your black main still while I decide what my white fitting can accept," Chelsea said. She shifted without descending, dragging her wet entrance across the crown and back. "If I stop, you stay. If I rise, you let me rise. If I choose more, the choice remains mine."
"My black line stays parked wherever you set it," Tyrone said. "You run this call. I'm just the customer trying not to embarrass himself in the chair."
Her answering laugh trembled. She looked down as clear moisture traveled over his foreskin and gathered beneath the crown. One clear drop landed on the tile between his hanging testicles; another followed it. The sight tightened every muscle Tyrone held still. Chelsea loosened her fist around his shaft. Her other palm came to his shoulder for balance, her band pressing cool against his skin.
She had meant to sound commanding, yet terror crowded behind every metaphor. Nothing had prepared her for the thickness waiting against her. Grant had never made entry frightening; no man had ever made her wonder whether even the head might be beyond her body, much less everything rising beneath it. The ring against Tyrone's shoulder felt like Grant's hand closing around the choice. She loved her husband. She had crossed boundaries already—language, touch, her mouth, nakedness—but this would be the first act she herself recognized as officially cheating on Grant. The first part of Tyrone that entered her would also make him the first man whose cock she had ever taken raw, with nothing separating his dark skin from the most private part of her. Once she lowered, she could never rename what she had done. Guilt turned in her stomach beside a hunger so fierce it frightened her almost as much as his size. She wanted the forbidden closeness, wanted to learn whether her body could open around him, wanted the decision to belong to her. She tightened her hand on his shoulder, felt her own legs supporting her, and accepted that fear did not cancel desire. She would make the threshold herself.
Tyrone knew none of the argument behind Chelsea's stare. He saw only her swallow, the whitening pressure of her fingers on his shoulder, and the deep breath lifting her breasts. Then her fist left his shaft. She held him aligned with her body and began to lower.
The crown pushed into heat that resisted its outline. Chelsea's eyes flew wide. A raw cry broke from her, stripped of plumber confidence, and her descent stopped the instant the tight-foreskin-covered head passed inside. Her entire body went rigid above him, knees and calves bearing every ounce of her weight. Her nails bit into his shoulder. Tyrone locked his thighs together and held the chair arms harder, giving her no movement except the pulse trapped within him.
"That caught you," he said, keeping his voice even. "I felt it. I ain't moving on you."
Chelsea breathed through her teeth, suspended with only the crown inside. She glanced down, then lifted her face with tears of strain brightening her eyes. Her expression held shock rather than panic, the pressure larger than the certainty that had brought her down.
"The tight white fitting opened," Chelsea said after several breaths, her voice rough but back inside the role. "But that big black crown is wider than any part of this job had a right to be. Stay exactly where I installed you while I decide whether the connection is holding."
Tyrone's chest swelled. "That black main ain't moved, ma. You the one got the chair, the line, and the whole damn call under control."
She eased up until the crown threatened to slip free, then returned to the same shallow hold. Pain tightened her mouth, but her next attempt brought less recoil. Tyrone felt the tightness answer pressure with a slight relaxation around the crown.
Chelsea slid one hand from his shoulder to his wrist. She peeled his right hand off the chair arm, placed it immediately above her hip, then positioned his left the same way. "Anchor me here," she said, pressing his fingers into her softness. "Firm enough that I know where the customer is. You do not pull the plumber onto the line."
He closed his hands where she set them. Fingers and thumbs sank into warm flesh and gathered soft folds toward her deep navel. The grip gave him her shape without control of her height. He felt each breath move the gathered skin against his palms. His elbows stayed quiet, his back against the chair.
Chelsea tried a careful forward roll. The crown stayed buried while his shaft remained outside, slick against her hair and inner thighs. Her face pinched on the first sweep, then softened into concentration on the reverse. She repeated it slower, finding an angle that spread the pressure.
"Your big black main is testing every wall at once," Chelsea said, braced on his shoulders. "My snug white sleeve can hold the connection, but it will inspect this crown from every side before it authorizes anything else."
"That's your inspection," Tyrone said. "Whatever path you choose is yours. I'm right here."
Her circles widened without lowering. Each pass tugged the foreskin minutely over the crown, sending heat along Tyrone's full length. Clear arousal squeezed around the shallow seal, ran along the thick vein raised on his exposed shaft, and crossed his lap. More drops followed the underside and marked his joined thighs before falling. He watched them, proud that this breathtaking woman struggled to contain only his head yet kept choosing another turn.
The chair complained beneath them. Chelsea set her feet farther apart and tried a side-to-side grind. Her next exhale ended in a low sound. She shifted back, tested the new path, then crossed him again with greater pressure. Tyrone saw strain remain in her face, no longer alone. Her eyelids lowered; her mouth relaxed. Moving back across the crown, her breasts swayed against his chest.
"That white connection working like it was made to learn pressure," Tyrone said, pride roughening his cadence while his hands remained an anchor. "You got the line held so tight I can feel every little choice you make."
Chelsea looked at him through lowered lashes. "Do not mistake careful workmanship for surrender," she said. "I am still deciding whether the customer brought too much equipment into my kitchen."
She rolled again, and the sound in her throat deepened. Her fingers flexed over his shoulders, then loosened. Tyrone felt gradual warmth replace the hard resistance of entry. She did not descend. She smoothed each circle, then alternated it with short forward rocks that pressed her against the base of his exposed head.
About ten minutes had accumulated in the slow negotiation between her body and his crown. Chelsea had changed the angle of her knees, the pressure of her palms, the width of each circle, and every breath. Tyrone learned the quick catch that meant strain and the long exhale that accompanied pleasure. The folds around her navel shifted beneath his stationary grip.
Chelsea paused at the same shallow limit, flushed and lightly sweating. She looked down at the untouched length between their bodies, then back at Tyrone. Fear remained, but pleasure now stood beside it.
She resumed the grind, slower and heavier, keeping everything below the crown outside. Tyrone held her above the hips without adding motion. Her heat clasped the head, released by a fraction, then clasped again until her low moan told him the threshold no longer belonged to pain alone.
Chelsea's grinding narrowed to a small forward-and-back press, then stopped. Tyrone felt a shiver move through her stomach beneath his thumbs as she gathered herself above him. "Your black main passed inspection," she said, breathless but firmly in command. "Now I'm going to learn whether the rest can follow its head through my line."
Every muscle in Tyrone tightened, but his hands kept the same pressure immediately above her hips, firm enough to gather soft folds around her deep navel and nothing more. Her wide-planted legs carried her weight outside his joined thighs. "This customer ain't touching the controls," he said. "Whatever the master plumber gives me is what I get."
Chelsea lifted until the rim of the covered crown remained caught inside her, then lowered farther. A short length of shaft pressed through the opening its head had prepared, and her face pinched. She stopped at once. "There's still a burn in my stretched white coupling," she said, meeting his eyes. "But that big black line feels less impossible than it did before."
Tyrone felt her body flutter hard around him. He neither shifted his hips nor tightened his hold. The pain showed in the crease between her brows, but panic did not. Her banded hand settled on his shoulder, gold flashing between them. "I can feel you making room," he answered. "Ain't claiming what you can handle. I'm only saying I feel every choice."
She held still until the crease eased, then rose slightly and reclaimed the same position. The first pass left clear runoff on him. The next created enough shaft friction to draw a faint pale seam across the dark skin beneath his crown. Chelsea saw it as she lifted. "My white seal is marking every raised vein in your veined black line," she said, her authority loosening into wonder. "That wasn't there when I was only working the head."
She repeated the path without clearing the crown. The seam widened into a creamy ring, opaque against the raised veins of his dark shaft and visibly separate from the clear arousal traveling toward his scrotum. Older saliva still shone independently on the chair and tile. Tyrone's pride swelled at the trace her body had made and at the intent way she studied it.
"Yeah, ma," he said, awe roughening his voice. "That white mark sitting on my black skin looks too damn good. I can feel how hard you worked for every bit of it."
Chelsea lifted higher and descended past the place that had stopped her. A flash of strain crossed her face, followed by concentration. Her thighs quivered, but her base stayed secure. She held the new position, tested it with one careful roll, and gave a startled moan. Pain lingered, yet Tyrone could see pleasure beginning to overtake it.
"That big black pipe keeps finding pressure my body never knew," she said, the words fuller between breaths. "My tight white fitting is still protesting the stretch, customer, but it isn't asking me to stop. It wants me to learn what fits."
Tyrone swallowed a groan. "Then this master plumber is running the boldest call I ever seen," he said. "Got my line standing still while she learns it her way. Ain't no customer prouder than me."
She answered with a sequence she invented as she moved: lower, hold, rise enough to ease the strain, then lower again. Each return carried her beyond the last pause. Cream accumulated in uneven pale bands while clear runoff threaded between them and continued downward. Tyrone felt her grip change with each stage—fierce at a fresh stretch, warmer after she settled around it.
Chelsea leaned closer without abandoning her base, her heavy breasts swaying above his face, fine blue veins more visible across their warm pale skin. "You feel how this black main is changing the call?" she asked, one hand firm on his shoulder. "I began afraid I couldn't admit the head. Now when I rise, my body wants the pressure back."
"I feel all of it," Tyrone said, his thumbs motionless beside the gathered folds. "Ain't a thing weak about the way that line got your body holding on. You set it down, you bring it back, and I stay right here knowing you chose both."
Chelsea lowered again, and pleasure crossed her face before strain. She stopped, rolled her hips once, then lifted far enough to reveal another creamy band before reclaiming it. The new streak joined the earlier rings without blurring them; transparent arousal continued to slip freely over his skin. Tyrone throbbed inside her but kept his body obediently still.
Nearly twenty-five minutes had accumulated since Chelsea first held him at her threshold. Roughly eight to ten inches of his shaft were inside her at the farthest point she chose. Amber light exposed older saliva and clear runoff beneath the chair as Chelsea's movement grew searching: lower, hold until her breathing changed, rise to release pressure, then return.
"Something about this black pipe is changing," Chelsea said, command wavering in her voice. "The stretch is underneath something else now. Pressure keeps gathering where I can't inspect it, and every pass makes it stronger."
Tyrone studied the sweat at her temples and the way her eyes lost focus before finding his. Muscles fluttered beneath his anchoring hands; her body gripped harder without her settling farther. He refused to name a feeling she had not named. "I hear you, ma," he said. "I'm right where you put me, and I feel the call changing with you."
Her wedding band pressed cool against his shoulder as her fingers tightened. Her other hand touched his wrist; his grip had not shifted. Tyrone remained fixed beneath her and watched surprise interrupt the rhythm she had controlled so carefully.
The pain had faded to taut warmth, still present but stripped of authority. Pleasure had taken everything else: the dense fullness, the drag that caught her breath whenever she rose, the heavier pressure answering each return. Pale cream ringed Tyrone's dark shaft while clear wetness traveled past without obscuring either fluid. She had made those marks. Her body had answered a man she once believed she should never touch. Yet the cream frightened her less than the force gathering beneath it. That pressure was not simple fullness or any pleasure she knew how to name. It tightened low inside her, spread outward, and stole the reliable rhythm she had built. Fear sharpened when her muscles moved without the precise permission she had demanded from everything else. She wanted control; some instinct urged her to escape what she could not understand. But another, deeper impulse asked her to trust the body that had carried her this far. Her wedding band pressed into Tyrone's shoulder, keeping love and guilt painfully real. The choice remained hers despite both. She would not predict the rising force or pretend to understand it. She would follow what her body asked for next.
Tyrone saw the change before Chelsea found words for it. Her eyes lost their focus on his face. Her lips parted around quick, shallow breaths. A tremor traveled from her shoulders into her braced hands, and her wide-planted legs began to shake outside his joined ones. He could not know what had gathered inside her. He knew only the widening stare, the pressure of her fingers, and the helpless rhythm beginning in her hips.
"Ma, I see something changing," Tyrone said. His hands remained above her hips, their steady anchor gathering soft folds around her deep navel without drawing her down. "Tell me what you need from me."
"I don't know." Chelsea's answer came ragged. "There's pressure everywhere. It keeps getting stronger, and I can't make it settle. I don't know whether to hold still or—oh, God—get away from it."
Tyrone searched her face, refusing to turn uncertainty into an order. "Whatever you choose, I ain't adding nothing. This is still your call."
Her gaze dropped between them. Pale cream marked his dark exposed shaft in opaque rings and streaks, while clear runoff followed thinner paths over her skin. Chelsea made a frightened sound, tightened both hands on his shoulders, and rose.
Tyrone released her at once. His fingers opened; the folds beneath his thumbs smoothed as every ounce of anchoring pressure vanished. His palms stayed near but open, so nothing held or slowed her. Chelsea lifted faster. His shaft slid from her until the tight-foreskin-covered crown passed her entrance and came wholly free.
For one suspended heartbeat she hovered above him, empty of him and shaking so hard her teeth clicked.
Only then did her body break.
Chelsea screamed. The sound tore out of her without shape or restraint as her back bowed and her legs convulsed around Tyrone's joined thighs. Her feet skidded but remained wide. The first clear gush struck his upright erection, sheeted into his lap, ran over the branching veins of his heavy scrotum, and spread across his thighs. A second burst splashed the chair beneath him. Another followed, spilling from his thighs and the chair's edge to the tile.
Tyrone stared. Pale-white cream remained legible in thick bands along his shaft beneath the new clear wetness. On the floor, fresh splashes reached Chelsea's earlier runoff and the older saliva without erasing their separate trails.
Chelsea's knees buckled through another convulsion. With the crown already clear, Tyrone slid open palms beneath her waist and hips, catching her sagging weight without closing them around her. Her shaking moved through him unchecked. She screamed again, her voice cracking around his name. More liquid poured over his erection and lap, washed along his scrotum, and streamed down his thighs into the soaked chair before falling to the tile.
Shock held him motionless. He had seen pleasure twist faces and heard women lose their voices beneath him, but he had never watched a woman release like this. Awe crowded out every thought except keeping Chelsea from falling and the fierce knowledge that she had chosen him for whatever this was.
Her shaking gradually lost its violence. The screams broke into hoarse cries, then breathless sounds. Chelsea sagged above him, supported by her wide stance and his open hands. Her golden hair spilled around them. Her wedding band flashed near his shoulder as her fingers clutched there, loosened, and clutched again.
"Tyrone," she said at last, her voice scraped raw. "What happened to me? I couldn't stop it. I couldn't even hear myself think. Did something go wrong?"
"You came, Chelsea." Wonder made his hard edge unsteady. "That was an orgasm. I know that part."
Her eyes widened, though the panic in them softened. "That was an orgasm? That's what people mean when they say they lose control? I've never had one before—not alone, not with anybody."
"That's what just took you," Tyrone said. He glanced at the wetness dripping from the chair, then looked straight back at her. "But all this? Ma, you squirted all over me. I ain't gon' pretend I know everything about it, because I swear I never seen a woman do that before."
Chelsea followed his glance. Color climbed across her pale face. "My fitting did all of that?"
"That swollen white fitting flooded my big black main, my lap, this chair, and half your floor," he said, a stunned laugh slipping through his words. "And before you ask, no, I ain't mad about none of it."
"Your black main made me do that," Chelsea whispered, as if the statement belonged to somebody else. "I pulled away because I thought the pressure was going to swallow me, and then my whole body just—" Her legs jerked in a smaller aftershock, cutting her off. She clung to his shoulders until it passed. "I have never felt anything like that."
Pride struck Tyrone hot and deep, but it carried no claim of expertise. The most beautiful, biggest-titted woman he had ever seen was trembling over him, bewildered by pleasure her body had released against his. He had not forced the descent or trapped her when she rose. She had controlled every choice, and still he had been the man beneath her when control vanished.
"You did it," he said. "Your body did. I was lucky enough to be right here when it happened."
Chelsea looked at him for a long moment. Her breathing remained uneven, and fine tremors continued through her thighs and abdomen. She was still fully above his erection, no part of him inside her. Tyrone kept his palms open at her waist and hips, supporting her without letting them wander, and waited while she found steadier breath.
They were both still butt naked in the Mercer kitchen. Chelsea's clothes remained beside the chair; Tyrone's clothes and latched toolbox waited near the dry cabinet. Her wedding band flashed near his neck. His wet body gleamed against the chair, his erection still hard, controlled, and unspent.
Chelsea drew back far enough to find his eyes. Her face was flushed, damp at the temples, and stunned in a way he had never seen. She covered his hands with hers before either could leave her waist.
"Customer, you held me when my pressure went wild, and you kept those hands where I put them," Chelsea said, her voice unsteady but complete. "Now I want them everywhere you have been staring—hips, thighs, my butt, my back, my stomach. When I lean forward, you may cup my milk tanks. You may admire what your black pipe did to these white walls, but my body still moves itself."
Tyrone did not slide a thumb or flex a finger. "Aight, ma. These hands touch what you offered and stop when you move them."
Chelsea lifted her hands. Tyrone followed the flare of her hips down the trembling muscles of her thighs. Aftershocks fluttered under his fingers. He traced them slowly, feeling the strength that had held her above his joined legs and the weakness that had overtaken it.
His hands returned along the backs of her thighs and spread over her butt. He held its warm weight without steering her, then traveled upward along her lower back and the shallow channel beside her spine. She arched by choice, her banded hand resting against his shoulder.
"That's better than any pressure gauge," Chelsea said, a small smile breaking through her shock. "Your hands tell me exactly how proud you are of what my body did over you."
"Proud ain't even the word," Tyrone said. "That fitting soaked me, soaked this chair, and reached the floor, and I'm still trying to believe I was sitting here when it happened."
His hands rounded her sides and crossed her abdomen. He felt the soft give beneath her navel, the muscles tightening whenever his thumbs passed near the center, and the faint tremors still working through her. He moved upward over her ribs one span at a time. Each breath widened her against his palms; each exhale let her settle closer without placing her on him.
Chelsea leaned forward before his hands reached her breasts, making the invitation unmistakable. Their heavy natural curves descended into his view and brushed his chin.
"Cup them, customer," Chelsea said. "Let's see whether your control survives with my milk tanks in your hands."
"It'll stay where you leave it," Tyrone said, though the words came rough. "But putting my big black pipe under these massive white milk tanks is a cruel inspection."
Tyrone opened both hands beneath her breasts. Their weight settled into his palms, their outer curves spilling beyond his fingers while fine blue veins branched visibly across their pale skin. Chelsea lowered her chest another fraction. Soft flesh pressed his cheeks, covered his mouth, and rested heavily against his chin while he supported it from below. He smelled her skin, their mixed sweat, and the fading trace of saliva from before.
The surge hit instantly. His erection jumped against the wet space between them, and pleasure drove through his belly in one hard pulse. It made his grip tighten, but it never became an edge. He breathed through the softness crowding his face and loosened his fingers at once. Her breasts pressed his cheeks and mouth without engulfing his head, leaving him able to look up at her.
"I felt that black main answer," Chelsea said, watching his eyes over their upper curves. "Was that too much pressure for my customer?"
"Enough to make me fight for my manners," Tyrone said. "But your white tanks don't collect payment until the master plumber decides."
When she lifted her chest, cool air reached Tyrone's wet face. Her breasts slipped from his cheeks but remained cupped until she closed her hands around his wrists. She brought his palms down her sides and back to her lower waist, setting both directly above her hips. His fingers curved into the soft flesh, gathering folds around her deep navel without adding downward force.
"Keep your anchor here," Chelsea said. "The black main is going back into the white fitting, and I decide how the seal closes."
"You set it, ma," Tyrone said. "My black line stays still and takes whatever position you give it."
Chelsea straightened over him. Her feet reset wide on the tile outside his, restoring her stable base. Tyrone's thighs, knees, lower legs, and feet remained joined beneath her. His low-hanging testicles stayed forward and free, untouched by the narrow space between his legs or the broader frame of hers.
She reached between them and took his erection in hand. Tyrone watched her inspect the slick dark shaft, where pale cream remained visible beneath the clear fluid covering him. Her thumb passed over one pale band, and her mouth curved with returning authority.
"My white fitting left its mark across every raised vein in this thick black pipe," Chelsea said. "Hold still while I put it back where it belongs."
Tyrone's grip remained an anchor as Chelsea aligned the covered crown with her entrance. He felt the first broad pressure, then the tight warmth accepting him as she lowered. Her breath caught, but pain did not cross her face. She paused with her eyes closed, rolled her shoulders loose, and resumed only when her legs steadied.
Her descent came in patient stages. She lowered, stopped, and rose just enough to change the pressure before sinking again. Tyrone's hands moved only with her waist. Cream collected into fresh pale rings whenever she lifted and disappeared again as she descended. He watched concentration gather between her brows, surprise part her lips, and pleasure soften both.
Chelsea answered with a slow downward roll. More of his shaft vanished, and her thighs quivered around his joined legs. She stopped, breathed, then eased upward far enough for the cream-marked dark length to reappear. Tyrone felt her gather herself through the hands at her waist. She lowered again with greater confidence, taking her own weight through her widely planted feet.
She changed the angle by shifting one foot outward, then drew it back when the new position altered her balance. Tyrone's thighs stayed welded together. His hips remained sunk into the chair. Chelsea tried again with the adjustment smaller, lowered until her mouth opened on a long breath, and held there while the grip of her body settled around him.
"This white fitting remembers your black main," Chelsea said. "It is opening faster, but remembering does not mean rushing. I still want to feel every change I choose."
"Every one you choose, I'm gon' feel right here," Tyrone said. "The call stays yours."
Chelsea lifted enough to let air cool part of his slick shaft, studied the cream rings against his dark skin, and descended again. This return was deeper, but it remained measured. She paused twice before reaching the place she had occupied before her orgasm, as if confirming the route belonged to her rather than to momentum.
A little over thirty minutes had passed since Chelsea first held him at her threshold. Amber light caught distinct trails of squirt, clear runoff, and older saliva beneath the chair while Chelsea continued her final descent, unhurried and entirely self-directed.
"Look at me, customer," Chelsea said as she paused again. "I want to see what that black main does to your face while my body decides what it wants next."
"Aight, ma. I'm looking," Tyrone said.
Chelsea held his gaze. Her wedding band rested against his shoulder while her other hand braced on the chair back. She lifted a fraction, changed the angle, and lowered with exquisite care. Tyrone's fingers sank deeper into the folds above her hips. Heat advanced around him until only the base remained outside, his testicles still hanging free beneath her.
The chair creaked once. Chelsea stopped. Tyrone watched her face rather than the small remaining distance between their bodies. She breathed in, held the breath, and let it go across his lips. Her eyes remained on his through another controlled rise and return. Every fresh fraction came from the strength in her wide-planted legs.
"Your big black pipe is still waiting," Chelsea said, voice hushed but certain. "My tight white fitting is going to close on my terms, and the master plumber is going to know she put it there herself."
"Aight, ma," Tyrone said. Reverence stripped his voice low. "I'm right here for the choice."
Chelsea lifted once more, barely enough to alter the pull within her, and settled past the last place she had paused. Her breasts swayed toward him. Her untamed golden-blonde pubic hair hovered close to the dark hair at his root while his testicles remained untouched below. Tyrone's grip gathered the folds around her navel, and his joined legs stayed fixed beneath her wide base.
Her breath trembled across his face. She gave him one last searching look. Chelsea pressed down through the final resistance, and at the first instant her body settled to his root, all fourteen inches were inside her while his low-hanging testicles remained free.