My Valentine

I never could get used to this feeling. There was just something more infinitely intense about an orgasm completely out of your control.

I know my wife understands that fact. After all, none of her orgasms were in her control as well — which was evident by the way she looks like right now.

Locks of naughty hair sticking to her face as sweat drips down her forehead, my wife's two fingers spread her labia as her pussy gushes out a stream of liquid. She had shamelessly squirted at the feel of her owner's hot white cum hitting her skin. Even whores will probably blush at the dirty sight.

"Fuck," Jack curses under his breath, stroking his cock on her face as he tries to empty out his balls as much as he can. Julie kneels there without a word, eyes closed as if being blessed in a holy altar.

"What do you do, slut?" Jack asks her. Eyes still shut gently, my wife leans forward and respectfully meets his testicles with her ruby lips. "Thank you," she mumbles around the hanging meat sincerely. The Bull nods in approval.

They had agreed she would show him gratitude in this way every time he came on her face. Whatever state Julie was in, making out with his balls on her knees was second-nature to her at this point.

After a few minutes of basking in their own glory, the Bull grabs a handful of the freshly-fucked slut's hair and pulls her up by force. Julie hisses at the pain yet otherwise enjoys it — as evidenced by the fucked-silly grin on her face.

"There, you can have her back, cuck."

He then pushes her towards me. I reach out with both of my hands to catch her before she trips and falls in my embrace. A moment of silence surrounds us as we feel the spark of our skin in contact with each other. Julie looks up at me through those beautiful long lashes and... smiles.

"Should we head out?" I ask with a similar simper, promptly taking off my vest before tying it around her waist and covering up the tears on her smoking dress. She nods shyly, like a young girl in love. One might consider her a faithful, demure woman if it weren't for the thick globs of cum painting her face.

"Let's go," I say blankly, barely able to walk. With a look, she kisses me sweetly all of a sudden, reminding me of our first — when we were just drunk teenagers under a mistletoe — except the taste of her now is stained with the taste of someone else.

We've been on hundreds of dates for the past few years, and every time they started with a romantic kiss smudged with red lipstick and the cum of our Bull.

"Do I look beautiful?" she asks me, our lips separating as trails of cum drip on our chins.

I wouldn't have my Valentine any other way.