You, probably, are already waiting for the continuation of the affair with a lover, of an insane time filled with happiness of constant possession, without fear, without guilt ... about the nights spent together and most importantly about how we wake up together in the morning and we are well and light. But no, it's not like that at all. My husband left and I constantly think about him, I don’t even think, but I’m waiting. All the time, every minute. It's like a countdown timer: one hour - it will not arrive soon, the day - you have to wait another two - maybe tomorrow it will be here ... I can’t with it and I can’t do without it. He is a part of me and I don’t want anything without this part. Sometimes I think of a lover, but now he is so immeasurably far. I want my husband to come, and his eyes shine towards me, so that I open the door and immediately understand - I miss you. Strong. I want to hug tightly, right at the door, right like that - without undressing, I want to kiss deeply and penetratingly. So that his feeling for me would be blocked by the fatigue of the road, work, worries, problems ... I want him to forget everything in my arms and feel better.

I hear the clanging of the keys, the rustling of the bags, I open the door, look for his eyes ... He does not look at me, he takes off his shoes, unzips his jacket ... I wait ... he puts the briefcase on, removes his hat ... I wait. .. Finally, he crosses the threshold and I stretch my arms to him, twist his neck, pull me to myself, press my lips to his lips, close my eyes and feel dizziness. Rub your cheek against his cheek ... the skin is so soft and slightly prickly and the smell ... the smell of his skin that barely penetrates through someone else's dirt road.

His hands hang like whips, he lets me hug him. Not for long. For a long time it is not enough. (Especially for eroticspace) He puts his palms on my stomach and slightly pulls me away. I try not to show it, but I can't stand it and say with a smile:

- You as always!

He is tired. I see. Exhausted physically and mentally. He washes, eats, sleeps. I'm waiting. He is at home and this is important. I look at him half asleep, lying on the kitchen couch, and thawing. It seems he came to his senses. His gaze becomes blurred, he takes my hand and draws me to him, kisses the stomach, licks it with the tip of the tongue, pulls out mysterious figures ... I feel the cool traces of his saliva and already thirst when he cries at me with hot lips. He strokes my chest ... his hands are warm, almost hot, dry and slightly rough. Gently but firmly squeezes her. For another second, pride and resentment fight in me, but now I run my fingers through his hair and hold me close. Tenderness falls not on me in waves, beats and pulsates in the lungs, there is not enough air ... everything is intertwined, and I cannot discern where his breath is, where his arms are, where his skin is ...

I lay on the kitchen table spread out, torn by desire, ripped open by his hands, torn to pieces and sobbing. He covers me with his weight and with force breaks into me. His dick is so hot, hard, powerful gives me incomparable pleasure. Because of the stiff and cold countertops, I feel pain and I know that then there will be traces on my back, but this excites even more. I clasp his body with my legs and hands and press with all my strength against him, throwing my head back. I hear his hoarse breathing, and a wave of the strongest orgasm covers me. He straightens out and continues to powerfully enter me, already pouring out and stormingly ending. His hand strokes my face, removes disheveled hair, slides down to my stomach, and together we calm down, hugging.