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i'm a machine

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He presses you back into the mattress with a gentle but firm hand. "I'll take it from here, love."

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch as he pulls off his shirt, revealing a cut torso with the lightest dusting of hair across his chest. He gives you a cheshire-cat grin and crawls up the bed.

"I've got it," he croons, reassuring you. "You can trust Whit, love, I've got it all under control."

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee; you realise, perhaps belatedly, what he is planning to do.

"You don't have to," you say, almost a whisper as he makes his way up your thigh. He kisses your stretchmarks and looks up at you.

"I know," he says, careless and confident as he always is. "But I'm going to."

He presses kisses along the crease of your thigh, and you try not to think too hard, to be in the moment, but it's a very overwhelming moment as Oscar-winning director Whit Coutell buries his entire face in your cunt, making noises of appreciation as your brain overloads. He's licking your clit with the flat of his tongue, and his hands are grasping your ass tightly; you feel trapped in the best possible way as he doesn't let up.

"Oh," you hear yourself saying, "oh, oh-- Whit-- fuck, oh my god--"

You can feel his grin against your cunt as he moves one hand to slip a single finger into you; you buck up against him at the sensation, and he removes his mouth to look at you, supremely self-confident as he slips a second finger in. You clench down on it as he licks his lips, a bit exaggeratedly. "Absolutely lovely," he tells you, his fingers stroking you, seeking your g-spot. "You're doing great, love."

"I think you're doing all the work," you reply, trying not to sound shaky.

"An artist must be allowed to work," he says, as he finds your g-spot and you inhale loudly, thighs flexing as the pleasure rolls through you in a wave. "And I'm an artist of the very highest caliber."

Before you can formulate a response, he's ducked back down to your cunt, where he licks your clit once before sucking on it directly, his fingers continuing to work you from within, the sudden onslaught of pleasure shorting our your synapses as all you can do is clutch Whit's hair and swear creatively.

He lets up after what could be ten seconds, could be fifteen minutes-- you've lost track of time.

"That's some mouth you've got on you," he says, raising an eyebrow.

"Wait til I get it on you," you reply, panting.

He grins. "Is that a promise, now?"

"Uh-huh," you manage, before he puts his mouth back on your clit and your brain is mush once more. He's flexing his tongue against your clit as he sucks, and you see stars; then he adds a third finger into your dripping cunt, thrusting and rubbing up against your g-spot, and everything implodes, your orgasm rushing through you, better than any drug. Your mouth is moving, but you can't hear yourself over the pounding of your heart. You flex your fingers and find them wrapped in Whit's hair; your legs are sore from tensing and flexing.

He pulls away from you when you yank his soft brown hair, giving you a self-satisfied smirk that might bother you in any other circumstances. His lips and chin are glistening with your juices, though, so you'll give him a pass this time.

"There you are," he says, wiping his hand over his mouth. "The artist at work."

"Fuck off," you tell him, smiling. "Come here."

He crawls up your body to kiss you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue; you bite his lip, just gently, and he makes a rumbling noise in his chest.

"Give me a minute," you tell him, "and I'll show you a masterpiece of my own."

"A masterpiece, is it? How delightful," Whit replies, kissing you again. "Better give it two minutes, so you'll have the proper energy to give your work the attention it deserves."

You look down, and the outline of his cock in his boxers shows clearly-- thick, hard, curving just slightly. You lick your lips.

"Don't worry," you say, your heartbeat finally starting to slow. "Focusing will not be an issue."