"I am all yours to take," she finally conceded, in a mental universe where she was both aware and ingenuous about the meaning of her words.
Uttered months after they had committed to each other, they did not come lightly. The slow build up to them played part in imbuing them with significance. Still, it can't be said that she had fully thought through the ultimate consequences of what she called upon, what she enabled.
It was a rather uncharacteristic moment for her. Her everyday chess thinking was always five moves ahead; she was one of those infuriating people who remember to buy milk a day before the gallon is down to a single glass, who finish wrapping the last of their holiday shopping on Black Friday weekend. In the heat of the moment, perhaps, she had said something that she had not planned, fully envisioned.
What she for once had not overanalyzed, thought hard into the land of the overprocessed ridiculous, he had very much mentally dissected on her behalf.
When he received her confession on a night of work trip sexting, accompanied by a close up shot of her fingers deep between her legs, he played it cool. At the time, he used it as one more step to climb on as he remotely built the momentum in her. He was going to take all of her, not just the mediated and hormonally suppressed parts he had accepted so far, and he told her all about it. When his filthy words finally made her cum on speaker, he smiled in relief, glad he was able to hold back the honest images she had reignited with her concession.
He had given it much thought, both rational and irrationally. He knew it was time. He had found the best teammate and life partner, at a time of stability and abundance, and he knew his knees did not have many more years of soccer coaching at the local elementary. A few years younger, however, she was only past the if and still hung up on the when. Her own career was stable, she was in good health, she knew she had found a good father. She just had avoided the active thinking through the physical, emotional, and financial budgets involved.
But it was the irrational that most deeply reflected the gap between their thinking processes. They both wanted it, sure, but they fixated on different things. More than a breeding kink, she had a cum play one. She was a good cumslut, never wasting a drop when he fucked her mouth, licking the remnants off his cock after she stroked him to orgasm. She constantly reminded him how much she missed his warm sperm inside her: she had gone off the pill to stabilize her hormones, and they had painfully resumed their days of fucking through a condom.
Still, even against such deliciously filthy baseline, he was on a different galaxy. His secret orgasms did not focus on the joy in her eyes as she swallowed him, on the tight grip of her pussy whenever she exploded around his flesh. The sight of his sperm pooling in her mouth did not cut it. The picture of her makeup ruined by a sloppy facial got him going, but it did not push him over the edge.
What consistently did him in was the idea of fucking her so strategically, so intensely, that she would be permanently marked by his seed. The red marks he left on her tits and hips, her hoarse voice after nights of brutal facefucking, gave him short-lived satisfaction. These marks all faded a few days after their rough sessions, reminding him of the temporary nature of his ownership. He came much harder imagining her legs spread, taking load after load from him, and being forced to cum around them to aid her fertility.
He had given much thought to the ways he'd finally fuck her when she felt the call to maternity, the breeding rituals in which they'd partake. Free use in the middle of the night just to pump one more load into her fertile insides. A dawn trip to a beach where he'd listen to the waves in her and by them as her insides sucked in his load. A romantic date night that started with roses and ended with her lingerie torn and her body bred while she screamed, on command, who finally fucking owns her.
Maybe those would all happen, in due time, but there was a very good chance he wouldn't be able to hold himself back that long. Some of his impulsive traits could not be tamed. He always ate a third of his meal while cooking in the kitchen because he was too impatient to wait until the table was set. He couldn't always hold himself back from spoiling small surprises, from sharing preliminary reactions. How could he ever hold back on the project that consumed the largest part of his sexual mind now that she had given a green light?
For what it's worth, he did not act upon his instincts the night she returned from her work trip, when welcome home sex featured meticulous cunnilingus until she tapped out. He did not breed her the morning after in their horny but rushed intercourse, when she slipped a condom on him as soon as he was awake. He fucked her several times those days, guarded, chipping away at the 100-pack that had for a couple of weeks felt more empty than full.
At the end of a hard week at work, he knew maintenance sex with the cumslut of his dreams was not going to cut it. This was not a weekend to spend fucking about on videogames or drinking too many beers with friends. They needed something special, and he needed to claim her before she did the math on childcare costs. He loved finding new ways to overwhelm her senses, to make her body more his than it had been the night before. After all, she had told him she was his to take.
Still, he had to work late on that damned Friday, and there was no time for roses, no beach breeding ritual, no energy for furtive fucking in the middle of the night. He had failed to make plans for the most important sex of his life. Maybe he was too tired and this could wait for another weekend, he thought.
It was a lucky coincidence that she had made plans of her own.
When he closed the door behind him upon his arrival at home, the warm scent of pepper steak filled his nostrils. He barely had time to throw his work bag into the closet when she came to find him, wine glasses in her hands, a white apron delicately wrapped around the black dress she had worn to work that day. Her hair was down, however, and she wore a perfect red lip.
"Hey, welcome home," she said between kisses.
When he embraced her, he did not need to slip his hands under her skirt to know she was wearing a seductive little thong, probably long lost in her ample curves and waiting to be delicately tugged off in foreplay. He grabbed one of the glasses from her hand.
"It smells delicious in here. What's the occasion?"
"What, I'm not allowed to celebrate being with you?"
He smiled, kissing her, knowing full well something she maybe didn't: she was about to celebrate being *his*.
