Perfect

He was, indeed, horribly horny.
Very horny and very short of time.
Rain.
Traffic.
Business complications.

In the end, he had barely an hour.
Meaning I had barely an hour.
An hour to make him feel very, very good.

I felt his stress start to drain away. I stood naked against the wall as he pressed his clothed body into my nakedness and I felt the stress start to drain away. Even in his urgency, I felt him relax.

His hands were soft as they touched me.
As they caressed me.
I could feel what he tasted
as his fingers drank the softness of my breasts.
I could feel what he smelled
as his hands inhaled the pallor of my belly.
I could feel what he heard
as his fist listened to the flow of my hair.

And I heard what he felt as I bathed in the noises he insists, with a smile, that he does not make as I kissed him and licked him and sucked him and jerked him and he poured everything into my hand.

Everything.
Far more than the flow of semen that I welcome as the sacrament it is.

"Perfect," he said.
"There is no such thing as perfection," I said.
"But you were," he said.
"Perfect," he said.
"My perfect pet."

And I sighed in pure joy as, still on the floor at his feet, I rested my happy head in his lap and melted beneath his hand as, so softly, so gently, it caressed my grateful hair,