I’ve always liked those massage chairs. You know, the big black ones that they have at the mall.
I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have sex on one. When I put my money in the machine and feel the vibrations start, it’s easy to dismiss the presence of all the other shoppers walking about.
I want to have you pull my panties down and raise my skirt. I want you to be over me, my bent knees sandwiched between our shoulders. I want to feel you working my clit as the chair increases the level of vibration. I want your tongue against mine as the kneading starts. I want to moan into your mouth as the device arches my back and pushes my breasts firmly to your chest – the fabric of our shirts unable to stifle the welcome sensation.
I want to reach my hands above my head to hold onto the top of the chair as your erection makes its first entry. I want to feel you gently nibbling my neck and hungrily massaging one of my breasts as you rock firmer into me. I want to feel the way the chair manipulates the back of my body – vibrating, kneading, lifting, lowering – as you ravage the front.
I want to be pinned there between two determined forces having their way with me.
I want to climax on black vinyl.