"Is that so wrong?" the thick woman whispered, looking up at him through her lashes. "Aren't you too naughty, Master?"
He trembled. Not from weakness. From amusement. The kind of tremble that came from holding back a laugh.
"Master, I'm not naughty," the wife said, her voice dropping. "Give me."
Her hand went down. Past his chest. Past his stomach. To his robe. Her fingers found the fabric over his cock and rubbed. The motion, subtle, hidden by their bodies pressed together, was a slow stroke. Her palm pressed against the bulge. She tightened her grip on the fabric, showing the line of his cock through the cloth, the head, the shaft, the thickness.
"See?" she whispered. "This is what I want."
The thick woman saw. Her tongue came out. Pink, wet, the tip pressing against her upper lip. She trembled. Her mouth opened slightly. Her eyes, locked on the outline of his cock through the robe, glazed.
