He guided her hips back gently until she sat impaled on only the first few inches of him—the fat, flushed crown stretching her entrance wide, her puffy lips clinging lovingly around his girth, inner walls fluttering in soft, welcoming pulses.
She gasped at the angle—deeper than before, yet carefully controlled—and he stilled, letting her adjust to the thick heat nestled inside her.
Then he began to move.
Not thrusting.
A slow, sensual roll of his hips—circular, grinding, like a languid waltz. He rotated deep and shallow in gentle waves coming in and out, never giving her his full length, keeping the broad head stroking that perfect spot inside her while sparing her the overwhelming depth that might have been too much so soon.
Each rotation dragged his veined shaft along her sensitive walls in tender, deliberate circles, the slick sounds soft and intimate—wet, silky glides rather than harsh plunges.
