Vixen Sharing - Extended

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the villa’s gauzy curtains, painting gold across Chloe’s bare skin. She lay on her stomach, thighs parted, the faint scent of last night’s rum and sex still clinging to the sheets. Raj had left at dawn with a promise to return for “another tour,” but Chloe’s eyes were already hungry for more.

I fetched the warmed coconut oil from the bedside table - organic, unscented, perfect for what I had in mind. “Stay just like that,” I murmured, straddling her calves. She sighed as the first drops trickled between her shoulder blades, down the soft curve of her spine, pooling in the small of her back before I spread it over the generous swell of her ass.

This was not the frantic reclaiming of last night. This was tantra - slow, deliberate, breath-linked. I began with her sacrum, palms pressing in slow circles, thumbs tracing the dimples above her cheeks. Each exhale from Chloe matched my inhale; we synchronised without words. Energy rose like a tide.

“Roll over, love.”

She obeyed, breasts settling heavily to either side, nipples already peaked from anticipation. I poured oil across her sternum, letting it cascade between her breasts, over the gentle paunch, down to the silver scar low on her belly. My hands followed, gliding in long, unbroken strokes - heart to yoni, yoni to heart - building a circuit.

Chloe’s breath deepened. I cupped her mound, palm flat, no movement yet, just heat and presence. “Feel me here,” I whispered. She nodded, eyes half-lidded.

Phase one: Awakening the outer gates. I traced the outer lips with feather-light fingertips - up one side, down the other - never parting them, never rushing. Her hips lifted instinctively; I pressed them gently back to the mattress. “Breathe into your belly.” She did, and I felt the subtle pulse beneath my palm quicken.

Phase two: Stirring the pearl. With my right thumb I began slow clockwise circles over her hooded clit - barely pressure, more suggestion. My left hand rested over her lower dan tien, two fingers’ width below the navel, anchoring the energy. Each circle drew a soft moan; her thighs trembled but stayed open.

Phase three: Entering the temple. I parted her folds with two slick fingers, sliding along the inner lips in a continuous figure-eight. When I reached her entrance, I paused - breath in, breath out - then eased one finger inside to the first knuckle, curling gently toward her G-spot. Not thrusting. Holding. Pulsing. Her walls fluttered around me.

“More,” she breathed.

I added a second finger, scissoring slowly, stretching her open while my thumb resumed its lazy orbit on her clit. With my free hand I reached up, rolling one thick nipple between oil-slick fingers - pinch, release, pinch - mirroring the rhythm below. Her back arched; a low, guttural sound escaped her throat.

Phase four: The breath of fire. “Match me,” I said. We inhaled sharply through the nose - count of four - held for four, exhaled through the mouth for six. Again. Again. On the fifth cycle I pressed the pad of my middle finger firmly against her G-spot and held, thumb still circling. Energy coiled; her thighs shook.

“Let it build, don’t chase it.”

Her pussy clenched hard around my fingers. I felt the first swell - a warm rush of fluid gathering. I eased off, denying the peak, then resumed with even slower strokes. Edge. Retreat. Edge. Retreat. Tantric torture.

After ten minutes her entire body shimmered with sweat. “Leo… please…”

Phase five: The waterfall. I shifted to kneel between her legs, both hands now devoted to her yoni. Left palm over her clit, gentle pressure. Right hand - three fingers now - curled inside, stroking the front wall in a steady “come here” motion while my wrist rocked in a smooth wave. Breath synchronized, I whispered, “Now.”

The orgasm hit like a storm surge. Chloe’s hips bucked; a clear stream arced from her urethra, splashing my chest, the sheets, the teak floor. She cried out - raw, animal - then another gush, then another, until she collapsed, trembling, laughing, tears in her eyes.

I did not stop. While aftershocks rippled, I slid my cock - thick as her wrist - into the slick, pulsing channel my fingers had just vacated. One slow thrust seated me to the hilt. Her walls fluttered around my girth, milking me without movement.

Raj knocked softly at the terrace door. Chloe’s eyes snapped open, wicked. “Bring him in.”

I detached unwillingly to unlock the door and then rushed back to bury myself inside her, unmoving, as Raj stepped onto the deck - board shorts already tented. Chloe crooked a finger. “Watch first. Then join.”

I began the tantric rock - tiny pulses of my hips, barely withdrawing, grinding my pubic bone against her clit in slow motion. Raj stripped, cock springing free, darker, and longer than yesterday. Chloe beckoned him closer; he knelt by her head. She turned, tongue flicking his slit, then took him deep - slow, reverent, matching my rhythm.

Minutes stretched. Breath. Pulse. Energy looping from her mouth to my cock to Raj’s shaft and back. When I felt her next climax building - signalled by the tell-tale flutter deep inside - I nodded to Raj. He withdrew from her mouth, moved behind me.

I eased out; her yoni gaped, glistening. Raj slid in with a groan - long, steady strokes while I resumed the yoni massage from the outside, fingers framing her clit, palm pressing in slow circles. Chloe’s hands clutched the sheets; her breasts bounced with each thrust.

“Both of you,” she gasped.

I lubed my cock, knelt behind Raj’s rhythm, and eased into her ass - slow, relentless pressure until my girth breached her ring. She wailed, stuffed full, the three of us locked in tantric sync: Raj in her pussy, me in her ass, our strokes alternating - one in, one out - like a living piston.

Chloe’s final orgasm was silent at first - just a full-body shudder - then a primal scream as she squirted again, soaking Raj’s belly, my thighs, the mattress. Raj followed, pulsing deep. I held off, savouring the clench of her sphincter, then pulled out and painted her heavy breasts with thick ropes of cum.

We collapsed in a tangle of limbs, the ceiling fan stirring the humid air. Chloe traced lazy circles through the mess on her chest, smiling up at the thatched roof.

“Every morning should start with tantra,” she murmured. “And end with Mauritius.”