Crimson Feast: A Family Tradition

The rain hammered against the windows, a relentless rhythm mirroring the anticipation thrumming through me. This year, I’d decided to shake up our Thanksgiving traditions, to inject a little spice into the usual turkey and stuffing routine. The family was arriving at noon, a tidal wave of relatives eager for the feast, but we, just my wife, Sarah, and I, were looking forward to something far more intimate. We'd spent the evening prepping the house, stripping it of the usual holiday clutter and transforming the dining room into our private sanctuary. I cleared the table, laid down a plush, ivory linen cloth, and placed a plump, velvet pillow for Sarah’s head. It felt decadent, a deliberate act of indulgence before the chaos of the day arrived.

I’d finished my shift late, the warehouse lights casting long, tired shadows as I hurried home, the scent of sawdust clinging to my clothes. The kids were already at Grandma’s, safe and sound, a small mercy that allowed us this rare moment of solitude. Once we were settled, I slipped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the day’s weariness. When I emerged, Sarah was waiting, a mischievous glint in her eyes. I knew exactly what she had planned.

“I had a thought,” she said, her voice a low purr, “a new Thanksgiving tradition. Something special.” She didn’t elaborate, just held my gaze, her lips slightly parted, a silent invitation. The rain continued its insistent drumming, providing a perfect soundtrack for the desires bubbling within me.

I led her to the dining table, the centerpiece of our carefully orchestrated pleasure. Gently, I helped her onto the table, positioning her perfectly in the center, her curves gracefully displayed. She settled onto the pillow, her weight sinking into the soft fabric, a slow, deliberate act of claiming her space. The house was quiet, the only sounds the rain and the quickening beat of my own heart.

“Let’s give thanks to the Lord for the blessings we’ve received,” I murmured, my voice thick with anticipation. It felt appropriate, a fitting prelude to the intimate ritual that awaited us. Then, my hand moved beneath the linen cloth, slowly, deliberately, tracing the contours of her body, sending shivers of pleasure through her. My fingers danced across her skin, teasing her with gentle strokes, lingering on the sensitive points, igniting her senses. Her breath hitched, a silent gasp as my touch intensified, the scent of her skin filling my nostrils.

I began with her neck, tracing the delicate curve of her collarbone, my thumb finding the pulse point, a tiny throb of pleasure that escalated with each passing moment. Then, I moved down to her chest, her breasts rising and falling with each inhale, her nipples taut and sensitive. I kissed them gently, then more passionately, my lips tracing the delicate folds of her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed, lost in the exquisite sensation, her body responding to my every touch.

Slowly, I continued downward, my hand gliding over her stomach, her hips, her thighs, each caress sending waves of heat through her. Her muscles tensed, her nails digging into the table as she arched her back slightly, seeking more of my touch. I worked my way down her legs, her calves and shins responding to my insistent caresses, her breath becoming ragged and shallow. Finally, I reached her toes, her feet curled slightly beneath her, a silent plea for release.

“It’s time,” I whispered, my voice husky with desire.

I pulled back the linen cloth, revealing her fully, her body a masterpiece of curves and shadows. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability, knowing exactly what was coming. I took a deep breath, savoring the moment, before unleashing my pent-up desire.

My lips moved over her clitoris, slowly, deliberately, teasing her with gentle licks and sucking, building the pressure, igniting her pleasure. My fingers followed suit, circling her clitoris, applying gentle pressure, escalating the sensation. Her body began to tremble, a silent symphony of pleasure, her muscles clenching and releasing in rhythmic waves.

She let out a moan, a low, guttural sound of pure ecstasy, her body writhing with every thrust, her hips rising and falling in time with my movements. I increased the pace, pushing her to the edge of her limits, feeling her body respond in kind, her cries of pleasure growing louder and more intense. The rain continued its relentless assault on the windows, a constant reminder of the world outside, a world that suddenly seemed very distant.

Lost in our shared pleasure, time ceased to exist. It felt like an eternity, yet also a fleeting moment, suspended in the intoxicating heat of our passion. I continued my ministrations, exploring every inch of her body, feeding her desires, pushing her further into the depths of sensation.

Finally, she cried out, "Stop," her voice breathless and strained. Her body was drenched in sweat, her breathing heavy, her muscles trembling with exhaustion and pleasure. I obliged, pulling back, allowing her to rest, but not before continuing to caress her, lingering on her most sensitive spots.

As she slid down the table, her bottom resting on my plate, she positioned her legs on either side of the table, creating a perfect display. Her womanhood unfolded like a delicate flower, just a few inches from my face, a breathtaking sight that filled me with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. Her eyes locked onto mine, a silent acknowledgment of the shared pleasure we had just experienced.

I leaned down and began to suck, lick, and tease her lips and clitoris with my tongue and fingers, extending the pleasure, prolonging the moment. Her body responded instantly, her muscles tensing, her breathing becoming more rapid.

Then, she whispered, “You have to come inside me.”

I didn’t hesitate. I rose from my chair, feeling the familiar heat building within me, and moved towards her, eager to fulfill her desires. She welcomed me with a moan, her body arching in anticipation. I slid into her, finding immediate purchase, and began to thrust, feeling her body writhe with every movement.

She pushed me deeper, her muscles contracting violently, her pleasure reaching a fever pitch. I could feel her essence flowing into me, a potent cocktail of desire and passion. Her breast rose and fell against my leg, her hips moving rhythmically, creating a captivating dance of pleasure.

As I reached my climax, she exploded, her body writhing in ecstasy, her cries of pleasure echoing through the room. I continued to thrust, feeding her energy, prolonging the moment, until she let out a final, satisfied gasp.

When it was over, my head was still spinning, my body aching with pleasure. We lay there for a moment, catching our breath, savoring the lingering sensations. The rain had begun to subside, leaving behind a gentle drizzle, a soothing balm after the intensity of our encounter.

I looked at Sarah, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling with contentment. "God is truly amazing," I said, my voice filled with awe, "how He could bless a marriage with this kind of pleasure."

She smiled, leaning her head against my chest, her body relaxed and trusting. "Next Thanksgiving," she whispered, "this tradition will live on."

As I held her close, I knew that this year's Thanksgiving had been far more than just a celebration of gratitude; it had been a testament to the enduring power of love, desire, and the exquisite pleasure found in shared intimacy. The rain continued to fall, washing away the remnants of the day, leaving behind a sense of peace and contentment, a perfect ending to a perfect moment.

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Crimson Feast: A Family Tradition

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