When he pounds my body in that energetic way I can see, and feel, my belly and bosoms undulating like an enormous, Rubenesque jelly. On a plate.
Everything is in motion. No rock hard porn star tits for me, nipples poking resolutely ceilingwards. No flat washboard stomach, no taut thighs. My body behaves as if an internal wave machine has just been switched on. I make a mental note that belly surfing should be a recognised sport.
Should I have kept my basque on for a more pleasing effect, I wonder? Tried to tame the wobbly bits a bit? It seems my concerns are unfounded.
"You're fucking beautiful," he murmurs, gazing fondly down upon my breasts as they quiver like two cherry-topped pink blancmanges on a bouncy castle. "You're so gorgeous."
It may just be that he loves desserts of course, but I am immensely cheered nonetheless.