- 5:06 pm - Thu, Jan 6, 2011
- 9,051 notes
"I’m a married woman. I won’t let you fuck me."
He knew she was serious. It only made the jack rabbit throbbing of his dick more intense. She slid her dress off her shoulders and let the fabric puddle at the tip of her toes. She stepped away from it like she had stepped away from hundreds of men before him. Her cool, almost frigid demeanor made him think of ski slopes. Truth be told, it could have just been the cliff of her uncovered breasts. He never was the kind to get too deep.
She wore nothing but black thigh high stockings. The lace at the top must have been holding them to her, but he was nonetheless surprised they hadn’t slid from her slick skin as deftly as her dress had. She leaned back upon the hotel bed. Her lithe form was sucked in to the overstuffed bed and it parted for her. It clung to her shapes as if the bed was her friend and the two had shared many nights with drinks and exaggerated tales of life’s little dramas.
"Strip," she commanded. He obeyed, shedding his clothes as if they were doused in gasoline and ready to ignite. He stood before her, his hard cock jutting towards her pristine form. He gripped it. He loved the feel of his girth in his palm. The weight of his heavy head as it tried to defy gravity.
"I didn’t say touch," she commented, almost in an off-handed way, before continuing. "Can you smell my pussy from there? Can you tell how wet I am?"
He nodded. His mouth was dry and he was unable to speak. She parted her crossed legs and, like a sea, he saw her juices come flowing out. He wanted to taste her. Wanted to spear her with his tongue until she was crying and cumming and begging him for more. Instead, he stood mute and motionless. His goddess brought her perfectly manicured fingers to her cunt and began to rub herself quickly. Her eyes locked with his and as much as he wanted to focus only on the show before him, he didn’t dare break her stare.
She barely moaned and the only sign of her pleasure peak was the moisture pant of her breath along the steaming O of her lips. When she finished, she brought two fingers to her lips and sucked, tasting her own sweet, warm nectar.
She plunged her fingers deep into her cunt, the first time she had done so, before bringing them back out. Strings of cum hung from her digits like spiderwebs. “Come here,” she said.
He didn’t hesitate and was instantly upon her. She fed her sticky fingers into his mouth and he drank from them like a man from a mirage. “Back,” she whispered, and he returned to his place, just below the heels of her again-crossed feet.
"Now, cum," she demanded. It took no more than ten hard strokes of his cock before his white rain was dancing down her stockinged calf. He was out of breath and still hard when she scooped up a tiny taste of his seed, releasing a loud moan for the first time in their encounter.
She carefully stripped herself of the soiled stockings and slid her dress back over her hips. She stopped to kiss him, her venom sneaking through his lips, poisoning him for the next woman. A woman who would, no doubt, let him fuck her. A woman who would be warm like spring and give him more than just a live show in a second-rate hotel.
She had left her stockings lying on the bed. Covered in him, with his cum just lying there in beads. Like chunks of ice frozen on a pond.