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Velvet

Lisabet Sarai

© Copyright 2018 Lisabet Sarai



This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, or events is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.


This book intended for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.





Contents


Velvet

About the Author

Discount Coupon

Excerpt: “Rush Hour” from Burn, Baby



Velvet


I must really be horny, to be sitting here fantasizing about the keynote speaker. I squirm in my chair and worry that I'm making a damp spot. The geek next to me appears to be equally captivated by the woman at the podium; there's a big bulge in his lap. I wonder if he's catching my tell-tale scent.

Marta Hausman, founder and CEO of VideoPlayHaus.com, controls of the stage. I can't take my eyes off her. She's the only woman on the SoftCon opening panel, addressing the ostensibly earth-shaking topic: "The New Net: Convergence or Confusion?"

In contrast to the casual beige of her fellow Silicon Valley visionaries, Marta wears an emerald green pantsuit of rich velvet that molds perfectly to her body. The business-like cut only makes her curves more obvious. She takes the microphone and struts around like the star that she is. The velvet gleams in the spotlight that follows her.

Her jet black hair is short, parted along one side with spiky sideburns that accentuate her cheekbones. Her eyes are dark, too. Even from the middle of the auditorium, I can see that her ripe lips are painted crimson. I imagine those lips claiming mine, firm, no nonsense, and then I imagine them lower, smearing my belly with scarlet, marking the insides of my thighs with lipstick brands before fastening on my aching clit. I can feel the soft nap of her trousers caressing my flesh as she parts my thighs with her own.

I'm so aroused that it hurts. I consider slinking off to the ladies room, but I don't want to miss an instant of Marta's performance. I try to focus on what she's saying. I'm sure that it must be intelligent if not enlightening. But I keep getting distracted by the V of tanned skin above the closure of her jacket.

Finally she concludes, to rowdy applause, and re-seats herself as the moderator calls the next speaker. I skim her bio in the program. American mother, German father. Degrees from the University of Heidelberg and Stanford. Stints at HP and Oracle before she left to start Video Play Haus, her phenomenally popular site for collaborative video editing. When VPH went public last year, she became one of the few women among the ranks of Valley millionaires.

Another technology mogul, a pudgy guy in a denim jacket, drones on about ubiquitous computing and the personalization revolution. Marta scans the audience, looking bored. For a moment, I have this bizarre notion that she's staring at me. I hold my breath, my heart slamming against my ribs. I swear that I can see lust in her eyes.

Dream on, girl. What interest would a hotshot like Marta Hausman have in you? You don't even know if she's into women.

It's just frustration. Since Rhys moved out nearly a month ago, I've been a veritable nun. I've been spending even more time at work than usual, trying to keep my mind occupied, trying not to miss her.

Rhys claimed that she left because she couldn't compete with my job. But that wasn't the real reason for the break-up.

Thinking about those days makes my pussy ache. I close my eyes and see Rhys' bronzed, compact body, her modest breasts with their purple-grape nipples, her bare pubes and downy thighs. It's so easy to picture her bold eyes and crooked smile, her buzzcut and her tattoos.

I told Rhys that my long hair didn't make me any less a lesbian. She'd nod, but then she'd start to give me grief about the traces of makeup I wear to work, or the fact that I occasionally splurge on a manicure.

Then there was the strap-on. I tried to make her understand, but she tended to take the whole thing personally.

I miss Rhys now. If she were to show up with her harness and that pink, veined dildo, I'd very likely spread my legs and beg her to take me.

But she's undoubtedly at work over at the Sisterhood Bookstore on University Avenue, and I'm here at Moscone, flogging my company's products. And it's time to get back to the booth.

Jim looks up from his laptop and grins. "How was the keynote session? Did you get startling new insights into the awesome future of technology?" Venkatesh, who's adjusting the LCD projector, just waves hello.

"Nah, same old, same old." I consider telling them about Marta Hausman; the guys love it when I talk to them about hot women. Somehow, though, that doesn't feel appropriate, especially when we're trying to be professional. "Anything exciting happening here?"

"It's been pretty slow. Probably because of the keynote. After coffee break, it'll pick up." Jim gestures at the fishbowl labeled ‘Win a free 64 GB USB drive from FaceQuest’. "All the morning's cards are in there."

I grab a handful of cards and start leafing through them, looking for any likely prospects. As team leader, I'm nominally in charge of the booth. But I hate the business side of my job.

"Tell me about your company. What does FaceQuest do?" The question is soft but clear, carefully articulated, with the faintest hint of an accent. I nearly jump out of my trousers. Scrutinizing the business cards, I hadn't noticed her approach.

She's here, in the flesh, standing in front of me in that outrageous velvet suit and waiting for my answer.

She's not as tall as she seemed on stage. That doesn't diminish her attitude of command. Her nose and chin are perhaps too sharp, but they're offset by the plumpness of her painted lips. She's not smiling at the moment. She's serious, wants to know about our products, is curious to discover whether there's some potential benefit there for her own company.

That's all she is interested in. Whereas I find myself craning to catch a glimpse of her tanned cleavage, desperate to brush my fingers over her velvet-clad forearm.

"Um, good morning, Dr. Hausman." She smiles, pleased to be recognized. I swallow hard and struggle for coherence. It's difficult with pussy juice dripping down the inside of my thigh.

"Um – well – FaceQuest is a startup with a unique solution to the problem of finding people on the web. We offer an image-search engine, specialized for matching faces in digital images. Our algorithms are based on the notion of caricature." Venkatesh, realizing that I'm into my pitch, starts the PowerPoint, and I gesture at the slides projected on the screen at the back of the booth.

"We can take a target face and reduce it to a simple sketch, a set of vectors that offers an economical representation of its essential features while still being recognizable to a human. We do the same for faces that we find in the search set. Our matching strategy is more effective than the competition, because the vector features of the target and search candidate can be geometrically transformed into the same frame of reference. We can recognize search candidates in a much wider range of head positions – as much as forty five degrees from face-on."

"Interesting. Very interesting." Marta licks her ruby lips. I swallow hard and work on controlling my breathing. "You mentioned web searching. Can this technology be used for biometric ID as well?"

"Definitely. We're actually in the process of discussion with several government agencies regarding custom biometric applications."

"And what's your role in the company – Loretta?" When she leans forward to read my badge, I catch a faint hint of her perfume. It's sharp rather than sweet, and reminds me of a pine forest.

I hardly recognize that name. Everyone calls me Lori.

"I'm the leader of the development team." I pull myself up to my full five foot three inches. "I designed many of the algorithms, as well as handling a lot of the coding. My senior thesis at Berkeley involved computer graphics and image processing."

"Oh?" She gives me a frank once over. Like Jim and Venk, I'm wearing a yellow polo with the company logo, and navy polyester pants. I suddenly wish I were more glamorous. "We should talk some more. Come on."

Marta beckons me to follow her over to the exhibitor lounge area. I watch her thighs flex under the emerald nap as she sits down across from me. I hope that I'm not salivating.

"How would you like a job?"

"I have a job, Dr. Hausman."

"I mean a real job, one where you get the recognition that you deserve." She licks her lips again. "I could use a bright young woman like you."

We're close enough now that I can see the gold studs in her earlobes and her lack of a wedding ring. Her eyes are so dark, they're practically black. She holds my gaze, challenging me to accept her offer. I have the sudden conviction that this would be the first of many challenges.

I can't take her stare for long. My gaze drops to my lap. I'm horrified to see a darker patch at my crotch. Hastily, I fold my hands over the small area of dampness, praying that she doesn't notice.

Her patrician nostrils flare. Her lips bow into a half-smile. "Loretta, can you honestly tell me that your current company appreciates you?"

I consider the twelve hour days and the fact that I haven't gotten a raise in two years. I think about the cramped cubicle and the overflowing bookcase I have to share with Jim. I dare to wonder, for a moment, what it would be like to have Marta Hausman as my boss.

"Well, Dr. Hausman, FaceQuest was my first job out of college. I've been with them nearly three years..."

"Exactly, and it's time for you to move on. And drop the 'Dr.', please. Call me Marta." She's watching my reactions. I can't help noticing how her breasts swell under her tight jacket. I am suddenly certain that she's not wearing a bra. Just the thought makes my pussy spasm with excitement.

"I'd like to consider making you chief architect of our video analysis products group. Your company is focusing on still images; we're trying to tackle the much more difficult problem of searching video clips. You'd have complete technical control, subject only to my review. Your own office. Gym and swimming pool on the company campus. All the coffee and soda that you can drink. Plus, of course, a substantial boost in your salary. What do you think?"

It's all so tempting. She is so tempting. I've always been a visual person and now I can't shut off the scene that's running through my mind. I'm on my knees between Marta's spread thighs. Naked. Unbuttoning the tiny, velvet-covered buttons that hold her jacket shut, one by one...

"Loretta?" I force my wandering mind back to the present moment.

"Sorry, Dr. Hausman – I mean, Marta. I have to get back to our booth."

"Think about my offer. Will you?" Her hand is on my bare arm. Her skin is oddly cool, or perhaps I have a fever.

Her cell phone beeps. She whips it out and consults the screen, then turns back to me. "I've got a meeting now. But let's get together after the show and talk some more. I'll pick you up outside the convention center at five thirty."

"Um..." She strides away into the crowd without waiting for my agreement. I rejoin my curious teammates back in the booth, slightly dazed, knowing that it's going to be a very long afternoon.

The exhibits close at five. I spend the next twenty five minutes in the rest room, touching up my make-up, brushing my teeth, re-braiding my hair, and trying to make my pants more presentable using the hand dryer. Rhys would be so annoyed with me.

I consider bringing myself off. Maybe that would help me to stay rational and in control, to make an objective decision about my future. I don't, though. I have this weird notion that Marta wouldn't want me to.

When Marta pulls up to curb in a vintage Eldorado convertible, my surprise almost wipes out my nervousness. I had imagined her driving a fancy pickup, or maybe a hybrid. She laughs when she sees my astonishment. "I like things with a history. Perhaps because I grew up in Europe, where everything is antique." She leans over to unlatch the door for me, and I get a quick but clear look down her neckline. It appears that I was correct in my guess. In an instant, I'm sopping again.

"Hungry?" She peels away while I'm still fumbling with the seat belt.

"No, not really." I sit back and try to relax. The leather upholstery embraces me in fragrant luxury.

"Me neither. Let's just go to my place."

She doesn't really mean that, I tell myself. Not the way I'm thinking.

"To talk some more about the job?"

I can barely hear her laugh above the roar of the huge V8. "Right. To talk." My whole body hums with excitement; the vibrations of the engine just intensify the sensation.

I expect her to get onto 101 and head down the peninsula, but she surprises me once again, weaving through city streets and up and down hills until she turns into the drive of a two-story Victorian in Pacific Heights. The house is beautifully detailed in green and gold. I realize that it more or less matches her suit.

Marta come around to open the passenger side door and extends her hand to help me out of the monster vehicle. The skin-to-skin contact sends a bolt of electricity up my spine. Her grip is firm and lasts several seconds longer than strictly necessary. I'm so nervous I'm practically shaking.

"Are you all right, Loretta?" She searches my face, sensing my anxiety.

"Please. Everyone calls me Lori."

"I prefer Loretta – much more feminine. It has an aura of the past, the glamor and power of a forties film queen. Don't you agree?"

I don't, but I'm certainly not going to argue with her. I suspect that there aren't too many people willing to disagree with Marta Hausman.

The house is cool and dark and smells of lavender. Twilight filters through lace curtains, showing me rooms furnished in the lavishly ornamented style of Victoria's reign. I marvel that Marta Hausman, queen of high tech, would surround herself with these relics of a long-past era. I feel like Alice, as if I've stepped through a looking glass and I'm now lost in a world of strange marvels.

"Upstairs and left to the end of the hall. I want to show you the Turkish Room."

Marta climbs behind me. I have the distinct impression that she's admiring my butt. I'm wetter than ever, and hope against hope that she can't tell.

Then I realize it doesn't matter. If she didn't want me, I wouldn't be here, in her elegant retro sanctuary. I don't know if she was serious about the job, or just trying to lure me into her clutches, but right now, I don't care. I swing my hips a bit, taunting her. I hear her intake of breath, and half expect her to slap me across my impudent ass, but for now she doesn't touch me.

The ‘Turkish Room’ is somebody's lurid harem fantasy come true. The windows are draped in heavy, fringed layers of garnet velvet. Oriental carpets cushion the floor, with striped silk pillows piled in the corners. There's a chaise against one wall, upholstered in gold brocade. A brass filigree lamp hanging from the ceiling sheds rosy light over the scene.

Wonderland, indeed.

"Make yourself comfortable," Marta purrs. "I'll be right back." She disappears through a curtained aperture on the right.

I perch on the edge of the chaise, not wanting to stain the covering with my juices. My heart beats wild and fast. My nipples are puckered into aching knots that press painfully against my bra. I start to get nervous again.

I must be insane to be here. Marta is so out of my league. Plus getting it on with a potential future boss, no matter how hot she is, definitely doesn't sound like a good career move.

On the other hand, I'm always so practical, and where has it got me? I'm overworked, lonely and horny. Maybe I can use a bit of insanity.

It's probably no more than five minutes, but my wait seems endless. I'm startled when Marta finally parts the draperies. One look at her and I know I've entered the asylum.

She's a vision of elegance and perversity. In lieu of her suit, she's wearing a man's robe of paisley quilted silk. She's carrying an article that I recognize as a riding crop. And she's smoking a cigar.

The fragrant smoke weaves through the air. I am suddenly light-headed.

"I told you to make yourself comfortable. Do I have to discipline you to get you to obey me?" She gestures at me with the crop. I'm simultaneously terrified and terribly aroused.

"No – no, Ma'am."

"Get those clothes off, then. Now."

I strip as quickly as I can, acutely aware of her dark eyes on me. In thirty seconds or less, my clothes are in a tangled pile on the cushions. I stand naked in front of her, suddenly embarrassed by the dark fuzz on my legs and in my armpits.

Marta inhales, deep and slow, then releases the smoke through pursed scarlet lips. She is silent as she circles my body, judging me. She's achingly close, but she does not touch me. I tremble every time I sense her moving.

She pauses behind my back, and brushes the riding crop lightly over my buttocks. I freeze. Will she beat me, mark me, make me hers? I brace for the pain, fearful yet strangely eager for the new sensation. Instead she places the crop where I can see it on the lounge.

"Not today, little one – not this time. Not as long as you are a good girl." I feel her heat, smell her musk mixed with the fruity cigar scent. My legs are rubbery, unstable. She massages my buttocks, molding them in her palms. All at once I feel her finger sliding from behind into my soaking cunt. I clench my muscles around the slender digit, trying to keep her inside me, but she slips free and holds her finger in front of my face. I breathe in my own damp, ripe aroma.

Her voice next to my ear is soft and smooth as velvet. "You certainly are a wet little girl, Loretta. A deliciously wet little slut." She pulls my plait out of the way and kisses me just below the earlobe. Her lips send shivers racing through me, electric arcs that spark across my nipples and converge on my clit.

I'm dying for more, but she pulls back after that brief caress. Her fingers ghost down to the small of my back, where she pulls off the elastic that secures the braid. "When you're with me, I want your hair loose, free. I want to see it flowing over your shoulders." She arranges it that way as she speaks, then circles back around to evaluate the effect.

"Much better." She flicks a lock away from my breast, almost but not quite touching me. "But I certainly don't want to hide those adorable tits." Seating herself on the chaise, she beckons me to her. My nipples are just at the level of her lips. She warms one with her breath, and it tightens visibly. I want to scream, to beg her to touch me. She's running this show, though. We both know that.

She fastens her mouth on that needy nipple. I close my eyes as pleasure and relief overwhelm me. She sucks steadily. My clit twitches and dances as if her mouth were down there instead. I moan and try to rub my hungry pussy against her robe. She bites down hard on the swollen bud of flesh between her lips.

"Ow!"

"Naughty little slut! Maybe I need to use my crop after all!" Her actions don't match her words, however. I imagine her seizing her instrument of punishment and throwing me over her lap so that she can chastise me. Instead, she sinks to one knee in front of my pussy and opens me with her mouth and fingers.

I've been horny all day. The first broad strokes of her tongue are nearly enough to push me over the edge. Sensing this, she backs off, teasing me with licks and nibbles that build the tension without satisfying me. Her fingers probe my slippery depths, but she is expert in avoiding my clit. I grind myself against her mouth, unable to resist trying to take control. She reacts, once again, by pulling away.

Her cheeks are shiny with my moisture. Her lipstick is smeared. I glance down and see that my bare mons is streaked with crimson, just as I fantasized.

The sight alone almost makes me come. Marta crushes me to her body, kissing me fiercely. I taste my oceany juices and Marta's cigar. Her tongue probes my mouth as her fingers return to my cunt.

I'm close, so close, but she keeps me hanging. We're nearly strangers, yet somehow she has this diabolical knowledge of my body and its limits.

When she releases me, I'm breathless and ready to beg.

"Please... Marta..."

"What is it, Loretta? What do you want?" She pulls herself back to her feet and gives me an arch smile. Of course she knows what I want, what I desperately need. She shrugs off her robe, and I gasp at my first glimpse of her nakedness.

She's tanned all over. Her skin has a golden sheen that cries out to be touched. She's muscular and curvy, the swell of her luscious breasts contrasting with her sculpted biceps and quads.

She's so gorgeous that she's scary. Especially with the jet black dildo that juts out from the harness strapped around her hips.

She gestures toward the chaise. She doesn't need to say a word. Awkward, unable to look away from her, I shuffle backwards until I feel the chaise edge against the back of my knees and sink down onto the brocade. The shiny fabric feels smooth and cool against my bare thighs and steaming pussy.

Marta steps closer. I can't help shrinking away from her. Before I know it, I'm on my back, settled in the cushions. She towers over me. The dildo bobs in front of my face. Her eyes drill into my soul.

I know what she wants. I want to satisfy her, to obey her, but I can't make myself do it. She grabs the pseudo-cock and shakes it. "Suck me. Make my cock nice and wet, Loretta. That will make it feel so much better, when I push it into you."

"I – I don't – you..."

Her dark brows knit together, in annoyance or in confusion. I can't tell which.

"Don't you want to please me, girl? Don't you want me to pleasure you?"

"Yes, but... I'm a dyke. I like women. I don't like cocks."

"Not even mine? I think I can change your mind." Like lightning she's on me, spreading my thighs with hers, positioning the tip of that enormous phallus at the entrance to my cunt. She grips it in one hand and rubs the polished knob over my clit. The sensation drives away any thoughts of resistance. As my hips buck and jerk helplessly, she thrusts the fingers of her other hand into my soaking folds and swirls them around.

"You don't need any lubrication, girl. You just need to be fucked."

With a practiced thrust of her hips, she embeds the dildo deep in my cunt. The invasion shatters something inside me, some pitiful, silly resistance that I was clinging to. I scream and arch against her, wanting more, wanting whatever she can give me.

She moves like a dancer, sweeping the dildo in and out of me with the same confidence she exuded on conference stage. First she pumps into my depths. Then she retreats to the fringes of my labia, teasing me with the most delicate strokes. Her breasts bounce deliciously with each thrust. I long to run my tongue over their perfect roundness, to suck on the crinkled nipples until she moans, but I'm helpless, pinned to the chaise by her force. I'm filled, shattered, torn, and tottering on the edge of total ecstasy.

It's nothing like those clumsy, fumbling men. She smells divine, the musk of her own excitement mingling with her evergreen perfume. She is completely in charge as her own climax beckons. She slams her cock into me, again and again, as rough as any man could be and yet totally feminine. I'm bewildered and delighted and finally, at last, stop thinking altogether.

My body is swirling electricity, sparks and waves of energy, a thousand nuances of pleasure. My mind is unfocused, roiling colors and textures, even the lustful images purged away. I open my eyes for an instant and see her amazing face hovering over me, full of joy and triumph. Her gaze locks on mine. Then she throws her head back, grinding her artificial penis into my pussy, overwhelmed, overwhelming me.

After all her force, the climax is intense but not violent. It swells up and spills smoothly through me, exquisite, soft and yet irresistible. Then as the velvet whispers of the first orgasm are fading, I come again, sharp and powerful as a grenade exploding in my cunt.

We lie together for a while, her plastic penis sticky and hard against my thigh. I finally get the chance to fondle her breasts, to lick the tanned hollow at the base of her throat.

All at once she's up again, brisk and businesslike, donning her robe and tossing me a purple silk kimono.

"Go clean up, if you like, then meet me in the roof garden. Just follow the stairs up one floor." Just like that, and she's gone.

In the bathroom, I wash my face in the pedestal sink and try to run my fingers through my hopelessly tangled hair. The kimono looks odd on me. I'd never pick such a fragile thing, in such an extravagant color. Still, I'm not displeased with the girl looking back at me from the mirror, even if she is to some extent Marta's creation.

Marta is already on the roof when I arrive, settled in the wrought iron loveseat gazing out at the city. I sit beside her, thigh pressed against her warm flesh. She hands me a glass of white wine without asking if I want it. We sit in silence, sipping chilled chardonnay and watching the lights twinkle on the Golden Gate. After a while, she leans over and kisses me, a gentle kiss that is still rich with passion.

"So, what do you think?" We have been quiet so long that her voice startles me.

"About what?" She seems to expect me to understand her, but I don't. "About the job?"

"Well, that too. But I meant, about me. About us."

Us? I had assumed that Marta Hausman was just looking for a bit of entertainment. Some stimulation. But her eyes tell me that she seriously wants an answer.

"Well... you're fabulous. Amazing. I've never met a woman like you. You're – I don't know – outside all the categories. Above them all. You're unique."

"So are you, Loretta. You just need to adjust your perspective. To start making your own rules. I can teach you a lot about that."

She kisses me again, with more force, thrusting her hand underneath the gossamer silk to cup my breast. Amazed at my own bravery, I slip my fingers between her thighs and stroke the soft nap covering her pubis. She shivers with pleasure.

"And what about the job?" I finally get up the courage to ask.

"Well, you're clearly extremely bright. I know you'd make a significant contribution to the company. To be honest, though, I normally have a policy of not hiring my lovers."

Lovers. She is pushing the kimono off my shoulders, kneading my breasts, licking the salt off the sensitive skin at the crook of my armpit, then moving lower, but it's the word that sends the biggest thrill through me. Lovers.

After a while, she lets me catch my breath. "On the other hand," she laughs, "rules were made to be broken."



The End


###


Thank you for reading my story. If you enjoyed it, I hope you’ll consider writing and posting a review. We authors are hungry for feedback! Plus every review helps us sell more books. ~ Lisabet

About the Author


LISABET SARAI writes in many genres, but F/F fiction is one of her favorites. Her lesbian erotica credits include contributions to Lambda Award winner Where the Girls Are, Ippie-winning Carnal Machines, Best Lesbian Romance 2012 and Lammy-nominated Coming Together: Girl on Girl (2014). Lisabet holds more degrees than anyone would ever need, from prestigious educational institutions who would no doubt be deeply embarrassed by her chosen genre. She has traveled widely and currently lives in Southeast Asia, where she pursues an alternative career that is completely unrelated to her writing. For all the dirt on Lisabet, visit http://www.lisabetsarai.com.



Connect with Lisabet!

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If you liked Velvet, you might also enjoy:

The Witches of Gloucester

Burn, Baby: A Sapphic Six Pack



You can find a full list of my published books, with buy links, at http://www.lisabetsarai.com/books.html


Special offer! Get your copy of Burn, Baby: A Sapphic Six Pack for 50% off!

Just go to Smashwords and use the coupon code XA73G when checking out.






Excerpt from

Burn, Baby: A Sapphic Six Pack


From “Rush Hour”:

We toppled out of the elevator, groping each other, and stumbled down the hall to my door. I couldn’t manage to unlock it. Mina kept twisting my nipples. I couldn’t hold the key steady.

Finally, we were inside. I pushed her against the wall, taking control. My knee rose between her legs until she was forced to stand on tiptoe. I bent to her throat and licked my way down into her cleavage, finally tasting the pale flesh that had tantalized me in the cab. Meanwhile, I pressed my thigh into her pussy, enjoying her frantic little mews of pleasure.

I was surprised at how swiftly her juices soaked through my suit pants. I slipped my hand under her skirt. I met only damp hair and slippery flesh. “You slutty little thing,” I murmured in her ear. “Do you always go without panties?” She only moaned as my fingers slid into her sex.

I stroked blindly, learning by feel alone her shape and her folds. When my thumb found her clit, she jumped and squealed, then rubbed furiously against me. Jackpot. With my other hand, I pulled up her jersey. She wore no bra, either.

Her lewd daring inflamed me. My own pussy throbbed each time I invaded hers. I sucked on one cherry-hued nipple while tweaking the other. She humped my hand, reaching desperately for her climax.

She hung on the edge, her clit like a hot coal, her juices streaming down my wrist, but I couldn’t seem to nudge her over. We paused for breath. She slumped against the wall, seeming discouraged. I kissed her ripe, purple lips. “Relax, sweetie. Let me take care of you.”

Slipping to my knees in front of her, I raised her skirt to her waist. A wild black tangle hid her pussy lips. Her tidal aroma filled my nostrils. I breathed deeply. I had not tasted a woman for more than a year. Not since Liza left.

Long-denied lust seized me. I peeled open her pussy and fastened my mouth on her glistening flesh. I scoured her folds with my tongue. I sucked her clit into a tiny pillar of stone, then stroked it with broad, flat strokes until it quivered under my lips. Holding her hips, I devoured her, while she bucked and writhed and finally convulsed around my face in an orgasm that nearly drowned me.








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