It's stupid how fast he turns me on. Even fully clothed. When he grabbed my ass and told me to wear the gloves, just like that I was hot for him. Elegant on the outside, maybe, but underneath? Just another weak-kneed, wet-pantied girl, aching to be fucked.
He knew it, too. He slipped the usher a twenty to stand watch, then closed the curtains to our private box. The music began and so did he, smooth and slow so as not to draw attention. The zipper was easy. Shimmying out of the dress was tougher, but soon I was sitting there without a stitch on. -- Wait, I'm lying. I still wore the gloves.
I kept my eyes forward, prayed no one would look over. I was shaking: aroused, ashamed, my nipples hard, pulsing like twin beacons in the dark.
He waited until the applause to grip the back of my neck and pull me down face-first into his crotch, and when he forced his cock between my lips I could feel it in my cunt. Suddenly blissfully mindless, I slipped off the seat, knelt in front of him.
All at once, his come was hitting the back of my throat and somebody was slamming into my pussy from behind. I bit back a moan before he clapped his hand over my mouth. I twisted in pleasure, came so hard it was like I'd been punched in the gut.
Sighed.
Then wanted more.
Shameless.
He snickered, pinched a nipple, commanded, "Encore."
[written for Alison Tyler's pin-up girls contest]
[The cover girl that inspired the piece is here.]
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment