One swallow doesn’t make a spring #11

stroked cockI let her fingers run along the underside of my cock, catching my breath when the sensation got too intense. “No. But I will soon. I’m happy.” But she wasn’t happy. She wanted to have served me and served well. I said the most ridiculous thing I’d said in ages, though it was true enough. “You were amazing. It was a privilege to fuck you.” 

She laughed. “You did like my tits. You really liked my tits. Jaime Mortimer likes my tits.”

“Likes your cunt. Likes your belly. Likes lying on your belly. Likes your ass. Um. Loves your ass.” 

Svitlana let go of my cock and brought her hand to her mouth. She put her tongue out and wet her palm thoroughly with her spit. Then she resumed stroking my cock, wet palm and fingers surrounding me. I sucked in breath and let her have her way. I was in her hands, and her hands made me gasp, and jerk my hips convulsively. I had nothing more to say. Nothing I could think of.

Svitlana said, “Yes, okay. You’re not just going to fuck me and pull out. But you smacked me. My bottom. When I bit you. And you liked that. I know you liked it. And in the corridor, when I teased you,” she grinned lop-sidedly, her mischief grin, “I thought you were going to, oh.” She stopped.

I said, warily, “you thought I was going to … what?”

Venus and Mars, Botticelli. The war is fucked out of him, the lance is too heavy to lift, and her sweet little piece rains.

Venus and Mars, Botticelli. The war is fucked out of him, the lance is too heavy to lift, and her sweet piece rains.

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