Wednesday, 9 May 2012

Valentine’s Hat-Trick Part 4

After I have showered I am allowed a little bit of pampering as Mr Robson leaves a warm towel by the bath for me and a gift- a small pack of my favourite- and very expensive- perfume and toiletries with I apply to my now clean, warm soothed skin with unashamed pleasure. Well that’s not to be unexpected really…I am a not backward at coming forward at enjoying unashamed pleasure. I appreciate the gift from Mr Robson though, it is a sign of his love for me, and I feel content and [almost] fully satisfied as I prepare for the rest of the morning, knowing that Mr Robson’s show of affection for me, will not however affect his command- and demands- of me over the next couple of hours, that he will be as strict and where necessary painfully controlling of me as and how he sees fit without any compromise, and that is exactly how I want it to be.

I eventually leave the bathroom and go into our bedroom. He is nowhere to be seen and must have gone downstairs. He has however left out the clothes I am to wear. They are efficient and secretarial but suitably sexy. A black jacket, small white blouse and a tight, short black skirt that barely covers the tops of the sheer, honey coloured stockings I am to wear, with black, very high but business-like pointy high heels. My underwear will be a red lace thong and bra. Also on the bed is a small black box and I know what is inside it; it is my gold ankle bracelet, I am being taken outside as Mr Robson’s slave, in the role of his secretary.

Tingling with excitement- and apprehension- I put on my clothes. Apprehension, because he is taking me out in such a short skirt but the apprehension is mixed up with an intense shiver of excited anticipation at what lay ahead.

Now I know I have excellent legs- I’m not being immodest about that, I just have. So there’s nothing to worry about displaying them and I do so often enough- I hate the dowdy-ness of knee length skirts and according to mood, my hemline is invariably well above that in varying degrees- but not usually in a skirt this short which is a bona fide mini-skirt. Being forty-something, and no stranger in the past to high hem-lines, it’s something I’ve thought best left as a fashion choice for younger women now, but as a trial Mr Robson does make me go out in skirts that flaunt more than the usual expanse of –admittedly shapely- leg, in situations like this. It is of course to show me who is boss, and who am I to question his wishes. And to be fair, he usually allows me to wear a black coat that has a hem just above knee level when dressed like this, so that only he knows what I am wearing underneath when we are completely in the public eye. He does though occasionally- but not always- tell me take the coat off. This often happens in a pub or restaurant we are in. He will make me walk to the bar or toilet displaying my legs for all to see for five minutes or so.

As I say he doesn’t always do this; and so I never know when he is going to spring this parade on me. This of course adds to the- often stomach churning- unpredictable stimulation of it all.

So I slip on my lacy red underwear and sexy secretary clothes and admire myself in the wardrobes full length mirror- not bad- then make my way downstairs. Mr Robson is waiting for me sat in the lounge, legs crossed, reading a newspaper.

‘Ah, good,’ he says looking up. He tries to remain nonchalant but I can see him drinking me in, scanning my long legs, my firm tits pressed pneumatically against the small, tight white blouse, a hint of red brassiere showing in my cleavage. ‘We have business to do, but first I think we deserve a spot of lunch. Get your coat, and we’ll get going.’

I put on my black coat; it’s longer than my little skirt but still shows plenty of leg. Nonetheless it’s a length I’m more comfortable with. We go out to the car and Mr Robson opens the passenger door for me. I slide in and onto down onto the car seat, my high heels scrunching over the small stones on the drive, showing him a good display of my legs as the coat opens and the short skirt rides up showing the top of stocking tops and- I hope- as I part my legs, he gets a quick glimpse of my red panties. I settle into the seat pulling my skirt down a little but leaving the coat open as he slams shut the car door.

We are soon driving out to the country and pleasingly Mr Robson cannot stop glancing down at my long, stockinged legs. I’ve managed to show hints of my stocking tops below the hem of my black mini-skirt, but not too much. I make a show of occasionally pulling down the hem in an awkward way, trying to cover them up, but of course the little skirt quickly rides up again.

Mr Robson goes completely into role play- he is my boss and talks about office issues and I reply as any good little secretary would, in a combination of coy reticence, knowing gossipiness and outright flirtation. By the time we reach the pub in a small village called The Cleaver he is now firmly my office boss in my mind’s eye, rather than Mr Robson, although he still of course as complete command of me, which the small gold ankle chain constantly reminds me.

The only thing I’m slightly disappointed with is that he’s not wearing his dog-collar. He sometimes takes me out to obscure country pubs like this- or a city centre bar more often than not- in his work clothes and me as the wayward, tarty agency secretary. But today he is just as sexy in a dark grey suit and crisp white, open neck shirt. And my crack is aching; I’ve already had two injections of his lovely come so far today, but they haven’t been in the place where, in my old fashioned way, I still think is the most important: my needy, wet snatch.

We enter the smallish, quant pub in the middle of nowhere; fields of corn and rape stretch out around it, the distant spire of the nearest villages church- St Edmund’s I think- pokes up above a full, green belt of trees and the sky is a perfect, clear blue with small, wispy cotton wool clouds drifting languidly across it, like they would in a children’s painting.

It’s lunchtime and there’s more people in there than I had expected. Other- but no doubt more authentic- business people stopping off for a spot of lunch between whatever ‘important business’ appointments they have today, a couple of old dears talking demurely over a glass of Chardonnay and a Ploughman’s, and what a clearly a few locals stood and sat at the bar with pints and packets of crisps in front of them. these men in particular turn and look at us both as we enter, Mr Robson holding open the large, battered old oak door for me as I slinked in, then back at me to whom they kept their attention as I slicked my way over the bare but tastefully distressed wooden floor in my black high heels. I wriggle my arse giving it all I’ve got and it’s not difficult; I love this attention, this crackle of male excitement when I enter a room, the electric spark of sudden heightened testosterone levels in the room generated by me, it’s a truly delicious feeling of importance and, let’s face it, power. I may by the one in a submissive role here, with a small gold anklet continually reminding me of the fact that Mr Robson could bend me over a table in here, unceremoniously tug down my knickers and fuck me up the arse in front of all these people if he so wished, and I couldn’t stop him, but it’s not as simple as all that, because I too, wield my own form of power here and Mr Robson of course understands that and so, a balance of desires and wills are maintained.

One of the [real] businessmen with a small laptop open in front of him gazes over at me too and I make sure he gets a good display of leg as I sit down across the pub from him, my coat falling aside over my long, stockinged legs and I languidly cross my legs, giving everyone but him in particular, a good view of some very shapely thigh.

And I of course have some ‘very important business of my own;’ I am in need of being fucked hard and rough for the third time in as many hours. I won’t be happy and complete today, until I can feel fresh come trickling out of my cunt, because I am not in any way whole until that happens on this fine Valentine’s Day.

I look around the pub thinking on that as Mr Robson goes to the bar for some drinks [usually in situations like this he tells me to do that, but not generally for the first drink, that is more often than not his preserve]. Apparently no Valentine couples; unless of course the old dears in the corner are an ageing lesbian couple which, believe me, is more than possible because particularly in supposedly gentile areas of respectable England such as this, I have found such things to be rather more common than you would first suspect.

No, the evening is the place for valentine lovers in this establishment it would appear, apart from of course, Mr Robson and I, but we always enjoy being the exception to the rule.

I sit back as Mr Robson brings back a glass of Chablis for me, and a deep red burgundy for himself. I feel a little tingle of excitement, hoping he kisses me before he fucks me later- there is something intensely erotic about the taste of red wine on Mr Robson’s lips and breath, it can almost make me come even before his cock touches my sex lips before being slid into me, never mind anything else. He sits on down next to me. I make a show of pulling my coat round to cover up the top of my legs but only partially succeed; it’s not a particularly long coat in itself, and whilst sitting down, it does even less of a job of covering my legs but it does a bit, still leaving though a good expanse of thigh and calf for the business man [the bloke with him must be gay, he’s barely looked at me] and the three yokels at the bar to have a- continual- good look at. Yes this is turning out to be potentially a very satisfying lunch, because a girl cannot get enough attention to my mind, and in here today, I am the centre of attention which is just how I like it….for the moment, anyway. I know, eventually, Mr Robson is going to tell me to either go the bar or the toilet without my coat on, displaying my legs below my black mini-skirt for all to see as a parade before them, which he knows is something I am always apprehensive about- one of my greatest fears is being thought of as mutton dressed as lamb, I can hear my mother’s voice in the dim and distant voice berating a neighbour, who I actually got on very well with and liked, for just that.

So a small niggle of apprehension needles away at me as I sip my wine but that of course only adds to the excitement of it; and it is tempered by the image of a number of cocks standing suddenly to attention as I do it; I’m sure there’s a few semi-erections on the go as it is at the moment, so it wouldn’t take much to get a row off full-on hard cocks on the go at all.

Then I have a little naughty thought as my eye catches the businessman’s at the other table and he catches it and although he looks away quickly, he doesn’t do it straight away, shyly, self-consciously. He had the nerve to hold it for long enough to make real contact, eye to eye, and I allow myself a little smile, I wonder if I dare wait until he goes to the toilet and if I dare excuse myself from Mr Robson and follow him out the back of the pub, and capture a quickie with him, enjoy one of those rapid two minute fucks with a stranger in either one of the toilet cubicles or behind a recycling skip outside, panties down and shafted urgently by a hard, anonymous cock against a wall?

Believe me, it has its thrills and I am dampening at the thought but pull in my raging fantasies which have moved on to the anonymous business man coming in a hot torrent in my mouth as I kneel before him next to his car out in the car park.

No, I must stay focussed. today, of all days, I must remain completely Mr Robson’s in action, if not in thought…well what can I do, I have such a vivid imagination…

Mr Robson asks me if I would like anything to eat and I say no- I am too excited and nervy from expectation to have any appetite whatsoever, and Mr Robson skips lunch too and launches himself deeper into the role play. He chats about me and asks me questions and expertly flirts with me. This has always been one of great strengths for me and something that attracted me to him from the outset, all those years ago. he can flirt and be sexually suggestive with such charm…a charm that can quickly morph into the most filthiest of things being whispered into your ear and he is doing that to me now and my panties- what little there is of them of course- dampen even more.

He tells me that he has been watching me in the office for weeks now and that I truly am amazing. He tells me how he hardens every time he sees me, and fantasises about fucking me all of the time; fantasises about bending me over the photocopier and fucking me hard from behind when its late and there’s no one else in the office. And he tells me my skirts are always too short and I’m always teasing me and other men when I bend over and flash my arse and knickers and how my legs are so long and likeable and how he’d like to come over them, and rub the spunk into my thighs and knees and calves. How he sometimes gets annoyed by my sloppy filing and combined with an muted anger he feels when he sees me flirting with other no-marks in the office, he has to stifle the urge to bend me over his desk and fuck me hard in the arse to teach me a lesson.

I sit there, my now uncrossed legs warm, my thigh involuntary parted, the hem of my skirt teasingly showing a sliver of stocking top and I swallow hard and my lips slightly part as he tells me last night, rather than have sex with his wife, he preferred to wank in the shower, thinking of me, dreaming of when he finally was able to ram his big, throbbing, needy cock into my wet slit.

Now personally, being told a man is wanking whilst thinking of you is the greatest turn-on for me and Mr Robson knows it. I love the thought that a man would masturbate over me; I find it a huge turn on when a man actually, masturbates in front of and then over me, boy does it get me working on my own, enthusiastic button-rubbing. How aware the suit on the nearby table that can’t take his eyes off me is of my heightened arousal is anybody’s guess; I feel electrified and so very sexy with a gnawing, yearning desire in my cunt that is at the moment so eager, I feel as if it is more than capable of biting off any man’s cock that dares to enter it.

This wonderful yearning is of course also deliciously mixed up with a fair degree of trepidation which is compound by my sense of silliness; here I am, a good looking confident woman, but I get butterfly-nerves thinking about doing what Mr Robson is about to do any time soon. It’s crazy really but we all have our weaknesses, and Mr Robson knows exactly what mine are and exploits them mercilessly when he has a mind to.

‘I think it’s time for another drink, don’t you?’ he says now siting back away from my ear settling back into his seat and reaching inside his jacket pocket. The three men at the bar glance over to us, as if telepathically sensing what’s coming next.

Mr Robson pulls out his wallet and produces a tenner.

‘My, you must be warm in that coat Barbara, why don’t you slip it off.’

of course I cannot refuse, and let the black coat slip off my shoulders and I pull my arms out through the sleeves. It’s a bit of an awkward manoeuvre and I deliberately open my thighs a bit flashing I hope a tantalising triangle of red silk towards the trio of locals stood at the bar. And it works because of the two that are surreptitiously looking at me; one keeps staring at my knickers whilst the other, after briefly enjoying the view, quickly, nervously looks quickly away. I allow myself a little smile- I love it when that happens. The shy ones always give the greatest of tease satisfactions.

‘Let’s have one for the road,’ Mr Robson says, handing me the money. ‘Same again; you do the honours, as I need to make a call.’

I take the note as he pulls out his mobile and starts punching numbers with his thumb. Oh well, I might as well get this over and done with. Involuntarily primping up my thick perm of blond hair I push myself up to my feet and deliberately totter a little in my high heels. I smooth down my very short black skirt; it barely covers the top of my stockings but of course that’s the whole idea. I nonetheless feel very efficient in my little black jacket and white blouse, with my red silk clad tits trying to burst out of it and so I launch myself away from the table towards the bar, all legs and tits and hair, trying to look nonchalant.

It has the desired effect on the men there, of course. They cannot resist a look- in varying degrees of directness- at this display as I totter my way to the bar.

All male eyes are on me. Even the apparently gay one sat at his laptop- he is looking at me with a detached air of- I like to think- aesthetic appreciation. Perhaps he’s wondering if it’s a look he can pull off in private, if dressing up is his sort of thing. I take my mind off the walk across to the bar, these albeit long, shapely but forty-something legs being flashed and flaunted for all to see- trying to think about a nice chat I could have with him, giving him advice [I’ve done it plenty of times before; our parish, like all others, has its fair share of cross-dressers and gay men who like to let out their drag-side for a laugh- and of course more- in the privacy of a club or their home], trying to keep my mind distracted and on the level.

I reach the bar and make my order, giving my sexiest smile to the barman, so sexy in fact he probably thinks that with the minimum of effort he would be able to cork my bottle with his cock, down in the cellar bent backwards over a barrel in two minutes flat.

If he’d have been a bit younger and not so fat in a gone to seed sort of way- and of course Mr Robson didn’t have me on such a strong lead- that might have been entirely possible as well I’m feeling so bloody horny ,but not today.

Stood at the bar I glance back at Mr Robson. He is chatting on his phone but, as I knew he would be, he was looking at me. he was drinking in my legs, he was getting his own special sort of excitement from the slight display of nerves in my face, the flickering lips, the darting eyes. he loved this in particular and he once described the joys he felt, the complex and wonderful mixture of sensations he had making me do this simple- and pretty innocuous display in the great scheme of things.

It was one of base arousal at seeing me dressed like this, mixed- and heightened he told me- by a deep pride that I was so sexy and attractive, and that it was him, and no one else, that was with meat that particular time. That I was all his, to enjoy the look of, to enjoy talking to, basking in the knowledge that he was going to fuck me any which way he wished at any time he wished, after we had left the pub.

he was also deeply aroused by my obvious awkwardness at such a display; he knew I knew I looked good, that I was slim and shapely with great tits and legs, but still worried about wearing a mini-skirt and high heels in such a public way ‘at my age.’ he very much enjoyed exploiting my vulnerability- which was all the more enjoyable when it occurred in such unexpected, often silly ways- but at the same time appreciated that ability he had- and that essentially I allowed to do so in fact- and loved me very deeply for that privilege.

I get the drinks then leisurely- almost enjoying it now- sashay my way back to the table, wiggling my arse now, giving the assembled men a good view of one pert little bottom they’re never going to be lifting the skirt up to have a better look at [well not today, anyway, who knows when our paths will cross again under different circumstances- I’m a girl who optimistically always likes to keep her options open]. I can image a number of erections straining in a few pairs of trousers though, and I like the thought of that a lot.

As a finale I bend over more than strictly necessary at the table, feeling the tight black skirt stretching over my shapely buttocks and knowing that the trio of blokes at the bar in particular, will be getting a good view of at least a hint of my stocking tops. I smile at Mr Robson but the smile is primarily for myself; I’m hoping a good number of those erections, have converted from dribbling semen to a full-blown spurt now.

Having placed the drinks on the table, I turn, run my hands over my bottom smoothing down the negligible skirt. Part of me heaves a huge phew!! So that’s done. It’s not something I would volunteer to do, but now it’s done, another part of me is pleased with itself and even more turned on than before. And so now, as I take a healthy glug of my wine, I’m done with the games. Now, I want to be fucked, hard.

Mr Robson clearly feels the same way too, as he makes short work of his drink and soon we are leaving the pub by the back door into the car park. The sun is shining as we make our way across the car park, my heels scrunching the gravel below, a soft breeze moving through the band of trees standing along one side of the car park, the open fields around us bright in the clear air.

When we get to the car Mr Robson suddenly grabs me by the waist and I let out a little surprised yelp. He pushes me against the side of the car and pushes himself hard up against me. his mouth becomes clamped to mine, his tongue wasting no time probing it, flicking with a confident zeal around mine. His hand is up between my thighs and in no time pushing up the short hem of my skirt. My skirt, little more than a belt in the first place, is soon up around my waist and his hand is pressed hard on the front of my red lace panties. He rubs, the pressure on my pubis wonderful and electrifying, the stretching of my sending shivers through me.

His mouth unclamped from mine I groan, looking around the car park. there is no one around, it’s empty, but at any moment someone could come out of that back door or leave the kitchens at the back to throw some stuff into the waste skips, and I’d be in full view, my skirt up around my waist with Mr Robson now moving the small triangle of red lace sideways and snaking his finger into my sodden slit. He massages my crack as I gloop my sex juices onto him; he finds my hard, screaming clit and rubs it hard in a circular motion and I gasp, beside myself, my hands clasped into his shoulders, if anybody were to come out, if anybody were to come out….

Then his finger leaves my slit, it slides out as quickly as it had entered and before I know it I am tugging my skirt down as he barks a command to get into the car. He holds the door open for me as I slide in. I am beside myself with longing now as he slides the door shut and I can only wonder where he is going to fuck me, whether he will find somewhere on the way home, or whether he will wait till we get back to our house. I’m so fired up at the moment I can’t help praying it’s the former of the two.

So we are quickly in the car and away from the country pub’s car park. We whizz down sparse but sunny lanes crisp and clean in the bright winter light. My thoughts and desires however, are far from that. I sit with my thighs parted, the hem of my skirt high showing my stocking tops. I touch up my make-up as we drive along. I try to control my breathing, trying not to look too expectant and desperate which is of course, exactly what I am.

Mr Robson has gone back into business mode. He says how he has been asked to take a look at the possibility of being commissioned for some work nearby that he’d like to have a quick look at if I didn’t mind. I just reply with an almost whispered ‘yes okay,’ as if I was able to reply with anything else.

We are right at the edge of town when the country lane passes some cottages then turns into a wider, straighter urban road. Mr Robson slows as we drive down a shallow hill and I can see a roundabout ahead. This is part of the town that was supposed to be developed with houses ages ago, but it never happened. All the roads and footpaths, even bus stops and proper street lighting, were in place, but the people never arrived. It was now home to dog walkers, drunk teenagers, the occasional stray drug addict, and so I believe, a small group of breakaway, adventurous doggers.

Mr Robson pulls over into a parking bay that was obviously meant originally as a bus stop, before the large roundabout to nowhere except straight on, just ahead. There’s no one around and the area has an air of the semi-derelict; green, with trees and bushes and areas of long, unkempt grass between them, but full of casually discarded rubbish and the occasional plié of rubble and fly-tipping.

‘It’s just down here,’ he says matter-of-factly, nodding out of the passenger window to my left. I glance in that direction; a path- still discernible but covered in weeds and broken here and therefrom probably never being maintained since it was built, curves down to the left and out of sight in a grassed hollow. Mr Robson turns off the ignition and starts to climb out of the car.

I do so as well and I am stood unsteadily in my heels on the grass by the side of the car. ‘This way, come on,’ he says efficiently heading away from the car towards the path, and I follow him.

The path has a number of steps leading down into the hollow and I have to in places carefully pick my way down them amongst the weeds and occasional, discarded fast food wrappers and plastic pop bottles and sweets wrappers. The usual suspects- empty cheap vodka and roach stubs- were also in plentiful supply.

Mr Robson stays a few steps ahead of me and occasional asks me if I’m okay, but never offers to help me as I wobble now and then in my high heels, concentrating hard on staying on my feet although if I did fall on my back maybe the opportunity for him to jump me and spread my legs and fuck me there and then would be too much for him to resist.

Whatever, I manage to stay on my feet despite the temptation of a faux stumble and fall and I know Mr Robson is enjoying this spectacle, my awkwardness out here in the middle of nowhere, picking my way warily down an overgrown footpath in my office clothes, my tits bursting out of a blouse two sizes too small for me, my tight mini-skirt and black, high heels.

Eventually I make it down the long, stepped path and we are at the mouth of a long, derelict subway. It had obviously been built to connect two areas of housing that never got built. The gloomy tunnel is now damp and full of rubbish- everything from shopping trollies to broken bit of furniture to a sea of bottles, food wrappers and the charred remains of small burnt out fires on the filthy, puddled concrete floor. The cracked and chipped concrete walls are covered in the obligatory graffiti, some of it probably a couple of decades old.

I yelp as Mr Robson grabs me roughly by the wrist and tugs me into the subway. I totter in my heels, nearly stumbling to my knees but I manage to stay up-right, helped by his firm, twisting grip of my arm.

‘This is the place I wanted us to have a look at,’ he snarls. ‘This is the place where I need to do my assessment.’

He pulls me further into the murk, my heels crunching down on the rubbish strewn across the cold, dirty concrete slabs.

‘Do you want me to take notes?’ I say nervously as he pulls me towards him.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ he hisses into my face. My lips twitching, hoping he’ll kiss me, praying for his tongue to urgently push its way between my tips and forcibly connect with my own pulsing, yearning, but he denies me that, because he knows that’s precisely what I want.

‘What you can do though,’ he adds, is pay very careful attention to what I am going to do to you, and file it away for future reference.’

With that he turns me around to face the graffiti scarred concrete wall. Its not a flat wall as such- it backs away to the floor about a third of the way down into a narrow, tiled ramp and it against this the toes of my heels end up pushed against as he grabs my hair and bends me over in front of him.

My hands end up pressed against the dirty concrete wall and I am acutely aware that this is still for all it’s dereliction, a very public place. A dog walker could appear at either end of the subway at any time, or a group of kids looking for somewhere to drink or score could suddenly discover us. But the latter, Mr Robson I feel, wouldn’t bother him at all. He’d enjoy the audience and I’m sure if he was in the mood, he’d let a couple of them join in…

The thought of gang rape by a bunch of teenagers whilst Mr Robson watched shouldn’t, but inevitably, arouses me all the more and my cunt is awash. I whimper as he pushes up what little there is of skirt to my hips and tugs down my red lace panties. Mr Robson’s breath rasps behind me now and I can tell he is himself highly aroused and I glace over my shoulder as he releases the clasp on his belt and his trousers slide down then his shorts. His erection is huge and angry. That wonderful, hard, throbbing cock is inches away from my arse and I stare at it whimpering all the more, the tight purple-red helmet already slick with the first oozing of semen and I know, very soon, there’s going to more of where that comes from and it’s going to be injected deep into my cunt.

Then without any further ado that long, thick spear of cock is being thrust deep into me and I let out a loud cry, at last, at last, holding my head up, my eyes swivelling up the graffiti-ed wall, my lips pulled back over my teeth as the pounds into me from behind, his prick violently rubbing and stretching my clit, his cock filling me. His hands are clutching my hips his fingers digging into my flesh as he bucks me harder and harder almost lifting my heels off the dirty concrete as he thrusts, thrusts thrusts….

And then my hands are down on the tiled wall/ramp further down and I am almost doubled over, my hair hanging down over my face my arse stretched taunt my snatch as open and as willing as it could ever be as Mr Robson’s huge prick completes its reckoning with me, his own hips are pounding against my arse and I can feel his balls pressed hard against my own, slick yearning sex lips and he reaches round as he doubles himself over me, his long fingers find my clit, hard, electric, crazed with need, and he rubs me, he pushes my clit hard against my pubic bone and rubs, rubs, with his cock filling my cunt and I come, I shudder, the release at last is upon me, my stockinged legs quiver, my own fingers scratch at the grubby concrete and I groan I squeal and he comes inside of me, at last, the hat-trick complete with his spunk here it matters most, shooting into and filling my cunt and I tremble with another orgasm, I can feel my slit tightening ever more around his cock as he thrusts in again, his body pressed hard against my arse and he reaches forward and pulls my head up by the hair as he keeps coming, keeps pumping snarling:

‘This is all you need to take note of, you little fucking slut.’

And then, the final pulse and he’s spent and so am I. I deflate a little and although he keeps his cock inside me, I can feel my vagina’s grip on it loosen as it too softens. Eventually it slips out of me, leaving behind though, I’m sure, of delicious, warm sticky come. I lift my head; yes, I can feel it on my sex lips, I can feel it beginning to ooze out of me and as I straighten, legs apart and knickers around my ankles a dollop of it drips out of me and lands on the grubby concrete slab below, Now that’s what I call a result.

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