“You're like a hungry baby,” I said.
He unlatched from my breast and slid up on me, crushing his lips to mine. His tongue thrust between my lips as his hand grabbed my pussy through my panties, his thumb above my clit and his fingers nearly inside me.
I panted and rocked my hips against his hand.
He pulled back and yanked off my panties, then returned his hand to the same spot, bare now, and his mouth to mine. His fingers felt so good, and he had them in all the right places.
His cock was still between us, pressing into my hip bone. He groaned, then said, “Any time now.”
“Any time what?”
He pulled back, raised his eyebrows and gave me a you-know look. “Beg me to give it to you.”
I wanted to spit in his face, but instead, with a flat voice, I said, “Oh, please, Mr. Wittingham, give me your big, fat, juicy cock. I want it so bad.”
A smug smile spread across his face, and he rolled onto his back. “Sixty seconds. As promised.” He put his hands behind his head, utterly relaxed.
With all the spanking, I'd completely forgotten about my promise. Damn him! I was ready to go, so wet, and now I had to …
“You fucking scam artist,” I said, rolling up onto my hands and knees.
I grabbed him around the shaft and looked around the room for a clock. There was a digital one on the bedside table in this room. The time was 7:05 pm. I popped the swollen head between my lips just as the numbers changed to 7:06.
He was musky, with a slight feminine smell, from the fun we'd already had earlier that day. I moaned, sending throaty vibrations into his member, and I breathed in deeply, enjoying our commingled scents. I alternated between taking him as deep as I could and pulling it out so I could lick the tip, flicking my tongue against his soldier's helmet.
His skin was pink, turning deeper pink when I squeezed him hard with my hand at the base. His hair down there was darker than on his head, and curly, but not too bushy.
I loved the feel of him in my mouth, how the skin was so soft over the hard flesh, and it responded to my every touch and suck.
He groaned, then said, “Slow down, or I'm going to come.”
His voice broke me out of my trance. The clock had advanced by more than a minute—much more than a minute. I popped him out of my mouth. “Time's up,” I said.
“You're amazing,” he said.
“I'm just getting started.” I threw my leg over and pressed my chest onto his as I used one hand to guide him inside me. He slipped in easier than expected, as I was wetter than I'd ever been in my life. I shivered with pleasure as his cock moved deeper inside me.
“Hold still,” he said, grabbing my hips with both hands, his face wincing.
I held my breath, motionless.
He nodded. “Okay.”
I pressed my hands onto his chest, bore down on him, and from that point on, there was no stopping.
We clutched each other and moved in rhythm, both our hips and our breathing, until I came, my body melting like warm butter. A breath later, so did he, both of us rolling around, ending on our sides, me with my leg wrapped around his body.
2: THE PLOT THICKENS
Smith Wittingham was not much of a cuddler, not after sex, at least. I took his not-too-subtle hints (mostly him saying, “Oh, are you still here?”) and left the room so he could hang out by himself.
I got some dinner from the fridge, nuked it, and sprawled out on the biggest sofa to watch the new James Bond movie. The thing I warmed up was, upon closer inspection, a salad that was probably meant to be eaten cold. I ate it anyway, and it wasn't bad.
The next morning, I woke up, still on the sofa, wearing my clothes from the day before. Someone had tucked a blanket over me, which was sweet. There was a noise happening, and I thought the cappuccino maker was running, but it was actually a vacuum cleaner.
I wasn't alone.
A stranger was in the cabin, vacuuming.
I sat up, dramatically and fully awake.
She turned off the vacuum cleaner and said, “Sorry, but I already finished the dusting and the quiet things.” The woman was young and pretty, with black hair tied back in a ponytail, and big, blue eyes.
I said, “You must be the … housekeeper?”
She put her hand on her hip. Grinning, she said, “What tipped you off? My tool belt?” She waved her hand across a half-apron tied around her waist, the black canvas holding a spray bottle, roll of paper towels, and feather duster.
I said, “It is way too early in the morning for sarcasm.” I rolled off the couch and folded up the soft blanket. “I'll make some tea and perhaps distract you with a cup so you'll keep the vacuum cleaner off for just a few minutes, until my eardrums wake up.”
She untied her apron and set it on the back of one of the sofas. “I'd love a cup.”