The hotel suite door clicks shut. My pulse hammers in my ears. Marion stands there, tall, elegant, mid-forties firecracker. Tight top hugs her curves. Black mini-skirt rides high. Sheer black stockings gleam under thigh-high boots. Porte-jarretelles straps peek out. My cock twitches already.
No hello. Her voice cuts sharp. ‘Strip. Pull out your cock. Not a word, or leave now.’ Heart races faster. I obey. Clothes hit the floor. Naked before her. My dick hangs soft, shocked by the rush. She smirks, sinks into the armchair. Crosses her legs slow. Skirt hikes up. Those straps I sent her months ago taunt me.
The Fever
‘Does my outfit not make you hard anymore?’ She uncrosses, recrosses. Flash of black string under the hem. Skin flushes hot. Sweat beads on my chest. ‘Grab your cock, pig. Jerk it like you do for me online.’ Fingers wrap my shaft. It swells instant, rigid. Years of chats, her pics, used panties shipped to my office—they flood back. Pulse thunders. Breath shortens.
The Blaze
She tosses a stocking. ‘You know what to do.’ I slide it over my cock. Pull tight. Gland bulges through nylon. Balls tucked in. She watches, eyes hungry. ‘Closer. No touching me.’ Inches from her. Fifty centimeters. Her scent hits—musk, perfume, arousal. Cock throbs in the sheer fabric.
‘Tug harder, perv. Save that load.’ Pre-cum soaks the toe. She squirms. Hands yank her skirt higher. Peels off her string. Wet. Throws it at my face. Pussy flashes—bare, glistening. ‘Smell what you do to me.’ Nose buried. Salty, tangy cyprine floods my tongue as I lick. Heart slams ribs. Cock aches, veins pulsing. Urgency builds, dangerous.