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I’ve wanted this for so long. Not the feel of Elsa coming alive under my fingers or of my fingers moving in and out of the warm, wet heat of her pussy. I’m not an idiot—that part feels fucking great.
No, I’m talking about her surrendering to me. That’s the fucking tits.
It’s always a rush, when any woman surrenders to me, but a woman as desirable and independent and strong as Elsa? Best feeling in the world.
I haven’t even mentioned where we are—on a park bench in Central Fucking Park. How’s that for stroking my ego?
Sure, she may have started kissing me after dinner because the photographer was on our tail. In fact, he’s peaking from the bushes, the little perv.
But there’s no way she let it go on for this long—or go this far—without being as fucking horny for me as I am for her.
This isn’t just theory on my part. I’ve got the juicy evidence literally in my hand right now. As my thumb rubs back and forth over her clit, I relish in every twitch, every aroused movement from Elsa.
She lets out a low whimper as I break our kiss so I can watch her writhe under me. It’s just so the photographer can get pictures of our faces of course.
What’s the use of going through with this public spectacle if you can’t tell it’s us in the pictures? Even I don’t believe it myself.
Just like I don’t completely believe myself when I say that everything I do—from purposefully provoking Elsa to stealing her models out from under her—is because I want her to suffer. Or that it’s just business.
Bullshit.
Don’t get me wrong, that’s definitely part of it. But I can’t deny that there’s a little part of my heart that hates that she left me—that she walked away. That she’s been denying me this all this time.
We have this wonderful give and take that we always do so well. She takes as much pleasure as I can give her. And in turn, I take all the pleasure she freely gives.
As I bend down to capture her mouth in mine again, I use my right hand to spread open her pussy lips. I plunge a finger deep into her pussy at the same time that I plunge my tongue in her mouth. Our tongues and my finger play a musical trio in perfect time that would put Tchaikovsky to shame.
As our lips separate, I rest my forehead on hers for a moment. As my fingers switch from classical music to a lively banjo plucking tune, I whisper into her ear, “You always liked that move.”
“Ohhhh,” she moans into my neck, opening her legs wider to let me know she approves of my pussy music.
With satisfaction, I move back to capture her lips again, nipping at her bottom lip until she can’t take it anymore. I lean forward to close the space between our lips.
She rests her head in my other cupped hand. Her left hand is gripping my crotch while she steadies herself on the bench with her right hand. I glance up, without breaking delicious contact with either Elsa’s mouth or pussy, to see the photographer leaving his post.
He moves behind the bushes to walk a few feet away, using a tree for cover. Good, he’s getting lots of angles.
“Fuck, don’t stop doing that,” Elsa moans into my mouth.
Like she has to tell me that.
I answer back with a moan of my own and a quickening of the pace of my two fingers now moving in and out of her soaked pussy.
I bet you’re wondering how we’re getting away with practically fucking in public like this? This is New York City. Sure, people are walking by, and we may even have the odd leer here or there, but for the most part no one gives a fuck what we’re doing.
Except for the photog of course.
Her body quivers under me, and I know she’s getting close. It’s intoxicating—how I can make her move and shake based on how I’m touching her. It’s like I’m the porn version of Jim Henson, and she’s my slutty Muppet.
I slow my finger strokes and switch from deep, passionate kisses to slightly softer ones, but they’re just as deep. A moan of protest escapes her lips, but I don’t want to rush this. I know this perfect moment is fleeting.
As soon as she comes, she’ll come back to reality, too. And the reality is the two of us are at odds and grudgingly working together.
Who knows if that will ever change—or if either of us wants that to change for that matter—but for now, I’m enjoying every delicious, tantalizing moment of having her at my beck and call. Or at least having her pussy at my finger’s beck and call.
“Angel,” I whisper into her golden locks before I go in for another soul-shaking kiss.
