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And, at some point, she got a massive glob of the massage gel in her hand—which she proceeds to slather roughly over every part of my fucking cock.
“Arghhh!”
It’s so fucking intense—it feels like my brain’s about to short fucking circuit.
“I fucking told you,” hisses Margarita.
When her tongue starts gliding unevenly around my shaft, I can hear myself yelling again, but all I can feel is the tremendous fucking intensity of pleasure flowing around my lower half, around all of me.
My mind goes in and out of blankness, but during my more lucid moments, all I can think about is how I’m going to return this pleasure—and then some.
Five
Margarita
Breathless, flushed with that new, feverish feeling running through me like the Bethesda goddamn Fountain—this feels like the end of one story and the beginning of another.
Part of me wants to think the story that ends now began at a little store—an ‘adult entertainment store’ as they call it—on Second Avenue.
I can’t remember what drove me there that day, although I do remember I was wearing a silk scarf around my head and big Oliver Goldsmith sunglasses in case any nosyparkers—like that goddamn Patricia Sherman upstairs—were snooping around the block for whatever goddamn reason.
Woman behind the counter assured me that there was no expiration date.
Trying to catch my breath on the lip of our bed, a couple years later at this point, I’m optimistic about the way that story is about to end.
I’m not going to say I’m satisfied—not yet—but that’s what I’m optimistic about.
“What else is in the bag?”
Thomas’s voice is still slightly weak, but it’s regaining strength.
His cock is as purple, rigid, and engorged with excitement as ever.
“Why don’t you go take a look? Feet don’t work?”
Thomas sits up at last, and his strong, sizable hands begin wrapping softly around my shoulders.
“I’d rather do it myself.”
“Do what yourself?”
“Give you the fuck of a fucking lifetime.”
“We’ve still got to turn up the heat a few degrees before that.”
Thomas starts nudging the thermostat immediately. His lips fall gently just above my shoulder, just above the top of my shawl.
His kisses begin just as gently, maybe even more than that, to the point I can barely feel a thing.
They pick up in roughness, though, and I sense an untamed and uncontrollable animal in him as he kisses around the bottom of my neck—and tears off my shawl.
Both of us are breathing heavy enough to create an orchestra of overstimulated panting as our two sets of hands work together to take off my blouse, then my bra.
“Ohhhhhhhh.”
Thomas’s roughness reaches a crescendo of sorts as his hungry kisses reach the top of my tits. Each landing of his lips starts to soften as moves his way down my left tit, closer to the nipple.
Before he reaches the outer edge of my areola, he stops.
