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She enters, her lips bright red and glossy, like an engorged pussy, and she shoves her hands into her back pockets. Her nipples strain the fabric of the skimpy tank top she’s wearing—braless, of course—and she shimmies with delight in her high-heeled boots at finding me so vulnerable and desperate for relief.
“I turn you on, don’t I?” she asks, a wicked smile pasted across her lips. With her hands on the outside of her shirt, she scoops up her breasts, her thumbs flicking her nipples through the cotton fabric.
“You do,” I say quietly, fisting myself.
Slow down, asshole, I warn myself. I don’t want this to be over in thirty seconds like some goddamn pathetic teenager.
But Amalia is in a league of her own, and the way she’s feasting her eyes on my cock has got me all fucked up.
“Pull your shirt up. Just above your tits,” I direct.
She stands at the end of my bed in front of my window, the streetlights illuminating her from behind. Picking up the hem of her tank, she draws it, a fraction of an inch at a time, up her torso until her underboob is good and visible.
“Mmmm. Look at those creamy tits. Touch them for me. Cup them for me.”
She holds herself up like she’s making an offering, her gaze first glued to my cock, then back to her breasts as she admires both.
“Ok. Good. Now more,” I say, gesturing anupmotion with my chin. “Just a little.”
She purses those glossy lips, the lips I must see wrapped around my cock at some point, God willing, and inches the shirt up just until her nipples, all nice and pointy, are exposed. When the air hits them, they turn to hard little pebbles, and evenmore so when she rolls and pulls them between her thumb and forefingers.
If I died now, I’d die happy.
“Nice, sweetie. I like seeing you play with your tits.”
“I like seeing you play with your cock,” she whispers.
Holy shit. “Pull your jeans down. Down to the floor.”
She starts to remove her boots, but I stop her.
“Leave them on. Just pull down the jeans.”
She shrugs and slowly opens her black Levi’s, wiggling them down her rounded hips until they puddle at her knees, leaving her wearing only a thin black G-string that has slipped between her pussy lips.
“Does that feel good? On your clit?” I ask.
She nods.
“Good. Pull the fabric up and down a bit. Let it rough you up.”
She gathers the tiny bit of fabric just above her pubic bone and slides it up until it parts her pussy lips all the way. Her lips are fat and engorged and fuck if I don’t want her to sit on my face.
There’ll be time for that later.
“Keep going,” I say, watching the fabric press her clit again and again.
Her breath quickens, and her head hangs slack.
“You like that, your panties all up in your puss?”
She meets my gaze again and smiles with a heavy-eyed nod.
“Go ahead and take off your shoes and jeans. All your clothes, actually. Except that shirt. Leave it on, hanging on your tits,” I demand, my balls begging to come.
But not yet.
“Like this?” she asks shyly, nearly nude, standing next to my bed with her erect clit poking out from between her shaved lips.
