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Nothing with you is ever average, I tell myself as I scoot over and feel you climb in next to me. god alone knows what the hell you’re going to have me do in rush-hour traffic. I can actually see the cogs turn in your perverted mind. For what seems like the millionth time, I ask myself why the fuck I do this, and with a grin I remind myself that naught pleases me more than pleasing you.
You’ve given the driver instructions, I don’t on the whole care where we’re going, I’m more apprehensive about the trip there. Your hand on my upper thigh tells me that I have reason. Unquestioningly I obey your unspoken command and spread my thighs apart. Sighing softly as your fingers brush against my pussy, my eyes meet dark eyes in the rear view mirror. I want to tell you to stop, beg you to save me from the indignity, but I know I’ll be wasting my breath. Your thumb pounds my clit down to the bone; I bite my bottom lip and draw blood, stifling an animal-like whimper.
Dear god, you know what I sound like when I’m aroused!
But you don’t stop there, you’re never content Betturkey with so little and I know you won’t be satisfied with less than my complete disgrace.
Lost in the sticky heat pooling between my already slick folds, I spread my legs wider, moaning stridently, unabashed and oblivious to the cab driver’s prying eyes engrossed by the lurid exhibit in the mirror. I roll my hips, thrusting my sodden cunt more determinedly against your expert fingertips. Holy fuck, yes, don’t fucking stop!
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We’re escorted to a table, my hand tightly grasped in your cool palm. What have I let myself in for tonight? You had a devilish grin on your face as you watched me dress. A whore in coture, the red Valentino dress clinging to my curves, skimming my thighs… always red, for the devil’s whore. I know what you have planned and I’ve forgone the silk thong still laid out on the white linen, you’re just going to tear it off and I’ve sacrificed too many pieces of lingerie on your altar.
Perfect gentleman, Betturkey Giriş you draw out my chair and sit beside me before passing the wine list to me.
“Why don’t you order something for us, Katja?”
I open my mouth to speak, but your hand’s already up my skirt, fingers seeking the damp warmth between my thighs. I clear my throat quietly and try again, desperately trying to suppress a moan as your long fingers slip within.
The maître d’ looks at me enquiringly.
“Katja, don’t keep the man waiting.”
Fuck it! You know I can’t use my words when I’m so wet papi. under pressure to find my tongue, I order your preferred wine and all but heave a sigh of relief as your hand moves away. My reprieve is short lived as you bring your fingertips to my mouth. I flush, smelling the heady scent of my arousal on your caramel skin. Submissively, I lick them.
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You excuse yourself and stand expectantly before me. Hmmm… you look so fucking fine in that black dinner suit!
“Go Betturkey Güncel Giriş on…”
I blush a deep shade of burgundy. Surely not here… not where everyone can see. But the resolute gaze I’m fixed with says that you expect nothing less than total obedience.
With tremulous hands, I reach for the buckle of your leather belt, the very same belt you’d used to tear up my ass two nights ago. the sound of metal catches the interest of patrons in close proximity and I can feel their eyes piercing the back of my head. I look up at you, beseeching mutely. They’re starting to gossip; I can hear the whispers of revulsion.
“Are you going to challenge me, yekaterina? Are you going to dishonor your master in a room full of people?”
I already know the answer to that and so do you; no, I would on no account disobey, no matter what the cost.
To the mounting curiosity in the room and my own shocking excitement, I start to unzip your fly. The murmurs are louder now as you turn from me and stride towards the bathroom, audacious, as if you did this on a daily basis in much grander settings. I lower my eyes, cheeks practically gleaming with mortification as you leave me exposed to staring eyes.
Upon your return, I wordlessly zip you up, with no prompting. You kiss my lips, wiping your hands on my hair.
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