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I could tell he was asking both of us. I blinked but had no time to react in any other way before Oliver had pinned my legs wide with his large hands. He had very long fingers I noticed, and I wondered wildly what it would be like if Jamie would let him stick one or two in me. What it would feel like if he fucked me with those fingers. The sensation of his mouth back on me swept me under.
The pleasure bordered on pain, and it threatened to eat me alive. To crush me. Through my nearly shut eyes I saw Jamie nod with confidence. She always says that. The next lick from Oliver sent a shiver through me. A steamy gush of pleasure filled my lower body. Jamie laughed. We always hit a point where the pleasure beats out the sensitivity. I wriggled in the seat, feeling how plump and ready I was. How slick and willing.
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In my mind, I let Oliver shove those long, thick fingers into me. I let him play me like his own personal instrument. I let him fuck me with thick digits while eating my pussy as if his life depended on it. Oliver kissed the inside of my right thigh, then my left. He sat back on his heels and saluted Jamie.
When he stood I noted the impressive hard line in his pants. I fought the urge to reach out and touch it just to feel the evidence of my appeal under my fingertips. Just for a fleeting moment.
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Or go home and fuck a wife or girlfriend with it. Jamie caught me looking, and cocked an eyebrow. Before either of us could speak, Oliver was out the door. Jamie held out his hand to me.
But I stood on wobbly legs and moved toward him where he sat. Before he could say anything else, I dropped to my knees and worked his zipper with shivery fingers.
I had his cock out and in my mouth before he could say anything. I was celebrating the fulfillment of my fantasy with one of my favorite things. Sucking his cock.
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You may consider yourself a 10 out of 10, but who you end up with might be a better measure of looks. A lot of men just don't read fiction, and if they do, structural misogyny drives them away from the genre. News in Brief. Social Justice. She had the kind of grace that turned heads, as if you had caught the flight of some tropical bird in your peripheral vision. It was as if she had no iris. Her large breasts swung free under a loose T-shirt below which a pair of leather jodhpurs cut angularly across her hips.
She threw herself down into the chair next to me. By the time Humphrey arrived we were drunk, and firm allies. Humphrey noticed Elsa immediately, assessing her youth, her body, her beauty in one glance. Faking indifference, he could hardly look her in the eye, but I knew, that glint as he glanced surreptitiously across at her..
He performed for Elsa, while Elsa performed for me. It was perfect. It was then that I knew I would eventually persuaded Elsa to commission a portrait from Humphrey.
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We meet outside his studio. Elsa presses the buzzer. A canvas sits on an easel, and an old bed swathed in sheets waits in the centre of the room. Death and the maiden — know what I mean, Elsa? Take your clothes off here. At first shyly, but, feeling the other two watching me, I begin to take on the persona of a performer. I stop at my bra and underpants. Elsa stubs out her cigarette. Slowly I unhook my bra.
As I turn I can see Humphrey sitting on a stool beside his easel.
He stares at my body as if he has never seen it before. Elsa stands behind me, turning my body towards him for display. She touches the tips of my breasts until they become erect. I shut my eyes.
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Parting my legs slightly, she pushes her arm roughly between my thighs and pulls the underpants down. I am damp. She stands between me and the white chalk circle, teasing, knowing the full control she has over her spectators. She begins to peel off her clothes very, very slowly. Her long, firm legs led up to two ripe cheeks. Her arse small but firm, her waist tiny, her ribs ripples of light. Humphrey moves to the edge of the circle, his whole body stretching in an attempt to meet hers.
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He stops, his erection visible in his baggy trousers. Smell me? Want both of us? Suffer, boy. Humphrey dips his brush into a pigment, it drips scarlet. He stands in front of the easel poised, ready for the first mark to be scrawled across the virgin canvas. Elsa moves across the polished wooden floor. She lifts me up in her arms in one effortless movement I can see the muscles strain in her upper arm. She carries me over to the bed. I lie on my side, waiting, impassive under her fingers. She wraps her legs around my waist.
I can feel her sex against my back, her clitoris a fleshy spot that sticks to my skin. She parts me with her feet. So wide I am forced to lie back onto her with my head resting between her breasts. She runs her hands around me, cupping my breasts. The pose I recognise from a Chinese etching she likes. An eternity lapses and I find myself wanting to be taken by both of them. By pulling her feet further apart, she pulls my lips back. I can feel my clit swell and lift, wanting to be touched.