I have been drinking from your sweet fountain even as your delicate toes played among my manhood.’
‘Izzat what happened? My crotch feels horny. Wanna fuck?
Wanna fuck? Wanna fuck! Did the God Damn Salmon swim two fuckin’ hundred miles just for some fresh fucking seaweed? Can’t be too anxious. ‘Uh-h, yeah, sure.’
‘Do me.’
It had been a while but I did not need the manual. Robe off, shorts history, I vaulted into her, cock vertical, near bursting, balls ready to rupture, every sperm aligned, ready for the mad dash into Squoot’s womb.
‘You gonna use anything?’
‘Use. Use what? Your tubes are tied, mine and cut and pasted, what the fuck am I gonna use?
‘Summa that new heated KY would be nice. It adds, ya know?’
Resisting the impulse to simply rupture the entire tube as deep into her cunt as logistics would permit, I greased up, approached the unholy grail.’
‘Ya gonna do me with some?
I did. You don’t need to know how. I just did.
‘That’s nice. Ya gonna do me? I’m getting tired.’
It wasn’t pretty. I did her, slamming my cock in until I though I could see it in the back of her throat. We humped, we fucked, I sucked every drop of juice from her cunt, gnawing on her clit while I was in the neighborhood. Rolling her over, I lunged into Squoot’s ass, relishing in the heat and the grip – if she chose, I could never leave that deep, moist cavern.
She granted me freedom . . . amazingly because she had accidentally gotten horny – it must have been accidental, it happened so rarely in spite of my most ingenious ploys
Now she attacked, like a starving baby after its bottle, Squoot’s lips clamped onto my cock like a remora on a shark. Not content with creating an erection, she sucked, she slurped, she inhaled until cum filled the air. Mirror, walls, hair, cheeks, nipples, all was like a dripping Dali painting.
Knock. Excuse me, this is a class place: Tap.
What had I said? ‘Don’t knock.’ They had just knocked. Maybe they wouldn’t come in.
Silently the door opened. Three bellmen with luggage carts coasted in, came to rest next to ‘our’ chair.
They turned and left.
The Maitre d’ asked, sotto voce, ‘Will there be anything else, Signore? Spumanti?’
‘Si, Spumante, due, prego.’
Squoots was still out but coming around. I toasted her with a modest vino bianco drunk from her still writhing grail. Her hips ground into my face, my cock seemed to have disappeared somewhere in her mouth – I couldn’t tell as her claws were so deeply into my buttocks I could not have achieved separation if my balls were on fire.
Jeez. I could not believe this night. Who was this woman, was it too late to trade?
In her thrashing, Squoots knocked over a box: Biagiotti, stiletto, size 8, umber.
Even before the smell of fine, fresh leather and bootmakers’ glue hit my senses, I knew I had lost. Squoot’s eyes were rolling up . . .
. . . Moschino . . . Krizia . . . Cavalli . . . Bulgari . . .
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