My Personal Whore Ch. 04

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Ebony

Thank you again for reading the first three episodes of my personal whore’s adventures with me. This, the fourth, is a little different — I hope it doesn’t detract in any way, more the opposite. As ever, thoughts very much appreciated — well, nice ones!

Enjoy!

—- —- —- —-

Your face, a picture.

Isn’t that what you want, to take me to bed?

I want it too, for pleasure, not business.

Taking your hand, seducing you without a word.

Reducing you to ashes.

Pulling yourself together, shaking your head.

Would you refuse me anything, whatever I need, ever?

Resuming coat, concealing the mini-dress, stockings, teasing.

Hailing a cab, climbing into the back, address.

Holding hands, head on your shoulder.

Lightly kissing my hair, again and again.

Revelling in our proximity, anticipating.

Turning my head, mouthing silently.

“Kiss your personal whore.”

—- —- —- —-

Gravel crunching, grinding to a halt, paying the man.

Looking around, a nice place.

Darkness within, the moon illuminating without.

Beaming down, guiding his departure.

Your lips on mine, in another world, silence.

Tongues caressing, exploring, arms enveloping.

Passion.

Time to go inside, holding out a hand, the key.

Fumbling the lock, laughing, infectious, strangely melodic.

Tumbling into the hall together, kissing, holding.

Reaching out a shoe from behind, kicking the door, closing.

Seeing your hand, stretching out, searching for the light.

Whispering, appealing.

“Can we leave it? I like the moonlight.”

—- —- —- —-

Giggling, stumbling up the stairs, clutching.

Hesitating, flood of desire to be spanked, taken from below.

All I have to do is say.

Another time, maybe.

Definitely.

The Çankaya Escort landing, a window facilitating the voyeur without, guiding.

Taking my hand, the bedroom door, opening.

The voyeur enters first, bathing with light, following dutifully.

Looking around, no feminine touches, no tell-tale signs.

Wondering why?

The bed, freshly made, by providence, as if you knew.

The room, airy, the window lifted an inch.

Peaceful, silent, just the two of us, anticipating.

Hearing your voice, the expected question.

“Call me Yaz, everyone does.”

—- —- —- —-

A look from you, a trigger, a spring.

Tearing off each other’s garments, frantic, passionate.

Leaving stockings, suspenders and heels.

Typical Englishman, I might have guessed.

Hands on your chest, pushing, falling, bank of pillows, laughing.

Standing at the foot, looking into your eyes, biting bottom lip.

Your long blink, the imagery irresistible, I smile.

Nearing, the voyeur silently bathing my body to your male gaze.

You understand, smiling, a shrug of the shoulders.

A stockinged knee on the duvet, a second, hands forward.

Crawling, tits hanging, thrilling you, and the voyeur.

A threesome, somewhat unconventional.

Straddling your hips, reaching behind, a touch, you gasp.

Guiding, gently lowering, entering.

Bliss, utter and indescribable, eyes connected.

“Oh Yaz!”

—- —- —- —-

Taking your hands, lifting, cupping my tits.

Fingertips finding nipples, oh yes!

A gentle squeeze, a moan, a reward, encouraging.

Wanting more, harder, much harder, slap them.

Egg shells, I know, suppressing desire.

Another time, maybe.

Definitely.

—- —- —- Keçiören Escort —-

Freeing your hands, leaning back.

Another voyeur, revelling in your own fantasies.

Watching me, like at the Black Pearl, on display.

Those patrons cannot touch, just lust.

An image in their mind’s eye for later.

You feel good, filling, hard, aroused.

You like to watch, I like to be watched.

Shaking my head, hair flowing at random.

Grinding, forward, back, eyes closed, leaning back.

Hand grasping tits in turn, squeezing, twisting nipples.

That’s how I like it, rough.

Another, invading my inner thighs, fingers exploring.

Caressing my clitoris, breathing faster, shorter.

The ultimate intimacy, on display.

Rock hard inside my folds, almost there, almost … fuck yes!

Inhaling, exhaling, ecstasy.

Whispering.

“Your personal whore wants to taste herself.”

—- —- —- —-

Edging forward, hands flat, vacating my wetness.

Hearing groan, anticipation, reversing on knees.

Hands on your ankles, spreading wide.

Kneeling, leaning forward, sweeping hair to one side.

Lowering head, lips touching the tip, sharp inhale, holding.

Slowly, so slowly, lowering, accepting.

Inch after inch, coated in my arousal, tasting.

Beyond your wildest fantasy, maybe.

Starting to lick, shaft and tip, gathering.

Sucking, softly, the taste of pussy, a cocktail of arousal.

Clenching your fists, senses on the edge, nearing.

Moaning louder, an unsaid message.

So close, I know, a groan, confirming.

Lips around the tip, sucking, hand on shaft, squeezing.

Helpless to prolong, hands reaching for my hair, pressing.

A silent scream, on and on, body in spasm.

Spurting, Etimesgut Escort once, twice, thrice, and more, taking it all.

—- —- —- —-

Staying still, listening.

Breathing recommencing, body relaxing.

Should I, too soon?

Another time, maybe … no, now!

Lifting head, crawling forward, synchronous eyes.

Your face, knowing, horror or excitement, either or both.

A mouthful of cum, to share, to swallow.

Closing in, your mouth, opening to receive.

Open lips, kissing, passing from one to the other.

Salty, creamy, mutual groaning, tasting, swallowing.

Starting to giggle, kissing, crossing the Rubicon.

Speaking to myself, silently.

“What is to become of us?”

—- —- —- —-

Moon ending its shift, replaced by the sun.

Recalling, opening eyes, looking around.

Alone in bed, strong sense of mystery.

Was it all a dream?

Knowing, not my bed, my bedroom.

Resting on elbow, listening hard.

Catching the birdsong, otherwise silence.

Lying back, reflecting, decisions to be made.

Inevitable, but when?

Need to be proactive, taking initiative.

No point asking what you want, already know.

Your eyes telling the truth, always.

But the consequences, my own.

Emerging from the duvet, encasing in your robe.

Heading downstairs, smell of cooking, permeating the house.

Sunday morning, bacon and eggs, tea and toast, so English.

Smiling, hall table, bag, discarded coat neatly folded.

Skipping over stone flags, searching for the feast, a voice.

“Sugar and milk in your tea?”

—- —- —- —-

Breakfast bar, face-to-face, tall stools.

Another airy room, a weak sun trying its best.

Crunching toast, somewhat pensive.

You also.

Laying down cutlery, looking into my eyes, a smile.

“Are you working today? Or tonight?”

Cupping mug of tea in both hands, a statue.

Is this the end, so soon, no time to think.

Shaking my head, deep intake of breath.

You smile, seemingly heartened, cloud lifting.

“Will you come with me, jazz club tonight. Jazz with Yaz?”

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