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Saga of African Gods in Canada and America.
"Yeah...? Payback time for last night, because I still believe (I lick my lips), yes, I'm sure, I still taste your cum on my thick pouting lips?" I tease him and push my ass back into his business.
"Let's make them come to us though," he whispers. "I don't much like that center stage thing."
So Jack is taking my smudged notebook, stacking it on top of his smudged notebook, and dropping them to the floor next to our own corner-ish low ottoman perch. The notebook plop draws all eyeballs to our corner, grinning eyes, eyes meeting eyes, winking eyes. Now it starts eyes. Thumping notebooks can mean only one thing.
Jack doesn't seem to mind, or even really notice, the attention shifting to us -- or, more likely he is really good at what he does, becoming the part -- which I will explain later. His breath never leaves my neck. He keeps his voice to me and to me alone.
"I want to be inside your ass, Heidi," he whispers. "Whatever," I say.
His hands are wet and trembling. I like it when a man's hands on my body are sweaty and shaking. It always means good things. "Make this good, Jack."
Moist and trembling his hands are, but still fresh-from-gym strong when he unbuttons my crop-top blouse to feel flesh. Guy, guy, guy all guy. True to form, he doesn't linger at my pert, chocolate dark nipples, but slides like speed racer down my sides, around to the front of my short zipper-and-top-button shorts. Jack's finger race is made easier because, guess what? I left the top button open, and about an inch of the zipper unzipped, you know, right to the tippy-top of that little strand of hair above my...me.
Nothing but pussy, pussy, wet pussy, behind that zipper now, Bucko.
As I should have guessed from reading three years of his partial clothing fetish stories, Jack leaves my unbuttoned blouse draping my torso and my shorts at my ankles and eases me forward toward the edge of our low cushioned seat, then he lifts one leg out of my shorts so he can spread me.
I shouldn't have worried about a rush ass fucking or a neglected cunt. God, help me. He's maneuvering me, spreading my apart like a meal, opening my pussy and teasing her delicious lips apart.
Yes. I feel my ass opening, puckering, preparing for...whatever.
I feel their pain. Beth and Elle have to write tonight. They got theirs' last night when they modeled for us. I hope they take good notes tonight. The only thing going into my notebook tonight is little droplets of perspiration bouncing onto the cover as I move my face from side to side, soaking up man in my bottom.
Still, my head is writing, writing, exploding, writing, writing while my fingers are digging, sweating into the cushion. Fuck me Jack, Baby. Have my fucking ass.
No? Not yet, my pretty!
Jack is pulling me abruptly to my knees, raising my ass higher and thrusting my tits arching down and grinding to a halt into the cushion.
Jack descends into my bottom, face first. My whole bottom. My whole, single nerve-begging bottom with two aching holes.
"Jack, Eat my ass. Eat my cunt." I say this not toward Jack, but straight into the wide-eyed, glassy visioned, fuck-lusting eyes of my vixen dream Beth and her evolving lover, Elle. They have pulled their perch stools to within inches of my face, trying hard to balance their notebooks on legs that keep trying to spread for each other's fingers, but they are doing nothing really but watching my face contort with pleasure while Jack thrusts his tongue deep inside my body, through my pussy, in steady, long pushes so hard I slide back and forth inches at a time with each tongue thrust.
Yet I'm still a writer at a writer's workshop.