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“What..” famed race car driver Rosalie Wren began, but whatever she was going to say was cut off by a savage mouth. Rumbles reverberating through the pits drowned her protest. Even if logic hadn’t told her who it was, that kiss would have. There was no taste to it, only wetness and strength, and a hungry, agile tongue that slid around hers like a snake. It was Juan Pablo, whom she had twice thrashed already and would defeat again today unless, of course, she allowed herself to be distracted just as the race was about to begin.Heat flashed through her core, and when hands began to explore her body she could not help arching to meet them. Her lungs gulped air when the mouth finally relinquished hers and descended her neck. She knew she should have stopped him, but when fingers slipped between her thighs to play a syncopated melody on her clit, thinking became impossible. His mouth was everywhere. He must have a dozen of them! Every time she moaned or cried out, he kissed her, swallowing the sound like wine. His face pressed into her hair; his breath light and quick in her ear. She reached up to embrace him but his fingers did something new and instead she was screaming, screaming at the top of istanbul travesti her lungs, except that he had covered her mouth again and there was no sound, no light, no movement. He had swallowed it all. There was nothing but waves of pleasure consuming her body for eternity as the buzzing of fast-revving engines at the starting line filled her ears..The buzzing drier impatiently announced the end of its cycle. Rosalie Wren slumped on the laundry room floor, her limbs weak and shaky. The washing machine thumped and vibrated in its spin cycle as she withdrew her hand from the waistband of her sweatpants and wiped it on the pile of dirty clothes waiting their turn to be washed. She was alone.As much as she had hoped otherwise, the kitchen sink was still full of last night’s dishes. She sighed and swished a soapy rag around a tea glass as the hum of a mower came to life on the other side of the kitchen window. The lawn service had arrived.She’d never known the youth’s name, though he’d been cutting their lawn for years now. In her mind he was just Lawn Boy, although hardly a boy anymore. Over the years Rosalie had watched him develop from a scrawny sixteen-year-old kid to a 6’3”, travesti istanbul 175 pound mountain of athletic muscle. He was a blond, big-shouldered, bronzed Adonis with sky blue eyes, and an incandescent smile. Every week when he was done, he knocked on the Wren front door, a sheen of sweat glistening on chiseled abs, and Rosalie paid him in cash, always including a generous tip.Twisty things were happening to her insides as Miss Rosalie sipped her Vieux Carré and gazed at the lusciously bare-chested lawn boy, calculating possibilities. Her husband was in Richmond for a fortnight, the servants had their usual Wednesday afternoon off, and she was alone in the brooding mansion. She watched the youth as he worked. His cut-offs were a bit too short with holes that offered tantalizing glimpses of his bare buttocks. Her hand found its way under her skirts as he effortlessly lifted the grass bag and dumped it in the compost pile, every muscle group defined through his taut skin. Her eyes traced the small patch of light hair that trailed from his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband, pointing the way to a mysterious bulge swelling his shorts.She gently squeezed her swollen clit istanbul travestileri between her fingers and stroked it, imagining it was Lawn Boy touching her. She could feel him pushing aside her silky black thong to caress her bottom and dip his powerful fingers into her soaking wet furrow. Her breasts tingled and ached at the thought of exploring his body, his perfect mouth sucking hungrily at her nipples.“Get me a drink,” Lawn Boy’s voice demanded boldly from right outside her window. Miss Rosalie shrieked and yanked down her skirts. “Get me a drink,” he repeated, “and then I will finish what you have so wickedly started.” When she obliged with a sweating glass and perspiring bosom, it was if she had handed him a knife. “Inside,” he gestured with the glass, “to that room off the porch, the one you watch me from.”She sank to her knees in the mosaic-tiled sunroom, her face pressed to his groin, the salt taste of his fingers in her mouth. Frantically she fumbled with his buttons, freeing the mammoth rigid cock, unlocking its perilous hunger, then kissed the tip as she weighed in her palm his ponderous orbs. A moment only he allowed her to worship the scepter of his power and majesty, then picked her up like a rag doll, spun her and crowded her face against the window. He roughly flung her skirts over her waist, then paused to ogle her lewdly exposed bottom.“Your husband is one lucky bastard,” Lawn Boy chuckled. “How often does he take this fine ass?”
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32