In Too Deep by Portia Da Costa Page A

first putting his hands on my shoulders, then sliding them up and cupping my face. For a moment he looks down into my eyes, sort of half wondering, half arrogant, and then he slides his fingers round to the nape of my neck, slips the soft band out of my hair and shakes it loose.
    As he frees my hair, I free his penis. Ah, beautiful old friend, I’ve thought about you almost constantly since I first saw you.
    He’s so hard. And getting harder. Weeping sumptuous silky fluid, the head plump and shiny with its stretched skin and its tiny pouting love-eye. And all in this fierce state from just a few moments’ glimpse of my pussy? I fold my fingers around him, cradling him gently. Like an eager puppy he presses forward into my grip, making a low, very masculine rumbling in his throat. His fingertips burrow into my hair, cupping my head, pressing on it, pressing downwards.
    Of course I know what he wants. Don’t all men want it? The only thing that astonishes me is that we’ve reached this place so fast. One day it’s a polite ‘good morning, how are you?’ in the library. The next, I’m sliding to my knees and preparing to give head to this man I barely know in any real sense.
    I flick a glance up at him, but his eyes are closed, his head tipped back, his expression an ecstatic replica of the way he looked in the washroom. Unbearably touched and moved by his beauty, I swoop forwards and engulf his glans with my mouth.
    He’s fine and hot and salty, his flesh firm and latent with power. I lick him quickly, flicking and teasing with enthusiasm. Maybe I’m not a virtuoso, but I’ve got instincts, and a beautiful dick like this invites excellence and invention. I soon have him groaning and swaying and gouging at my head, fingers flexing like points of fire against my scalp.
    I brace one hand on his denim-clad thigh, loving the hard, tense muscle beneath the coarse fabric. He feels toned and defined, and I remember his naked body as he stood before the sink. Beneath his comfortable T-shirts and his tweedy jackets and his fairly average jeans, there’s the body of a stud, an Adonis. I try to ease down his jeans to get at his balls and cup them and taunt them as I work him, but he’s suddenly frantic, pushing into my mouth, wild and rough.
    Am I going to gag? No! From somewhere I find a calm and a relaxation within myself. I seem to have the capacity to accept him and love him to the nth degree.
    For long moments we rock and sway and my lips and tongue caress him. Eventually, though, I feel his excitement increase and sense the rising of his spirit and the gathering of his ecstasy. He pushes, pushes, pushes, and I can almost hear the cry of pleasure that must be poised upon his lips.
    He breathes hard, grips my head, and gasps, ‘Gwendolynne,’ but, before he can shout out, another sound freezes our incriminating tableau like an ice sculpture. Muffled footsteps, at the far end of the long complex of cellars, but steadily approaching. What to do?
    Daniel starts to pull back, but I grab his buttocks and then plunge my mouth down deep on him. At the same time I press firmly on the denim seam that runs down the crease of his bottom, and force my finger as hard as I can against his anus. With one hand he continues to dig into my scalp but the other is ready to stifle his groan of ecstasy.
    Semen, rich and thick, spurts into my mouth. He tastes delicious, the perfect man, and his come is plentiful. I swallow it down as fast as I can as the footsteps grow nearer. Then, in a most unseemly shuffle and grapple and struggle, between us we get Daniel back into his jeans and zipped up in double-quick time. And I’m on my feet, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and then reaching for a pile of books from the table as a figure comes around the corner.
    ‘Yes, of course, Professor Brewster, no problem,’ I pronounce cheerfully, feeling the tickling of wild laughter start in my throat. I transmute it into a soft cough, then