my head back, interrupting his kiss, and also pushed his hand away from my crotch.
“Careful,” I said, breathlessly. “I'm about to go off, and I want you inside me when I do.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because once I start, I don't stop.”
I didn't know what he meant by that, but I nodded my head and whimpered.
He glanced up at the mirror, then he forcefully shoved the small sofa, with me on it, three feet back.
He stretched out on the carpet, on his back, and stared up at the mirror, then over at me.
“Climb on board,” he said.
I looked at the bed in the corner.
“I'll give you rug burn,” I said, but even as I protested, I was making my way over to him.
I straddled his chest and gave him another kiss, mouth to mouth, as my other moist parts kissed his chest and his abs, moving down as I lowered my hips toward his.
He thrust his tongue deep into my mouth just as he grabbed my buttocks forcefully and pulled me down on his firm, eager shaft.
I cried out in ecstasy and nearly climaxed immediately, but I tightened my abdominal muscles to pause myself, and stiffened my legs to slow my movement.
My pause didn't last long, though, because his hands were firmly on me, and he was grinding me against his pelvic bone while moving me up and down on his equipment.
His sex was thick and filling, and I bore down harder against him, wanting more, more, burying it to the hilt and further.
Getting off this way, from strictly penetration, was not my usual way, but it was possible, if the man was big enough, and hard enough. Oh, and if he had strong arms that rocked me up and down with nearly no effort on my part.
My back broke out in a sweat.
I closed my eyes and enjoyed being worked like a machine in a factory, that throbbing member moving in and out of my slick mound like the world's greatest invention—the fuck machine.
The fuck machine , I thought.
I didn't even know his first name, but that's what he was.
His breathing changed and his movements became less controlled, more frantic.
I looked up to his face, to those hungry eyes, and saw his gaze was on the mirror above us.
I turned my head and glanced up to see what he saw.
My back, glistening with sweat and sparkling like diamonds.
My buttocks, pulsing with every thrust as I met his movements.
He cried out and closed his eyes, bucking underneath me.
His orgasm went on and on, and mine matched his, both of us writhing and moaning in unison.
I came and I came and I came some more.
Finally, as the last aftershocks pulsed out in calming waves, I fell against him, my damp chest on his, my damp hair on his face.
I slid my face down alongside his and gently nibbled his earlobe.
His manhood inside me pulsed with one last tremor, and then he sighed.
When the earth stopped moving, I rolled off him and fell to my side.
He moved his arm so that his bicep was my pillow.
He said, “What's your name?”
I considered lying to him, but instead, I said, “Alexis. But everyone calls me Lexie.”
“Lexie,” he said, nodding.
“And your name is… ?”
He reached out to shake my hand. “You can call me Lou. Short for Luthor.”
“Lou,” I said. “I like that, Lou.”
He shook my face from his arm and got up, looking around nervously. “I'd best get out of here before I get caught on Mr. Thorne's carpet, with Mr. Thorne's assistant.”
I reached for his hand, to pull him back to me. “Oh, come on, Lou. Enough with the games.”
He gave me a skeptical look. “What games? You needed help with something, and my job is to fix what needs fixing around the house. I'm just doing my job, ma'am.”
“So, you're not Mr. Thorne?” I was so confused. “Wait, you are. Stop messing with my head. You certainly don't have a tan line around your neck from working outdoors.” I grabbed onto his hand. “And look. A manicure. Gardeners don't have manicures.”
He gave me a sly look. “I wasn't always a gardener.”
I scrambled to sit up and gave him
“Careful,” I said, breathlessly. “I'm about to go off, and I want you inside me when I do.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because once I start, I don't stop.”
I didn't know what he meant by that, but I nodded my head and whimpered.
He glanced up at the mirror, then he forcefully shoved the small sofa, with me on it, three feet back.
He stretched out on the carpet, on his back, and stared up at the mirror, then over at me.
“Climb on board,” he said.
I looked at the bed in the corner.
“I'll give you rug burn,” I said, but even as I protested, I was making my way over to him.
I straddled his chest and gave him another kiss, mouth to mouth, as my other moist parts kissed his chest and his abs, moving down as I lowered my hips toward his.
He thrust his tongue deep into my mouth just as he grabbed my buttocks forcefully and pulled me down on his firm, eager shaft.
I cried out in ecstasy and nearly climaxed immediately, but I tightened my abdominal muscles to pause myself, and stiffened my legs to slow my movement.
My pause didn't last long, though, because his hands were firmly on me, and he was grinding me against his pelvic bone while moving me up and down on his equipment.
His sex was thick and filling, and I bore down harder against him, wanting more, more, burying it to the hilt and further.
Getting off this way, from strictly penetration, was not my usual way, but it was possible, if the man was big enough, and hard enough. Oh, and if he had strong arms that rocked me up and down with nearly no effort on my part.
My back broke out in a sweat.
I closed my eyes and enjoyed being worked like a machine in a factory, that throbbing member moving in and out of my slick mound like the world's greatest invention—the fuck machine.
The fuck machine , I thought.
I didn't even know his first name, but that's what he was.
His breathing changed and his movements became less controlled, more frantic.
I looked up to his face, to those hungry eyes, and saw his gaze was on the mirror above us.
I turned my head and glanced up to see what he saw.
My back, glistening with sweat and sparkling like diamonds.
My buttocks, pulsing with every thrust as I met his movements.
He cried out and closed his eyes, bucking underneath me.
His orgasm went on and on, and mine matched his, both of us writhing and moaning in unison.
I came and I came and I came some more.
Finally, as the last aftershocks pulsed out in calming waves, I fell against him, my damp chest on his, my damp hair on his face.
I slid my face down alongside his and gently nibbled his earlobe.
His manhood inside me pulsed with one last tremor, and then he sighed.
When the earth stopped moving, I rolled off him and fell to my side.
He moved his arm so that his bicep was my pillow.
He said, “What's your name?”
I considered lying to him, but instead, I said, “Alexis. But everyone calls me Lexie.”
“Lexie,” he said, nodding.
“And your name is… ?”
He reached out to shake my hand. “You can call me Lou. Short for Luthor.”
“Lou,” I said. “I like that, Lou.”
He shook my face from his arm and got up, looking around nervously. “I'd best get out of here before I get caught on Mr. Thorne's carpet, with Mr. Thorne's assistant.”
I reached for his hand, to pull him back to me. “Oh, come on, Lou. Enough with the games.”
He gave me a skeptical look. “What games? You needed help with something, and my job is to fix what needs fixing around the house. I'm just doing my job, ma'am.”
“So, you're not Mr. Thorne?” I was so confused. “Wait, you are. Stop messing with my head. You certainly don't have a tan line around your neck from working outdoors.” I grabbed onto his hand. “And look. A manicure. Gardeners don't have manicures.”
He gave me a sly look. “I wasn't always a gardener.”
I scrambled to sit up and gave him
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