the chair, moving my desperate sex flesh up and down against the leather mask, his mouth, and the rough edges of the zipper. I couldn’t help it, I was gone on this.
Richard’s cock looked fit to burst. Tom pulled out and ploughed in deeper, his teeth bared with effort and restraint. He must have hit the spot, because Richard’s body tensed and arched, his tongue going soft and limp against my clit. I glanced down and saw his cock riding high and tight in its harness, then it spurted up under his arched body, which was convulsing.
“You made him come,” I cried accusingly, but with delight, and a dark laugh choked in my throat. Tom grinned at me and then jammed into him hard again.
“Suck her good, Richard; I want Suzie to come next.”
Our obedient slave began to tongue me again. I gasped my pleasure aloud for Tom—Tom, my gorgeous lover, watching me. It was just like our sessions of mutual masturbation, but with Richard’s darkest secret filling the void between us; tonight he was the gap across which we watched each other’s deepest pleasures rising up and taking us over.
Tom’s lean body was taut, his hands gripping on to Richard’s hips, the sinuous muscles in his arms turning to rope. His eyes were locked on mine, urging me on as he sent Richard’s tongue lashing my clit again and again with each deep thrust. I began to buck, wildly out of control, shock waves going right through the core of my body and under the skin of my scalp as wave after wave of relief flooded over me, and then Tom threw back his head, roaring his release as his hips jerked repeatedly and he shot his load.
Tom sat across the breakfast bar from me. He sipped the rich black Colombian coffee I had made us, his fingertips running against mine as he eyed me over his cup. He smiled as he put the cup down and lifted my fingers to his lips.
“You looked incredible,” he whispered, kissing my fingertips. It was an extremely intimate moment; he was looking at me with possessiveness and something akin to awe.
“So did you,” I replied and I meant it; I was overwhelmed by my lover. Richard had long since left us, but the images he had given us of each other would be with us for a very long time.
“Do you think we’ll ever see him again?”
“Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe not. Would it bother you if we did?”
I gave it some thought. I pictured us casually speaking to him in the office, the way we used to, but this time the three of us would be looking at each other and knowing what had gone on. The idea of it made my pulse quicken again.
“No, not in the least.” I liked the idea. I smiled at Tom. Not only had we seen each other anew, but Tom and I had become part of Richard’s secret, part of Richard’s darkest secret.
Performance Art
OSCAR WILLIAMS
You’re so proud of them, and I don’t blame you. They’re lovely, large on your frame but perfectly proportioned. Double-Ds, and all natural, you brag in the online profile you use to scout for potential partners. You’re only five-three, perhaps 110 pounds, so I suspect no one believes you—but I know you’re telling the truth, and calling them double-Ds is, in a way, being conservative. They strain against your bras, stretching the cups, showing curvaceous and enticing through the tight sweaters you wear. You love that men look at them. It’s like you can feel their energy, radiating from their eyes, caressing your tits, unbuttoning your top, unhitching your bra, untying your bikini top, lifting your sweater over your head, revealing them. It’s as if you can feel a man’s gaze undressing you, devouring your tits. When you know a man is checking them out it’s like he’s stroking your nipples with his eyes, whether we’re sitting in a restaurant, lounging on the beach, dancing at a club, or just walking down the street. And you invite it. You encourage it, because you love the attention. You wear revealing tops and go without a bra when you really
Richard’s cock looked fit to burst. Tom pulled out and ploughed in deeper, his teeth bared with effort and restraint. He must have hit the spot, because Richard’s body tensed and arched, his tongue going soft and limp against my clit. I glanced down and saw his cock riding high and tight in its harness, then it spurted up under his arched body, which was convulsing.
“You made him come,” I cried accusingly, but with delight, and a dark laugh choked in my throat. Tom grinned at me and then jammed into him hard again.
“Suck her good, Richard; I want Suzie to come next.”
Our obedient slave began to tongue me again. I gasped my pleasure aloud for Tom—Tom, my gorgeous lover, watching me. It was just like our sessions of mutual masturbation, but with Richard’s darkest secret filling the void between us; tonight he was the gap across which we watched each other’s deepest pleasures rising up and taking us over.
Tom’s lean body was taut, his hands gripping on to Richard’s hips, the sinuous muscles in his arms turning to rope. His eyes were locked on mine, urging me on as he sent Richard’s tongue lashing my clit again and again with each deep thrust. I began to buck, wildly out of control, shock waves going right through the core of my body and under the skin of my scalp as wave after wave of relief flooded over me, and then Tom threw back his head, roaring his release as his hips jerked repeatedly and he shot his load.
Tom sat across the breakfast bar from me. He sipped the rich black Colombian coffee I had made us, his fingertips running against mine as he eyed me over his cup. He smiled as he put the cup down and lifted my fingers to his lips.
“You looked incredible,” he whispered, kissing my fingertips. It was an extremely intimate moment; he was looking at me with possessiveness and something akin to awe.
“So did you,” I replied and I meant it; I was overwhelmed by my lover. Richard had long since left us, but the images he had given us of each other would be with us for a very long time.
“Do you think we’ll ever see him again?”
“Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe not. Would it bother you if we did?”
I gave it some thought. I pictured us casually speaking to him in the office, the way we used to, but this time the three of us would be looking at each other and knowing what had gone on. The idea of it made my pulse quicken again.
“No, not in the least.” I liked the idea. I smiled at Tom. Not only had we seen each other anew, but Tom and I had become part of Richard’s secret, part of Richard’s darkest secret.
Performance Art
OSCAR WILLIAMS
You’re so proud of them, and I don’t blame you. They’re lovely, large on your frame but perfectly proportioned. Double-Ds, and all natural, you brag in the online profile you use to scout for potential partners. You’re only five-three, perhaps 110 pounds, so I suspect no one believes you—but I know you’re telling the truth, and calling them double-Ds is, in a way, being conservative. They strain against your bras, stretching the cups, showing curvaceous and enticing through the tight sweaters you wear. You love that men look at them. It’s like you can feel their energy, radiating from their eyes, caressing your tits, unbuttoning your top, unhitching your bra, untying your bikini top, lifting your sweater over your head, revealing them. It’s as if you can feel a man’s gaze undressing you, devouring your tits. When you know a man is checking them out it’s like he’s stroking your nipples with his eyes, whether we’re sitting in a restaurant, lounging on the beach, dancing at a club, or just walking down the street. And you invite it. You encourage it, because you love the attention. You wear revealing tops and go without a bra when you really
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