the expanse of her ass, rounded and smooth, pebbling delightfully under my touch. She moans against my mouth, working her fingers between the buttons of my shirt in pursuit of skin.
One button pops off, and then another. I pull back just enough to look down at her, her hair caught in the mortar, spread wild behind her head, her eyes hooded and mouth open, red and slick like the surface of an apple.
“What’s the magic word again?” It’s almost like I’m speaking with someone else’s voice, through someone else’s mouth, and I feel a smug sort of burn low in my stomach at her visible reaction: her shoulders sag, her back arches, and her bottom lip pooches out with a quiver.
“Please?” Her voice is higher out here, her eyes gone wide and dark and wanting. I smile and kiss her again, taking my hands from her ass to help her unbutton my shirt so that she doesn’t further destroy it.
She makes a disappointed noise when her fingers find more fabric—the smooth cotton of my undershirt—and I shake my head with a tut of my tongue against teeth. My fingers go back under the hem of her dress and find the thin line of her panties, following the band to the front where it just barely covers her cunt, warm and wet even through the fabric. I cup my hand there. For all my awkwardness, I know this treasure hunt, and perhaps she’s surprised, her head grinding back against the brick with another sudden whine, her hips jumping forward at my touch.
“What’s the magic word again?” I ask, not stirring in my handle there, even as I can feel her leaking out against my finger nearest her slit. I have no idea where this sudden authoritative tone is coming from, but I like the sound of it, the feel of it, the way it courses through my body like a wave.
She wiggles, arches again, fingers grappling at the front of my shirt, just over my breasts. Her fingers brush my aching nipples, but I flatten my hand on her pussy again, pressing the heel over her clit.
“What is it?” I insist, and though I don’t know if I would be able to pull away should she refuse to plead, I want to think I’m capable, that I could turn and walk away with a swagger, shirt hanging open to the waist.
“P-please,” she lets out. It’s clear that she simply wasn’t able to say it, and that pleases me, perhaps, more than it should.
From that angle, I can slip my finger around the lace edge of her panties and sink it inside her. She’s soaked. Her cunt clinches my finger instantly, and she moans out loud, the sound ricocheting off the brick walls around us. Someone could pass us, I know this, and the real danger is being caught by the cops that patrol this area of town, but I’m drunk on the power that I suddenly have, and the way this girl feels under me, pushing against me eagerly, in a way that is surprising and familiar at once.
My thumb hits her clit just under the wet panel of her panties and she groans again, turning her head to the side to grind her chin and cheek against her shoulder in a desperate motion to maintain some kind of control. Her lower half, though, has no such compunctions, and she’s rocking her pelvis back and forth to fuck my hand back. Her pussy is so wet, juices drip down over my wrists.
She digs her own hand into her hair, and I push my free one up over her taut stomach to a quivering breast. It’s an easy motion to tug the dress down, exposing one dark nipple for my fingers to pluck and twist. She only barely manages to shove her hand against her mouth against her cry, but it’s sharp, and needy, and I feel my own clit throb in response, blood burning in my veins.
She comes with a hard grunt—a scream against her palm—and bucks against my hand. My fingers are soaked, thumb pressed hard to her clit, and I keep my fingers inside her to feel her pulse around me, rhythmic, like dancing.
I catch her at the small of her back when she goes boneless, eyes rolling back in her head. My body shields her from anyone who
One button pops off, and then another. I pull back just enough to look down at her, her hair caught in the mortar, spread wild behind her head, her eyes hooded and mouth open, red and slick like the surface of an apple.
“What’s the magic word again?” It’s almost like I’m speaking with someone else’s voice, through someone else’s mouth, and I feel a smug sort of burn low in my stomach at her visible reaction: her shoulders sag, her back arches, and her bottom lip pooches out with a quiver.
“Please?” Her voice is higher out here, her eyes gone wide and dark and wanting. I smile and kiss her again, taking my hands from her ass to help her unbutton my shirt so that she doesn’t further destroy it.
She makes a disappointed noise when her fingers find more fabric—the smooth cotton of my undershirt—and I shake my head with a tut of my tongue against teeth. My fingers go back under the hem of her dress and find the thin line of her panties, following the band to the front where it just barely covers her cunt, warm and wet even through the fabric. I cup my hand there. For all my awkwardness, I know this treasure hunt, and perhaps she’s surprised, her head grinding back against the brick with another sudden whine, her hips jumping forward at my touch.
“What’s the magic word again?” I ask, not stirring in my handle there, even as I can feel her leaking out against my finger nearest her slit. I have no idea where this sudden authoritative tone is coming from, but I like the sound of it, the feel of it, the way it courses through my body like a wave.
She wiggles, arches again, fingers grappling at the front of my shirt, just over my breasts. Her fingers brush my aching nipples, but I flatten my hand on her pussy again, pressing the heel over her clit.
“What is it?” I insist, and though I don’t know if I would be able to pull away should she refuse to plead, I want to think I’m capable, that I could turn and walk away with a swagger, shirt hanging open to the waist.
“P-please,” she lets out. It’s clear that she simply wasn’t able to say it, and that pleases me, perhaps, more than it should.
From that angle, I can slip my finger around the lace edge of her panties and sink it inside her. She’s soaked. Her cunt clinches my finger instantly, and she moans out loud, the sound ricocheting off the brick walls around us. Someone could pass us, I know this, and the real danger is being caught by the cops that patrol this area of town, but I’m drunk on the power that I suddenly have, and the way this girl feels under me, pushing against me eagerly, in a way that is surprising and familiar at once.
My thumb hits her clit just under the wet panel of her panties and she groans again, turning her head to the side to grind her chin and cheek against her shoulder in a desperate motion to maintain some kind of control. Her lower half, though, has no such compunctions, and she’s rocking her pelvis back and forth to fuck my hand back. Her pussy is so wet, juices drip down over my wrists.
She digs her own hand into her hair, and I push my free one up over her taut stomach to a quivering breast. It’s an easy motion to tug the dress down, exposing one dark nipple for my fingers to pluck and twist. She only barely manages to shove her hand against her mouth against her cry, but it’s sharp, and needy, and I feel my own clit throb in response, blood burning in my veins.
She comes with a hard grunt—a scream against her palm—and bucks against my hand. My fingers are soaked, thumb pressed hard to her clit, and I keep my fingers inside her to feel her pulse around me, rhythmic, like dancing.
I catch her at the small of her back when she goes boneless, eyes rolling back in her head. My body shields her from anyone who
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