They had a lace panel at the front, demure broderie anglaise, but it was the only demure thing about them. A black coat of paint on her fabulous arse, they were short shorts with a satin waistband and virtually no leg at all. Paired with a snug black and white striped top, and with her red lips blazing under those sea-blue eyes, she looked amazing, the equal of any of the primped and preened who graced the pages of the magazines strewn on the coffee table.
A selection of design department titles that find their way into estate agents bumf and stock photos – Vogue Interiors, Flaunt, Billboard Magazine – they did not seem to fit the effervescent Whitley. I mean, this outfit? She’d just actually said the words ‘I’m going to slip into something more comfortable’ and come back dressed like a sex-mime. This stray thought made me reflect that she was highly unlikely to be a mute participant.
Embarrassed by these unbidden thoughts I glanced down. Even fucking Don Draper was judging me, looking up at me from Billboard, frowning over a glass of whisky. Fucker.
Grace came back with a tray of coffee and biscuits. She walked in front of me and bent from the waist to lay down the tray. Her backside was exquisite, cheeks slightly showing, seams digging in. Her cunt was snugged up in the fabric, plump as a fig. I heard a long, happy sigh. Looked up into her eyes, watching me.
‘I’m glad.’ She said. ‘Thought you didn’t notice me, was a bit shallow. Too young maybe?’
I stared at her open mouthed. And she just settled a bit on her hands, pushing her bum up some more, turned her head away from me.
‘You can look all you want.’
‘Can I, may I. May I touch?’
She made only noises, laying her head on the magazines, muffling herself. Under some kind of autopilot I stood. It was difficult to undo my suit trousers, so tight were they about my cock, but I got it free. I reached out and with my right thumb I peeled back the seam of her left leg.
There were prickles of hair under my thumbnail damp pink roses on soaking knickers slick wetness and depth. My thumb opened her up and my cock slid right in. It was rough and unceremonious, fast hard and frantic. She hung onto the coffee table and her face scraped about among the magazines as I fucked her, the paper tearing, shreds of it sticking to her drool-pasted face.
The coffee and things were scattered and shattered by the time I exploded and she fucked me back hard as I filled her, spasm after spasm.
A little later we parted, breathless and she hooked her gusset back with practiced ease. She observed the wreckage of the coffee and the screwed up face of Don Draper.
‘Something stronger?’ she asked, while a long stream of my come ran down her leg.