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We are in a poorly lit room and you have me up on a table of some sort with my skirt (I know) hiked up and my thong is nowhere to be found. You are driving two of your fingers inside of me because you are a selfish bitch and the sound of me begging for more gets you off. You couldn’t keep your hands off of me nor could you sit still and you excused us so you could find the first empty room, in this case a supply closet, so you could fuck me. Who was I to object?
My fingers are buried in your hair, my mouth is attached to your ear, and my legs are wrapped around your waist. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want you to take me. When I cum, and baby it is exquisite, bursa escort bayan my head and eyes roll back and I open my mouth in a silent scream; I can’t breathe. You’re too good to me sometimes and you work me hard through my orgasm then slowly cease your movements letting my muscles spasm around your fingers until their movements stop as well. You go to your knees in front of me and I shake my head.
“Sunshine, sunshine, sunshine..,” I repeat over and over until you stand back up, hushing me with a kiss.
“Isn’t that misuse of a safe word?” You ask bringing what appears to be my thong to your nose and inhaling my scent.
Watching gorukle escort you sniff my thong with an all too starved look in your eyes makes me squirm with aching need before I answer, “Yes but if you were to go down on me we would be in here for hours and your parents most likely know what we’re doing. We’ve been gone almost 20 minutes.”
Squinting your eyes at me, you stuff my thong into your pocket and exit the room leaving me by myself. I sigh heavily and slowly lower myself back to my feet and then out to the hall where I quickly find a bathroom to assess the damage. It appears to be minimal but my pussy says other wise and it takes bursa merkez escort bayan me a few minutes to effectively clean up the wett mess between my legs. Catching a last glimpse at myself in the mirror before heading out of the restroom I try to conceal the look on my face.
When I finally make it back to the table and back to your side I can tell by the look on your face and the death glare I am receiving from your mother the: I JUST GOT FUCKED!!! Written across my forehead is a blinking light display. The look on your sister’s face is comical as she tries not to laugh behind her knowing smile. Not knowing what else to do I ask your mother, “So that cake you made last week was absolutely scrumptious. Would you mind sharing the recipe?”
Your mother simply asks, “Are you fucking my daughter?”
I look to you but you are buried in the menu. And in my defense part of the reason why you love me are my witty come backs, “Nope just this one time.”
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