At the Tearoom
- 2 years ago
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From Tearoom To Bedroom free porn video
I had done the teaching, now maybe it was time for me to be the student again…
I was having ridiculous thoughts about her, another sign that Korea was turning me into a sex addict. I respected this woman too much to go in there with only sex on my mind. She was the best professor I ever had, the smartest woman I knew. I loved her quirky style—the way she zipped around the classroom with a fierce attitude, how she dressed with colorful socks under sandals. The fact that she was a Korean woman who became a French professor in America made her an anomaly.
I hadn’t seen her in five years. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, we realized we were in the same country, less than an hour apart by the subway lines, thus a few messages turned into me walking around the Yongsan neighborhood, searching for the tearoom she had told me about, trying to tell myself to stop thinking about sex.
Before Korea, I never would have imagined myself sleeping with a professor. But now that my sex life had exploded wide open, I was beginning to believe I could encounter sex anywhere, anytime. All I had to do was manifest it with my mind. An instinct in me wanted that to happen with Ms. Yi, because I was in awe of her. She had given me so much; it was only right that I gave my love back, right? And the idea of sleeping with a professor, an older woman—how could I resist the thought? If there was an older woman out there for me, she was the one. Besides her sophistication and quirks, she was incredibly beautiful. Throughout my time as a student I had always thought she was a relatively new professor, in her early thirties. Years later I learned she was actually in her mid-fifties!
I couldn’t be that surprised by her age. Asian women age slowly, or not at all. A woman in her mid-thirties can sometimes trick a foreigner into thinking she’s a teenager. In adulthood, their bodies always hold onto a youthful spirit as they gain their elegance. Even into their late sixties, their hair barely starts to gray. It probably wouldn’t be with Ms. Yi, but at some point, before I left the country, I had to experience being in bed with one of these women.
The teashop she had picked for us to meet in fit her personality well. It was a small, quaint place with no one else in it except the woman behind the counter. I went up the stairs to a loft, where Ms. Yi and I sat on floor cushions and calmly reacquainted ourselves. She was still beautiful, though maybe a bit more tired looking. She remained leaned back on one arm as we drank our tea. I wanted to ask why she had returned to Korea and how long she’d be in town, but I was afraid that would open up a topic about some recent drama in her life that she wouldn’t want to talk about. So we kept the conversation simple.
When it was time for the shop to close, the woman who owned it shouted up to Ms. Yi, and she shouted a few sentences back, then the woman left us alone in the shop. The two women were longtime friends, and Ms. Yi could close up the shop with her own key. Knowing we could be alone in the loft perked my curiosities about what we could talk about, but within a few minutes, she was ready to leave. She told me if I ever wanted to talk again, I could find her there. She’d be having evening tea and “doing some critical life planning” almost every Friday.
I took her up on that and dropped by the next week. We chatted so easily, about academics and books we both liked, that Friday night became a regular meeting time for us. Sometimes we were interrupted by one of the many friends Ms. Yi could bump into around this part of town. After an hour I would ask if she wanted me to leave, so that she could have the alone time that she originally came to the teashop for, but she smiled and shook her head. She lived on the same block and could get into the teashop whenever she wanted. The owner of the shop was like a sister to her, and the loft an extension of her bedroom. She even came in the middle of the night sometimes, for long writing sessions, and she often fell asleep on that cushion.
If the teashop was an extension of her bedroom, the cafe across the street was her kitchen; and the bathhouse down the street was her luxurious bathroom and front porch. She wandered freely between these places as if the entire block was one big apartment for her. A few times I found her in the loft wearing sweat pants and a silk shirt with intricate flower designs, a nighttime outfit that blended the modern Western and traditional Eastern cultures. Her hair would still be wet, her skin showing an oily residue from the massage she had just received. For her to walk around town like this was wildly rebellious behavior. That was Ms. Yi—bold and carefree.
But when we were conversing, that wild nature was gone. I had seen this woman give the loudest, most passionate lectures of my college experience. She once told a frat guy in the midst of her class that he was an idiot for having to cheat on her tests. And when he asked what the punishment would be, she said laughed and said, “I know plenty of freshmen cheat on my tests. Do you think I really care? You’re freshmen. I don’t care what any of you do.” She had thrown chalk at sleeping students. She was known for making brash comments about her colleagues, even the dean. Despite her small frame, she had packed the hardest punch of any professor on that campus.
Now I was sipping tea with her in her home country, and she was worn out every time we met. She hardly ever pressed the conversation along. The silence seemed to be all she wanted. For a short moment our conversation turned personal, when she asked if I had a girlfriend. I said, “Of course not,” as if she was supposed to know that I wanted her. But she didn’t react. I jokingly asked her if she had a boyfriend. She shook her head. “Husband?” She shook her head. “Men taking you out constantly?” She groaned while shaking her head. She didn’t like these questions.
“No,” she said. “I am too old for another man.” She locked her mouth onto the cup of tea for a moment.
I wanted to press the issue further, maybe even begin to make my move, as we were alone after hours again, but she wouldn’t even look at me. She immediately thought of some other question and stirred us away from talking about her. We wrapped up our conversation on a sour note. I was shocked by her pessimism about herself. I had heard that Korean culture was harsh for a divorced woman, or any mature woman not in a committed relationship. But I never would have believed Ms. Yi could be affected by it.
Something was definitely bubbling up between us, and she was conflicted about it. Maybe I was supposed to be taking a break from meeting up with her in the teashop, give her some weeks to think. But I didn’t get Korea to blow my sex life wide open by doing what I was supposed to do.
Instead, I let myself drift toward her side of the city at a better time. I suggested to my pal Mark that we try out some new bars for our Friday night ventures. He told me to pick a spot, and I pretended to lead us somewhere spontaneously, so we could wander down to Yongsan and catch a glimpse of the teashop late at night. I was hoping she would be there, in the middle of another late night writing session. She wasn’t. I only saw abyss behind the glass. And it wouldn’t have mattered if she was there. I couldn’t bring Mark in there with me.
We drank in a small pub with only a few people there, and we all exaggerated how merry we were, especially me. After a couple of drinks, when Mark had sufficiently fell in with a few Koreans who could speak with him, I snuck out of the bar and walked by that familiar road again.
It was well past one o’clock by then. What could I possibly be hoping for?
I didn’t know. But a dim light was glowing back there.
My eyes widened. Ms. Yi was a true night owl, like me. This was good. We would both be in our prime energy levels. Nothing could possibly go wrong. That’s what I told myself as I popped two mints into my mouth and stared at the light. I touched the door handle and slid it open just enough to ensure it wasn’t locked. She had probably left it unlocked in hopes that I would come by. No—that was a ridiculous thought. She was too carefree. Korea wasn’t a place where people had to lock themselves up everywhere they went. She was going to be freaked out if I appeared in there at this hour.
Those were the last thoughts I allowed myself to have. I deliberately cleared my mind and silently whipped the door open. My steps on the wooden staircase warned her, and when my head surfaced in the loft, she had a glare waiting for me. All she could manage to say was, “Tim!”
I gave her the widest smile possible, which neutralized her standoff posture, then sat down close to her and said I had come for a cup of tea. She argued with me, saying the shop was closed and I had no business being around here late. I didn’t flinch or worry in the slightest, only repeated that I only wanted a late night cup of tea and asked that she get it for me since she knew where everything was downstairs.
She relented and went downstairs, leaving both of us to think about what to say and how to play out this encounter. When she returned with the cup of tea, she made it clear that she didn’t want to play. “You can drink this quickly. Then you go.”
“No,” I said softly.
“I cannot talk now. I am busy.”
“Okay. I don’t want to talk anyways. Do your writing.”
She scrutinized my face. “You’re going to just sit there while I’m writing?”
“Yes. I want to watch you working.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
She stared at me a moment, then gave up arguing and eased back into writing with her pencil and stack of papers. I leaned back and did as I promised. It was easy to sit and stare at her. She had a gorgeous, fluffy head hair and glowing skin. I wanted more than anything to see all of her skin lit up by the tiny lamp. But I couldn’t budge. For a woman like this, I had to display my own mature patience. We had to sit in silence long enough for her to adjust, to feel that I wasn’t with her in the teashop so much as I was with her in the extension of her bedroom. Eventually the tension eased in her shoulders, and her pen picked up pace. As we delved into this night together, we forgot how odd it was that I had bumped into her in the middle of the night, on the other side of the world from where we had met. We were simply two people in a bedroom, available to each other for whatever the other needed.
Long after I had finished my tea and set the cup aside, she finally spoke. “I can’t believe you would sit there and watch me write.” She kept looking down, but I could see her smiling.
“I would watch you do anything.”
She smiled more, but shook her head, still in disbelief.
I moved away from the table, into a comfy chair, where I towered above her place on the floor, where she didn’t seem so much like my older professor but rather a young woman aching for admiration. She turned to face me. Her mouth moved, but I shushed her immediately. “We’re not going to talk about it,” I whispered. Talking was getting us nowhere. We had to communicate through silent facial expressions and a bodily rhythm, one she seemed to be far out of touch with, but she was getting back to it.
I sat back and kept glaring at her. She stared off at the lamp and the wall, thinking of her choices—either kick me out or move us forward. She kneeled, sitting on her calves, and began tugging absentmindedly at the hem of her shirt. I could envision her as a much younger woman that way, as she gave her clothes little tugs and smiled at me slightly. I smiled back. My heart rate picked up. She tugged at the drawstring to her sweatpants. I nodded my approval, and with that she slowly let herself pull the tie undone. She loosened the waistband and slipped both hands under, looked at me, then moved her hands further in. She did the same under her shirt, lifting it slightly to show off her belly, swooping hands across her breasts and neck. How I wanted my own hands under that shirt…
She took off the sweatpants, inch by inch. When her legs were fully revealed, she sat cross-legged and graced her fingers across her thighs, squeezed her squishy little knees. Her shirt came off, unveiling her taught skin and plump breasts. A smoky, flowery fragrance drifted off her and turned up my heart rate. I watched her, blood searing, as she gained the confidence to get on her knees and rub her body seductively. She made sultry faces, blew me one kiss, winked, swayed her hips. With each motion she tried out, a bulge grew in my pants to encourage her further, until she was standing in front of me. Her body was incredible—totally unfair to other women her age. No, it was unfair to any woman.
My dick was rock hard, but when she moved in to touch it, I lightly pressed back on her. I hooked one finger under her panties and inched them down, to signal that I wanted a complete show. She obliged, slipped the garment off and stood still a moment, for me to be in awe of her. Then she sat on the end of the table where she had been writing, leaning back on one hand and using the other to cover her vulva. She spread her legs and pressed down, moved her hand in circles. She let a finger slip in, extracted a heavy drop of fluid, and spread it around her clit. She repeated that a few times more, then flicked her sweet spot rapidly. Her panting increased. I was so aroused, I could feel my own fluids oozing into my underwear.
I moved in on her. We set everything on the table aside, and I pressed on her shoulders to get her lying on the table. My hands spread across her skin. I went onto my knees and dove my tongue right into her slit. With that, she let out a whimper. I pressed my tongue hard into her, brought more fluid onto her clit and licked around it entirely. Her hands swirled around on my head and pressed my face firmly into her vulva. We locked arms, and I began a pulsating sucking with my lips on her, which sent her into bliss. She let out a loud moan, then hushed herself and breathed deeply.
She raised up on the table, with her hair a bit messy from her hands going into a fit. She looked cute, and sexy as hell with her naked body next to me fully clothed. But she didn’t let me stay that way. She pulled on my pants, getting me to stand up, threw my belt into the corner, and freed my cock. It flung out and almost hit her in the face. She wrapped as much of her small mouth around it as she could, able to take it halfway. While sucking on me, she pulled my pants completely down. I took off my shirt. Nothing remained on either of us except her silver necklace.
The warmth and silk of her lips put my head in a trance. The sensation was so overwhelming that I almost lost my balance.
I pulled out of her mouth and we locked eyes another moment, both staring with lust. I pushed her back onto the table. It was just low enough for me to get on my knees and push my cock into her slit, with her ass hanging off the edge of the table. I thrust into her, a bit off balance, and we both moaned out in pure ecstasy. Her hands scratched against my chest. I hovered over her, gathered up her hair and pulled hard. She loved that sensation and moaned louder in response.
The table was too awkward of a position, so I lifted her up by the ass and neck, and we fell onto the floor cushion. I pressed my body fully into hers and hammered into her. She was a small woman, but—damn—she could take a dick. She was breathing so fast I thought she might pass out, but when I let up a bit, she grabbed my hips and encouraged me to keep thrusting. She threw her head back into the cushion, exposing her neck to me, and a primal instinct drove me to bite her, which she also loved.
I could feel the contractions, her pussy tightening up, as did her grip on my ass. She brought her legs up and dug heels into the backs of my thighs. Hot fluid gushed from both of us. As she approached her peak, she put a hand between us and pressed firmly on her clit. Her panting sped up and culminated into one long, orgasmic moan.
That sent me over the edge so fast that I couldn’t bring myself to pull out. I let my built up load shoot as deeply into her as possible. It sent a hot sensation through my shaft and into my balls—one of the most intense orgasms I ever felt. The sensation spread up to the tip of my dick, and I thought I was in heaven. Normally I was a silent lover, but this drove me to groan with her, from deep within my chest. And still, I felt another two ropes of cum shoot out of my dick.
When my balls were finally unloaded, I pulled out, taking care not to drip our creamy fluid on the cushion. I wiped my dick on her thigh and waited for it to go soft, but to my amazement it stayed hard. This had never happened to me before. I didn’t even know this was possible for me. I could feel the post-orgasm fatigue, but it rolled in slowly. She remained lying down, legs still spread, and I took the opportunity to re-enter her for some encore fucking. I lasted another moment, then felt myself slowly deflating. I tried desperately to keep myself steaming forth; she did the same as she moved her hips with me and grasped at me with lost hands. I thought maybe I could power through and come back around to my second round so fast that there wouldn’t really be a lull in our fucking. But I couldn’t fight the fatigue. My dick recoiled. The squeamishness swelled.
I had to pull out and calm down, smelling our sweat and seeing it glisten on her body. We both sighed fully and resigned ourselves to waiting a while before we could go again.
I was having ridiculous thoughts about her, another sign that Korea was turning me into a sex addict. I respected this woman too much to go in there with only sex on my mind. She was the best professor I ever had, the smartest woman I knew. I loved her quirky style—the way she zipped around the classroom with a fierce attitude, how she dressed with colorful socks under sandals. The fact that she was a Korean woman who became a French professor in America made her an anomaly.
I hadn’t seen her in five years. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, we realized we were in the same country, less than an hour apart by the subway lines, thus a few messages turned into me walking around the Yongsan neighborhood, searching for the tearoom she had told me about, trying to tell myself to stop thinking about sex.
Before Korea, I never would have imagined myself sleeping with a professor. But now that my sex life had exploded wide open, I was beginning to believe I could encounter sex anywhere, anytime. All I had to do was manifest it with my mind. An instinct in me wanted that to happen with Ms. Yi, because I was in awe of her. She had given me so much; it was only right that I gave my love back, right? And the idea of sleeping with a professor, an older woman—how could I resist the thought? If there was an older woman out there for me, she was the one. Besides her sophistication and quirks, she was incredibly beautiful. Throughout my time as a student I had always thought she was a relatively new professor, in her early thirties. Years later I learned she was actually in her mid-fifties!
I couldn’t be that surprised by her age. Asian women age slowly, or not at all. A woman in her mid-thirties can sometimes trick a foreigner into thinking she’s a teenager. In adulthood, their bodies always hold onto a youthful spirit as they gain their elegance. Even into their late sixties, their hair barely starts to gray. It probably wouldn’t be with Ms. Yi, but at some point, before I left the country, I had to experience being in bed with one of these women.
The teashop she had picked for us to meet in fit her personality well. It was a small, quaint place with no one else in it except the woman behind the counter. I went up the stairs to a loft, where Ms. Yi and I sat on floor cushions and calmly reacquainted ourselves. She was still beautiful, though maybe a bit more tired looking. She remained leaned back on one arm as we drank our tea. I wanted to ask why she had returned to Korea and how long she’d be in town, but I was afraid that would open up a topic about some recent drama in her life that she wouldn’t want to talk about. So we kept the conversation simple.
When it was time for the shop to close, the woman who owned it shouted up to Ms. Yi, and she shouted a few sentences back, then the woman left us alone in the shop. The two women were longtime friends, and Ms. Yi could close up the shop with her own key. Knowing we could be alone in the loft perked my curiosities about what we could talk about, but within a few minutes, she was ready to leave. She told me if I ever wanted to talk again, I could find her there. She’d be having evening tea and “doing some critical life planning” almost every Friday.
I took her up on that and dropped by the next week. We chatted so easily, about academics and books we both liked, that Friday night became a regular meeting time for us. Sometimes we were interrupted by one of the many friends Ms. Yi could bump into around this part of town. After an hour I would ask if she wanted me to leave, so that she could have the alone time that she originally came to the teashop for, but she smiled and shook her head. She lived on the same block and could get into the teashop whenever she wanted. The owner of the shop was like a sister to her, and the loft an extension of her bedroom. She even came in the middle of the night sometimes, for long writing sessions, and she often fell asleep on that cushion.
If the teashop was an extension of her bedroom, the cafe across the street was her kitchen; and the bathhouse down the street was her luxurious bathroom and front porch. She wandered freely between these places as if the entire block was one big apartment for her. A few times I found her in the loft wearing sweat pants and a silk shirt with intricate flower designs, a nighttime outfit that blended the modern Western and traditional Eastern cultures. Her hair would still be wet, her skin showing an oily residue from the massage she had just received. For her to walk around town like this was wildly rebellious behavior. That was Ms. Yi—bold and carefree.
But when we were conversing, that wild nature was gone. I had seen this woman give the loudest, most passionate lectures of my college experience. She once told a frat guy in the midst of her class that he was an idiot for having to cheat on her tests. And when he asked what the punishment would be, she said laughed and said, “I know plenty of freshmen cheat on my tests. Do you think I really care? You’re freshmen. I don’t care what any of you do.” She had thrown chalk at sleeping students. She was known for making brash comments about her colleagues, even the dean. Despite her small frame, she had packed the hardest punch of any professor on that campus.
Now I was sipping tea with her in her home country, and she was worn out every time we met. She hardly ever pressed the conversation along. The silence seemed to be all she wanted. For a short moment our conversation turned personal, when she asked if I had a girlfriend. I said, “Of course not,” as if she was supposed to know that I wanted her. But she didn’t react. I jokingly asked her if she had a boyfriend. She shook her head. “Husband?” She shook her head. “Men taking you out constantly?” She groaned while shaking her head. She didn’t like these questions.
“No,” she said. “I am too old for another man.” She locked her mouth onto the cup of tea for a moment.
I wanted to press the issue further, maybe even begin to make my move, as we were alone after hours again, but she wouldn’t even look at me. She immediately thought of some other question and stirred us away from talking about her. We wrapped up our conversation on a sour note. I was shocked by her pessimism about herself. I had heard that Korean culture was harsh for a divorced woman, or any mature woman not in a committed relationship. But I never would have believed Ms. Yi could be affected by it.
Something was definitely bubbling up between us, and she was conflicted about it. Maybe I was supposed to be taking a break from meeting up with her in the teashop, give her some weeks to think. But I didn’t get Korea to blow my sex life wide open by doing what I was supposed to do.
Instead, I let myself drift toward her side of the city at a better time. I suggested to my pal Mark that we try out some new bars for our Friday night ventures. He told me to pick a spot, and I pretended to lead us somewhere spontaneously, so we could wander down to Yongsan and catch a glimpse of the teashop late at night. I was hoping she would be there, in the middle of another late night writing session. She wasn’t. I only saw abyss behind the glass. And it wouldn’t have mattered if she was there. I couldn’t bring Mark in there with me.
We drank in a small pub with only a few people there, and we all exaggerated how merry we were, especially me. After a couple of drinks, when Mark had sufficiently fell in with a few Koreans who could speak with him, I snuck out of the bar and walked by that familiar road again.
It was well past one o’clock by then. What could I possibly be hoping for?
I didn’t know. But a dim light was glowing back there.
My eyes widened. Ms. Yi was a true night owl, like me. This was good. We would both be in our prime energy levels. Nothing could possibly go wrong. That’s what I told myself as I popped two mints into my mouth and stared at the light. I touched the door handle and slid it open just enough to ensure it wasn’t locked. She had probably left it unlocked in hopes that I would come by. No—that was a ridiculous thought. She was too carefree. Korea wasn’t a place where people had to lock themselves up everywhere they went. She was going to be freaked out if I appeared in there at this hour.
Those were the last thoughts I allowed myself to have. I deliberately cleared my mind and silently whipped the door open. My steps on the wooden staircase warned her, and when my head surfaced in the loft, she had a glare waiting for me. All she could manage to say was, “Tim!”
I gave her the widest smile possible, which neutralized her standoff posture, then sat down close to her and said I had come for a cup of tea. She argued with me, saying the shop was closed and I had no business being around here late. I didn’t flinch or worry in the slightest, only repeated that I only wanted a late night cup of tea and asked that she get it for me since she knew where everything was downstairs.
She relented and went downstairs, leaving both of us to think about what to say and how to play out this encounter. When she returned with the cup of tea, she made it clear that she didn’t want to play. “You can drink this quickly. Then you go.”
“No,” I said softly.
“I cannot talk now. I am busy.”
“Okay. I don’t want to talk anyways. Do your writing.”
She scrutinized my face. “You’re going to just sit there while I’m writing?”
“Yes. I want to watch you working.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
She stared at me a moment, then gave up arguing and eased back into writing with her pencil and stack of papers. I leaned back and did as I promised. It was easy to sit and stare at her. She had a gorgeous, fluffy head hair and glowing skin. I wanted more than anything to see all of her skin lit up by the tiny lamp. But I couldn’t budge. For a woman like this, I had to display my own mature patience. We had to sit in silence long enough for her to adjust, to feel that I wasn’t with her in the teashop so much as I was with her in the extension of her bedroom. Eventually the tension eased in her shoulders, and her pen picked up pace. As we delved into this night together, we forgot how odd it was that I had bumped into her in the middle of the night, on the other side of the world from where we had met. We were simply two people in a bedroom, available to each other for whatever the other needed.
Long after I had finished my tea and set the cup aside, she finally spoke. “I can’t believe you would sit there and watch me write.” She kept looking down, but I could see her smiling.
“I would watch you do anything.”
She smiled more, but shook her head, still in disbelief.
I moved away from the table, into a comfy chair, where I towered above her place on the floor, where she didn’t seem so much like my older professor but rather a young woman aching for admiration. She turned to face me. Her mouth moved, but I shushed her immediately. “We’re not going to talk about it,” I whispered. Talking was getting us nowhere. We had to communicate through silent facial expressions and a bodily rhythm, one she seemed to be far out of touch with, but she was getting back to it.
I sat back and kept glaring at her. She stared off at the lamp and the wall, thinking of her choices—either kick me out or move us forward. She kneeled, sitting on her calves, and began tugging absentmindedly at the hem of her shirt. I could envision her as a much younger woman that way, as she gave her clothes little tugs and smiled at me slightly. I smiled back. My heart rate picked up. She tugged at the drawstring to her sweatpants. I nodded my approval, and with that she slowly let herself pull the tie undone. She loosened the waistband and slipped both hands under, looked at me, then moved her hands further in. She did the same under her shirt, lifting it slightly to show off her belly, swooping hands across her breasts and neck. How I wanted my own hands under that shirt…
She took off the sweatpants, inch by inch. When her legs were fully revealed, she sat cross-legged and graced her fingers across her thighs, squeezed her squishy little knees. Her shirt came off, unveiling her taught skin and plump breasts. A smoky, flowery fragrance drifted off her and turned up my heart rate. I watched her, blood searing, as she gained the confidence to get on her knees and rub her body seductively. She made sultry faces, blew me one kiss, winked, swayed her hips. With each motion she tried out, a bulge grew in my pants to encourage her further, until she was standing in front of me. Her body was incredible—totally unfair to other women her age. No, it was unfair to any woman.
My dick was rock hard, but when she moved in to touch it, I lightly pressed back on her. I hooked one finger under her panties and inched them down, to signal that I wanted a complete show. She obliged, slipped the garment off and stood still a moment, for me to be in awe of her. Then she sat on the end of the table where she had been writing, leaning back on one hand and using the other to cover her vulva. She spread her legs and pressed down, moved her hand in circles. She let a finger slip in, extracted a heavy drop of fluid, and spread it around her clit. She repeated that a few times more, then flicked her sweet spot rapidly. Her panting increased. I was so aroused, I could feel my own fluids oozing into my underwear.
I moved in on her. We set everything on the table aside, and I pressed on her shoulders to get her lying on the table. My hands spread across her skin. I went onto my knees and dove my tongue right into her slit. With that, she let out a whimper. I pressed my tongue hard into her, brought more fluid onto her clit and licked around it entirely. Her hands swirled around on my head and pressed my face firmly into her vulva. We locked arms, and I began a pulsating sucking with my lips on her, which sent her into bliss. She let out a loud moan, then hushed herself and breathed deeply.
She raised up on the table, with her hair a bit messy from her hands going into a fit. She looked cute, and sexy as hell with her naked body next to me fully clothed. But she didn’t let me stay that way. She pulled on my pants, getting me to stand up, threw my belt into the corner, and freed my cock. It flung out and almost hit her in the face. She wrapped as much of her small mouth around it as she could, able to take it halfway. While sucking on me, she pulled my pants completely down. I took off my shirt. Nothing remained on either of us except her silver necklace.
The warmth and silk of her lips put my head in a trance. The sensation was so overwhelming that I almost lost my balance.
I pulled out of her mouth and we locked eyes another moment, both staring with lust. I pushed her back onto the table. It was just low enough for me to get on my knees and push my cock into her slit, with her ass hanging off the edge of the table. I thrust into her, a bit off balance, and we both moaned out in pure ecstasy. Her hands scratched against my chest. I hovered over her, gathered up her hair and pulled hard. She loved that sensation and moaned louder in response.
The table was too awkward of a position, so I lifted her up by the ass and neck, and we fell onto the floor cushion. I pressed my body fully into hers and hammered into her. She was a small woman, but—damn—she could take a dick. She was breathing so fast I thought she might pass out, but when I let up a bit, she grabbed my hips and encouraged me to keep thrusting. She threw her head back into the cushion, exposing her neck to me, and a primal instinct drove me to bite her, which she also loved.
I could feel the contractions, her pussy tightening up, as did her grip on my ass. She brought her legs up and dug heels into the backs of my thighs. Hot fluid gushed from both of us. As she approached her peak, she put a hand between us and pressed firmly on her clit. Her panting sped up and culminated into one long, orgasmic moan.
That sent me over the edge so fast that I couldn’t bring myself to pull out. I let my built up load shoot as deeply into her as possible. It sent a hot sensation through my shaft and into my balls—one of the most intense orgasms I ever felt. The sensation spread up to the tip of my dick, and I thought I was in heaven. Normally I was a silent lover, but this drove me to groan with her, from deep within my chest. And still, I felt another two ropes of cum shoot out of my dick.
When my balls were finally unloaded, I pulled out, taking care not to drip our creamy fluid on the cushion. I wiped my dick on her thigh and waited for it to go soft, but to my amazement it stayed hard. This had never happened to me before. I didn’t even know this was possible for me. I could feel the post-orgasm fatigue, but it rolled in slowly. She remained lying down, legs still spread, and I took the opportunity to re-enter her for some encore fucking. I lasted another moment, then felt myself slowly deflating. I tried desperately to keep myself steaming forth; she did the same as she moved her hips with me and grasped at me with lost hands. I thought maybe I could power through and come back around to my second round so fast that there wouldn’t really be a lull in our fucking. But I couldn’t fight the fatigue. My dick recoiled. The squeamishness swelled.
I had to pull out and calm down, smelling our sweat and seeing it glisten on her body. We both sighed fully and resigned ourselves to waiting a while before we could go again.
Jayla
- 24.03.2021
- 10
- 0
- Category:
- Mature
