Lateshay And Eric Cum To An Arrangement free porn video

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a copyrighted work of fiction under my pen name Dean Denhomme. The inspiration—my muse if you will—for this vignette is the incomparable Lateshay. She can be found on x hamster under that name.

Now, before we begin my little fuck story, allow me a word or two about Lateshay. If you visit my site on x hamster, it is easy to see that I am a tit man. So, it should come as no surprise that she provides the physical template for my imaginary fuck buddy in the story that follows.

Frankly, if I don’t have access to one of my bed buddies for any given day, I jack off several times. This probably doesn’t surprise anyone on x-hamster. And I further admit that when it comes to watching big tittied girls I can easily get myself worked up—sexed up—to rock hard readiness.

However, here we come to the crux of the matter as it applies to Lateshay. As I’ve mentioned in an earlier blog, I play a little game by which I measure a woman’s sexual appeal. I turn on the video clip but do not touch myself. Any woman whose body can get me up and hard without my having to stroke it—well, she ranks very high on my boob meter.

Further, and by way of apology to Lateshay…the reason that it has taken me so long to finish this little vignette is that with each of the detailed sex scenes I, frankly, got worked up and jacked off to the fantasy. So, the attentive reader will be able to count the number of times I shot my load in the writing of this missive.

Yes, that’s what Lateshay’s tits and ass do to me…If you’re a man, I’m sure she will affect you in a similar manner…

Enjoy….

Eric and Lateshay Cum to an Arrangement: “Worth Every Fucking Penny.”

I stand at the wet bar of my condominium as I take periodic sips from a Waterford tumbler half filled with 1792 Ridgemont Reserve Kentucky Bourbon. I am talking on my cell phone, “Hey Max, just got your message. What’s up?”

There are half a dozen people whose phone calls and e-mails I feel the need to respond to in a prompt manner. Max is high up on that list.

I look across my well-appointed, richly decorated space high atop the Melmont Tower situated on Miami Beach. The glass wall affords a splendid view of the Atlantic Ocean, running from frothing cuticles breaking on the beach to aqua green and on to slate gray. Sail boats drift, their masts spiking the sky. A breeze wafts through the opened sliding doors that offer entry onto my spacious, private balcony.

On the balcony, displayed on a wide and deeply cushioned lounge chair, resting at a 45 degree angle is a bountifully bosomed, long legged, naked woman whose working name is Lateshay—pronounced La-tee-shay.

Yes, I too am naked. I smile. About five minutes or so ago, I had been vigorously fucking this splendid looking little vixen out on that very balcony. I had positioned her against the railing with her back to me, her ass aimed my way. I had slipped inside that seemingly always eager, always ready pussy and pumped away in pursuit of my pleasure. I had alternated between gripping her hips, kneading her ass cheeks, smacking those cheeks, reaching around to grope over and fondle and feel those heavy hanging hooters of hers all the while humping and pumping, bucking and fucking. And when I came, I rammed her rump good. Our bodies clapped loudly, her cheeks quaked and reddened with my exertions. She barked out her climax and urged me on, “Oh fuck yeah, baby, get what you need.”

Max is explaining a stock split from which I have apparently benefited. We spend a few minutes discussing where to place my profits. What Max has failed to grasp is that the accounts he manages for me are not intended to add to my riches, but rather their purpose is to assure a steady flow of pussy money.

Lateshay lifts up a bare leg. She sips a wine cooler, and turns a page of her novel. I have a full length view of her body. Her left tit wobbles and rolls a bit as she shifts on the lounger. My cock stirs.

A few months ago, Lateshay and I came to an agreement. Forgive the double entendre.

First, let me begin with a few details. My name is Eric Lasher and I am rich and I get to fuck big tittied women on a regular basis. I am 47 and in fairly good shape. I still have a full head of hair, even though it is now making its inevitable march toward salt and pepper. Since I sail my own boat, I sport a year round tan and with my blue eyes am usually regarded as—if not handsome—ruggedly attractive in a kind of Nordic, Scandinavian way.

Plus, I have a lot of money.

Forgive my vanity. But as I relate these events I must confess to the erstwhile reader that it is only within the last two years I have emerged from a seven year time of horror, humiliation and defeat. Yes, it was a period—the dark years--that included divorce, loss of a lucrative job and the end of a promising career with political prospects, my disbarment, indictment and a year and a half in jail while under investigation. It also resulted in abandonment by friends who I thought knew me—and, ultimately, rejection by my two c***dren.
Since then, and after much diligent effort, I have been cleared of all the ridiculous charges of embezzlement. Further, a year ago I was reinstated to the bar of my former state of residency. Although I never intend to practice law except for myself, this was a point of honor I was determined to pursue to completion.

Even though a number of my so called friends have attempted to resurrect our friendships, especially since I’ve become quite wealthy, I am in no mood at present to forgive. Even my ex-wife has made overtures at some kind of reconciliation—I am yet to return any of her phone calls or e-mails and am unlikely to do so any time in the near future—oh hell, I’m unlikely to do so ever, period! Can you say, bitch?

As for my c***dren—I’ve paid their college tuition for this year, bought each of them a late model car and sent them both on separate European vacations. We talk. But I am still hurt by their recriminations and their subsequent and way too eager, even clumsy, attempts at rapprochement with financial undertones. We’ll leave it at that.

Throughout my ordeal, I can count on one hand the friends who remained true. The day after I received notice from the Illinois State Bar Association that my disbarment had been reversed I met one of those loyal friends—Rudy Heinz—for a drink at Cal’s 400 Liquors on S. Wells.
“Rudy,” I told him, after my second Knob Creek, while waiting for my third, “I need to get out of Chicago, I need a fresh start.” Throughout the previous year I had talked about moving to Miami, threatening to assume that retro Sonny Crocket look.

“Eric,” Rudy had replied, sipping on his second Grey Goose martini, “You are rich, young—relatively so—I can’t blame you. This town has been hard on you old buddy, no doubt.”

He had slid a calling card along the bar, “This is the private number to my cousin Abe in Miami. He’s a fixer, and a damned good one. He’ll get you set up.”

As a result of the settlement agreement of my lawsuit that I had leveled against several entities I deemed responsible for my dark years, the first of five installments had been deposited in one of my accounts that very day. In and of itself, the settlement amounted to a modest fortune.

However, at the end of this murky period of exile and malaise, news arrived of the demise of an eccentric spinster aunt of mine. She had lived in a rattling, creaking farm house in downstate Illinois, surrounded by cornfields and cows. Amazingly, Aunt Dossy had amassed a fortune! She had shrewdly worked the small oil boom that came to southern Illinois during the late seventies and early eighties. Dossy had invested in coal companies, in power companies and a wide array of growth stocks. Yes, Aunt Dossy, who had a rotary phone until Ma Bell forced her to change, the same aunt who still had a black and white television set, had profited handsomely investing in and then--in a timely manner--divesting from Silicon Valley.

Her portfolio, cash accounts, her properties all resulted in an incredible amount of wealth. Further, she left it all to me! In a letter to her attorney, Dossy explained why I was the sole beneficiary named in her will. “Eric was the only one who showed me respect. He was the only one who kissed me on the cheek when we met and kissed me on the cheek when we parted.”
Go figure. Anyway, after the probate process, I found myself quite well off.

God bless Aunt Dossy.

Max is still talking. Something he does very well, by the way. On the balcony, Lateshay sits up and places her wine cooler on the floor of the balcony, beside the lounger. Her tits dangle, swing and sway. My cock goes hard.

I set down my glass of bourbon and give myself a few strokes. As a concession to Max, one of my more competent stock brokers, I say, “Okay Max, put half back into that mixed fund you recommended last week.” I only have about a tenth of my total value tied up in stocks and bonds. I prefer to protect the principle of my wealth. But the proceeds of my paper investments provide me with more than ample funds for living expenses—of which I count today’s romp with this big tittied woman.

However, as I leer at Lateshay’s body, anticipating all the pleasure I’m going to get from her today, jiggling those jugs, grabbing that ass, pumping that pussy, I remind myself I do have a pretty hefty tits and ass bill each month, and thus I need guys like Max to keep the money steadily flowing.
I have three other women in my stable: There is Teri, 21 years old, a cute, pixie-like brunette, barely standing 5’ but sporting a set of drooping, hopping flopping triple-D titties. In return for paying her college tuition, I get to bang her on a regular basis—one or two sessions a week.

Then, there is Mattie, a thirty-something lush bodied redhead. A party girl indeed—with double-E cup sized hanger banger honeys. I pay her rent, for which she is grateful to the tune of a nice afternoon of fucking once or twice a week.

Finally, there is Darlene, a 43 year old sex pro, with a set of Hindenburg hooters. She is in such demand that I only get to roll around and romp with her a couple of times a month. Usually, when are able to get naked together we spend a Saturday rocking my boat.

While I jack on my dick, half-heartedly listening to Max, I realize I don’t see the other three women, fuck the other three women, nearly as often as I do Lateshay. But then, while the other three are great fucks—they can’t really compare to the talent and touch of Lateshay. Of course, the cost of the other three together barely exceeds what it takes to keep Lateshay available to me.

Plus, there is also one of my semi-annual sex vacations coming up in a couple of months. This time I’ve booked a private villa overlooking the Pacific in Baja California. I’ve also booked two lovely, buxom senoritas as my comfort girls for a week. After years of enduring Chicago winters, I tend toward warm, sunny climes and warm, well-tanned bodies.
Yes, my tits and ass bill does add up to a considerable sum.
So, I tell Max, authoritatively, so he’ll comply, “Set aside the projected tax money into my escrow account. Send the other half to my personal account here in Miami.” To wit, Max chuckles. He knows that the personal account to which I am referring is really my “pussy” fund.

While Max and I work out the final details of the order Lateshay is up and moving my way. She’s obviously noticed me working on my cock—her cue to get back to work, or play, depending on how one regards such matters. Her gorgeous titties wobble gently and her hips sway suggestively—can she walk any other way, I wonder, as Max prattles on.

Lateshay opens up another wine cooler, takes a sip, tips her head sideways and casts an appraising look at my swollen, fully erect cock. Being a pro, she moves toward me, knowing I want to fondle and feel her. Lateshay steps close, a little to my right hand side and just before our bodies connect I can feel the heat coming off her skin.

Lateshay is such a sexual being. Yes, she is one of those rare, special women for whom sex is more than sport, more than entertainment, more than an occasional lark. No, for Lateshay sex seems to be a statement of who she is, a kind of existential expression where she applies every degree of energy and all of her attention to giving and receiving pleasure, thus rendering each encounter with her an adventure in hedonistic delight.

Further, while our arrangement involves the exchange of money for my access to her body, for my enjoyment of her touch and talent it seems that such is for her a mere formality. Call me naïve, or intentionally self-delusional, but it seems the money is simply the medium that enables her to, instead of sitting at a desk all day answering vapid questions over the phone, or selling shoes or blenders or timeshares, she instead can spend the time fucking. And I am the happy provider of such funds and thus the happy beneficiary of this wanton, lusty woman seeking sexual satisfaction.

She presses those oh so soft, oh so sweet, oh so splendid tits against me, rubbing them, brushing them over me from left to right, right to left. I stare down at the tit action—savoring the feel of their heft, their pliancy, their coolness. For my part, I use my free hand to roam over that ass—an ass I’ve grabbed at, groped over and cum on so many times over the course of the last few months—since Lateshay and I arrived at our arrangement.

Lateshay takes her free hand and cups my balls, and then gently rubs her fingers along my shaft-teasing me, taunting me with her feather-like touch.
I note, briefly, that Max is talking about a new stock offering, some company that makes valves for the oil and gas industry—but I’m distracted. Lateshay then does the sweetest thing. She moves in front of me, rubbing those huge honeys across me while still keeping my cock in her hand. She takes a long sip of her drink, sets the bottle on the bar and picks up my tumbler. Lateshay hands my drink to me and then kneels down and commences to give me a delightfully saliva soaked cock sucking.

Damn, I think to myself, she is a pro—knows that the best cock stroking involves stroking a man’s ego as well.

Max drones on about how a particular investment of mine is one of the best we’ve made over the last two years—we’ve turned an eighteen percent profit—that there is now a similar opportunity in the offing.

“Max, I’ve got to go, something’s come up.” Lateshay pulls free of my cock, looks up at me and grins at my little joke, and then she gets back to sucking and licking, “E-mail the details of the offering and I’ll take a look at it.”

I set the phone down onto the bar. I stand there in the mid-morning glow of buttery light that bursts into the room; take a sip of my exclusive bourbon, while getting my cock sucked. I feel like a king, I feel fucking incredible.
I look down at Lateshay’s pretty head moving back and forth on my rod, slicking it up, her titties gently swinging in rhythm with her attentions to my dick; her fingers delicately stroking my balls, rubbing over my thighs and ass. I think, no Max old buddy, this right here is one of the best investments I’ve ever made.

Allow me to explain. It took me a year to get out of Chicago. I had some property to dispose of and money to organize, a brief but intense battle in probate court over Aunty Dossy’s bequest—some proverbial loose ends to tie off. During that time, I did call Rudy’s cousin Abe. I flew down to Miami four times.

He found my current condo on Collins Avenue. It was listed for 1.3 million dollars. Somehow, Abe got it for me at $775,000. Abe is indeed a “fixer.” I’ve heard that if you want a brand new Mercedes Benz, special ordered from Germany, he can arrange for it to “fall off the boat” for half the price.

Abe is known to have direct lines deep into the bowels of Miami-Dade County government. Rumors abound of his Merlin-like ability to get building permits approved, deed restrictions waived, and utility projects extended into the most remote areas of the county.

A persistent story is told of an elderly friend of his mother who was being harassed by a gang of considerable notoriety that was gaining increasing control of her neighborhood. A bartender overheard Abe talking on his cellphone about this certain infamous west side gang, “Yeah, those are the guys. I need this taken care of and I would consider it a personal favor to me.”

A couple weeks later there was a lead story in the city section of the Miami Herald where police reported finding five low riders stripped and burnt out on an abandoned industrial park in northwest Miami. The friend of his mother was soon, so the story goes, able to safely return to her habit of taking early evening walks to the corner grocery store.
But one of Abe’s great talents is finding pussy. If a man—typically married, moneyed and powerful—wants a discrete, long term, no strings arrangement, Abe is the guy call.

And, it works both ways. He is expert finding a place for pussy to land. It is said that many a prospective mistress has reached out to Abe and, in addition to allowing him to sample her favors a time or two—all in the interest of quality control Abe always asserted—she also pays him a percentage for three months or so after he has successfully connected her with a sugar daddy.
So, the day after closing, Abe and I stood on the balcony of my newly purchased condo, me sipping my perennial bourbon, Abe enjoying a gin and tonic. The interior decorator had just left.

“Well, Eric,” Abe had turned back to survey the then empty living room, “In addition to some nice period furniture and art work, you’re going to need some tits and ass in here.”

Now, one might ask why someone like me, well off and single, would need the services of a man like Abe to procure a mistress, a lay around girl. But his reputation as a “fixer” was impeccable.
I remember looking at him expectantly. We had then gone back inside to the bar where I had already stationed a few bottles. I didn’t have a bed, but I did have bourbon and gin!

I refilled our drinks while Abe opened up his laptop, inserting a thumb drive into the port. For the next hour, we sat on two rickety beach chairs with his laptop between us on an unpacked shipping crate.
There were eleven or so women in his files—each with a video introduction and with several photographs that displayed the woman’s assets to full advantage. They all were dressed, although barely. Most wore bathing suits but some sported diaphanous negligees. They were all beautiful, sexy dream girls.
But since I have this penchant—nay—weakness for big tittied women, there were only three that fit my physical template. There was a redhead named Lexy—her bio said she had a set of double E’s.

Max told me, “She’s hooked up to a fairly prominent real estate developer, but is looking for a side deal. You can enjoy her once a week—making a day of it—for around $3,000 per session. However, you’d have to fuck her here. No going out—she can’t afford to be seen with another guy—has to protect her main line of revenue.”

There was a cute little brunette named Trixie—where do they come up with these names, I wondered. Her bio said she stood 5’2” and sported a set of triple D titties and had a delectable looking ass. “This one here,” Max tapped the screen with his Mont Blanc, “She’s looking for an exclusive arrangement. She needs to be a live in. I’m not sure if that’s what you want.”
It wasn’t. While I wanted a steady fuck, I did not, myself, want to be tied down to only one playmate.

The last woman featured was Lateshay. Here, Abe’s tone changed a bit. Whereas in discussing the previous prospective lay around girls he had been the consummate salesman, with Lateshay there was a wistful quality to his voice, a deeper degree of gravity to his demeanor, a note of awe. “She is probably the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

“Really?”

“Well, it’s not any one fuck you see, Eric. Rather, it’s the total experience of her. It’s like, well, she’s like—she’s like, uh, sex personified.”

“Is she hooked up with anyone right now?”

Abe had paused and taken a sip of his gin, he glanced about, obviously uncertain as to how to proceed, “Funny thing about that. She is connected to an elderly gentleman, old family, old money. Part of the yacht club set. However, his real wealth comes from his wife’s side. She tolerates his occasional dalliance—but, uh—well, let’s just say the wife’s patience has run out with Lateshay. Lateshay is a bit expensive.”

I watched her video clip numerous times—her bouncing G-cup boobs barely covered in a pink bikini top, and as she was wearing a thong, her ass was all out there and with her movements she was very self-confident in her appearance, she exuded pure, primal sensuality. Several times I replayed the sight of her shaking, swinging titties. Several times I replayed the sight of her wagging ass. I wanted her. I wanted to get my hands on those tits. I wanted to grope all over and grab that ass. I wanted to slip inside her and fuck her, over and over and over.

Sitting there in the echoing emptiness of my condo, sipping my bourbon and listening to Abe extoll her talents—talking about tongue action, hand action, pussy action—I realized I had a raging hard on for this woman.

“So, Eric,” Abe closed up the laptop, was back to being the shrewd negotiator, “Would you like to try her out?”

So here I am, three months later with Lateshay on her knees, sucking my dick. And what a three months it’s been. Three months of the craziest, most exhilarating, ball draining bouts of fucking I’ve ever experienced.

Lateshay alternates now between sucking me, and hand jobbing me. I set down my drink and tell her, “Oh honey, give me a touch of those titties.”

She rises up and hugs my dick with her honeys and I moan out in pure delight at the soft grip of those tits on my cock. I rock back and forth, jacking my dick with those titties, loving my access to them—the thought flashes through my mind of all the men who must see her walking along the beach with those hanger banger beauties wobbling around in a breathtakingly fragile bikini top, quivering and quaking, or in a mall with a tight fitting top so everything bulges out, sitting beside her at a bar with inches of cleavage on display, dreaming of having their cock right where mine is, dreaming of getting serviced just like I am—I feel so fucking fantastic. For right now, this little bitch is mine—her tits, her ass, her pussy, the use of that talented tongue, those gifted hands—it’s all mine to fuck, all mine to cum at, to cum on, to cum inside of—yes, for right now I own this sweet little lay, for right now she’s my little fuck bitch and no one else’s.

I enjoy that tit action for a few minutes, Lateshay cooing, “Oh baby, look at your cock in there, oh yes, enjoy those titties, those titties belong to you, baby.”

Then, she gets back to the sucking. I pick up my drink again, sip and watch her work. Lateshay, sucks then licks, then sucks, then licks. The velvet-silk touch of her roaming tongue and moist lips is wonderful.

To cater to my exhibitionistic tendencies, I had commissioned the interior decorator to purchase lots of mirrors. It didn’t take long for her to figure out why. I have several stand-up, tri-fold, paneled mirrors located throughout my space. And here I stand, at my bar, sipping my drink and watching Lateshay and me in all our nakedness, in all our lusty abandon. Her back is to me in one of the mirrored views and I stare at her ass.

Setting down my tumbler once more, I put my hands on either side of her head and gently pull free of her—Lateshay, bless her, emits a little moan of protest and tries to get back to my dick.

“Oh, baby, it’s pussy time,” I tell her. A little ribbon of spittle runs down her chin as she stares at my cock, jacking on it slowly, sweetly, softly.

“Oh yes, Eric baby, I want you to fuck me with it. I want you go crazy fucking me.”

As she stands, I moan at the sight of her swaying boobs, I heft them both up and bend down to suck in turn on each tit. In my proprietary way, I roam my hands over Lateshay’s body—thinking to myself, this is mine—I grip her ass cheeks, I bobble her boobs, I reach down and to my delight, find her pussy quite moist and ready.

As if reading my mind, Lateshay looks up at me, gives me a half smile as she grips my dick, “Yeah, I’m ready for another good fucking.”

This time, we go into the master bedroom. I jack on my dick as I watch Lateshay’s ass work its wondrous wiggling way. The French doors are opened and the salty breeze ruffles and shuffles the diaphanous curtains. From my sound system, trills of jazz horn and bass sift through the shrill noise of the seagulls hawking and the rhythmic hiss of the wind.

I briefly flash back to five years ago and the grim gray of the interrogation room somewhere deep in the dank maze of the federal building on South Dearborn. FBI, IRS, even DEA agents and an assortment of Chicago police detectives had ringed the room in an obvious attempt at intimidation. The pecking order was easily discerned by the cut of suits, running from polyester to off the rack wool blends to even a couple of handmade ensembles; haircuts ranged from around-the-kitchen-table jobs to fifty dollar boutique cuts. The neckties were an even more obvious standard of measurement.

I sip my bourbon and jack on my hard, anxious cock as I watch Lateshay make her naked, tit wobbling, ass waving way to the end of the bed. She climbs up and positions herself on her hands and knees. Her hooters hang down, her ass glows in the mid-morning light. Lateshay has angled herself in such a way that when I join her, when we couple with my dick in her from behind I will be able to watch her titties swing and sway, flop and fly in the mirror inset in the headboard. I will be able to look to my left or my right and watch myself ramming her rump, pumping her pussy, taking my pleasure.

I move around the room, glance out to my right, through the gauzy, fluttering curtains onto the million dollar view of the ocean. I look to my left, to the sight of that splendid ass all up in the air, aimed my way, ready for my eager, lust fueled attention; another million dollar view.

“Get ready baby,” I mutter, taking one more sip of my bourbon before setting the glass onto a side table, “Because it’s time for me to get some of that.”

“Oh yes, Eric, come on, come and get it. This is all for you honey.”

I move in close. I can see and smell her readiness. Her pussy lips glisten. She waves her ass at me, inviting me in. I spend a few titillating moments roaming my hands all over that lush body, grab ass, grab thighs, grab tummy, grab titties. I explore that body anew. I take my dick and pat her ass cheeks with it. I leer down at that pleasure giving body and think, “Worth every fucking penny.”

“Oh baby,” she moans, “Don’t make me wait, oh shit, don’t make me beg. Put it to me like you always do. Fuck me like a madman.”

When I slip inside her I surrender all my will. She owns me. I am awash with that delicious sense of well-being that comes with fucking a willing woman whose body perfectly fits my physical template.

Her pussy grips my dick, its warmth and wetness becomes the center of my universe. Lateshay’s lush ass cheeks feel cool, fleshy and pillowy as I press against them, as I seek the deepest reaches of her pussy with my stone hard cock.

For her part, Lateshay is enjoying being fucked. She bucks against me in counter thrusts, her breathing becomes raspy, husky—“Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it you pussy fucker! Give me all that gorgeous length you fucker. Do it! Do it! Pound me! Pound me!”

As I pick up my pace, as our bodies pap-pap-pap against each other, as her titties begin to gallop and smack against each other with pap sounds of their own, our grunting becomes even more primal, our need even more base. I am sweating. She is sweating.

Then, she yelps a time or two. And it all gets very, very wet inside her. “Yeah,” I yell out, “Cum on my dick you pretty bitch!”

Lateshay falls forward onto her elbows. But I grip her hips and stay with her, refusing to be denied my pleasure. I push and pull her back and forth over my dick, using that body to service my need. I continue to piston fuck her. I am lost in lust, I’m greedier than ever. I yell at her, “Oh fuck, oh fuck. This is my pussy to fuck, mine! My tits to grab, my ass to pump! It’s all mine!”
‘Oh, unh,” Lateshay raises up on her hands again, “Oh yes, baby, bought and paid for—it’s all yours to fuck and cum on, baby.”

For a few minutes, I watch our action in the mirrors. To my left and to my right I watch myself banging her butt, watch her cheeks quake. In the headboard mirror I watch her titties swing and sway in a crazy dance. Time is suspended, and while I want to roll her over and do her missionary style, while I want her on top so I can suck on her titties while she rides my dick, I can’t stop fucking her like this—it feels so good, it looks so good. I maintain this rhythm, and true to her request I am fucking her like a madman.

But, eventually, I do pull free, “Turn around and bunch them up for me!”
In a kind of dreamy drawl, “Oh yes, baby, I love watching you cum on my tits. Love watching you mark your territory.”
Lateshay rolls over and the view of all that female flesh moving around, tits lolling about, ass cheeks changing shape, thighs spreading, pussy dripping—I nearly lose it.

She sits up and then moves her ass off the side and slides down so her body is resting on her elbows at the bed’s edge. Lateshay cups her tits in her hands and I leer down—there they are, all out there for me to spray and spot. “Fuck,” I think, “what a woman.”

The thought races through my fevered mind, “Oh I need this woman’s tongue on my shaft, I need her tits in my face, her ass in my hands. Oh, fuck how I need this woman’s pussy—over and over, every day. I’m a fuck slave to this woman’s body.”

Allow me a slight digression. When I became wealthy, in addition to increasing the rate of my fucking, among the first things I did was to embark on a doctor directed testosterone therapy. Believe me: it has made one hell of a difference.

And then, as I jack it out, I yell, “Oh fuck. You beautiful bitch! Look what you do to me!”

I shoot out a thick thread or two of milky white cum—to wit, Lateshay exclaims in a stage whisper, “Oh shit.”

I work out globs and blobs of cum, splatter and spray her—my fractured and s**ttered load stands out in stark contrast to her Miami sun-kissed titties.
Again, Lateshay rewards me, strokes my ego, “Damn baby, you fucking cum like a teenager,” then she looks up at me, takes the cock action into her own hand, “But you fuck like a man—like a real man.”

We stay there, poised in a post coital stasis; catching our breath, me looking over my work on her huge hanger banger titties, her softly stroking me, taking my dick to spread the glaze of jism over her jugs.

Finally, we break the post climax quiet and calm. We both stand, spend a few minutes cleaning up, wiping off and toweling down.

The day has warmed. The sun has moved toward its apex. I stand at the balcony railing, looking at the beach several stories down. And, I ponder my life to this point. As I’ve mentioned, while I have other women in what I call my stable, and enjoy frequent sport fucking with women I meet at parties, on the beach, in the bars and so on, it is clear that Lateshay is my favorite fuck.
While she lives in her own high end apartment a few miles away, our arrangement is thus: she is mine to fuck, on demand. I’ve no doubt she has side deals. But I pay a premium for that pussy. When I want it, I get it. Furthermore, I get it for as long as I want. In this case, I have Lateshay’s body, her talents and favors, reserved for a few days. I will get to fuck her all day, into the night and sometime in the morning she will take a cab to her place so she can pack for a getaway weekend.

Tomorrow, around 11:00 in the morning, I have a luncheon meeting with Abe at the Tropical Beach Café to celebrate one of our successful ventures that has just come to an end—he is to bring me a cashiers’ check for my share of the profits—“Oh, Eric my friend, I’m not going to tell you how much, I want to see your face when you see all the zeros in front of the decimal point.”
Then, Lateshay will join me on my boat “Bustin’ Out” for a weekend of sailing. The thought of Lateshay topless on the deck makes my dick harden as I lean on the railing of my balcony. Once we get to the secluded Blue Heron Bay and anchor, I’m going to enjoy two days of bucking and fucking that big tittied beauty on the beach, on my boat, wherever I can get her bent over or laid out.
I down my drink and with perfect timing Lateshay arrives at my side with a freshly filled tumbler of bourbon. She, I notice, has switched to a fruity rum drink. Lateshay rubs her free hand over my ass, patting me, kneading my cheeks. What a gal.

“Baby,” she says, “I decided if you’re going to keep fucking me this way, you are going to have to feed me. I ordered up the special sampler platter and a six pack of Mythos beer from Nick’s. I hope that’s okay.”

I smile at the thought of the young bucks in Nick’s kitchen arguing over who gets to deliver the lunch to my condo. I have a reputation. Last week, the young, pimply faced son of Nick watched gaped mouthed in awe from the doorway as two naked, slim and stacked girls ran about my place in a reckless pillow fight. He had nearly dropped the bag of gyros.

I have a standing account with the deli. But, in addition to the usually erotic scenery, I tip very well. So, the service is quick, efficient and always on the mark.

I turn so my back is against the railing and pull her close to me—enjoy the press of those big boobs against me, and with my free hand I rub over her ass, pat her cheeks, and knead her cheeks. It’s a good day to be alive.

Yes, when Abe asked me if I wanted to try her out, I had immediately said yes. At the time, I knew it would take a few weeks to fully outfit my condo, but I had purchased my boat from a yachtsman who had retired to Cozumel. He had decided to go powerboat and I got a good deal—thanks, again, to Abe.

I had spent two weeks on the Yucatan to Galveston run with another shipmate buddy of mine—along with a big tittied blond and a big tittied redhead in tow. Once we arrived in Galveston, we flew the two working girls back to Mexico from Houston and then he and I made a fast paced run up to Miami, stopping off in Biloxi and then Key West for some sport fucking.

Bustin’ Out is a fine, sleek, cup class 35 foot racer but with wonderful appointments for entertaining—bar, two big beds, satellite connections, auto-pilot, a full array of the proverbial bells and whistles.

I’m quite proud of her and take the lady out of the water twice a year. I reconfigure all her finer points at least once year. She is a sweet bark. However, for the purposes of my story, I was living on Bustin’ Out while my condo was being furnished, d****d and decorated.

I will never forget the first time I saw Lateshay in person. At the time, I berthed Bustin’ Out at the far south end of Mermaid Cove Marina, in a quiet, almost cloistered corner amid the countless combs of piers and wharfs. The security was top notch—there were several former federal security service blue coat types, with a few burr headed ex-military guys in the mix.

I was sitting at the stern, smoking a nice brisket on the grill, sipping a large Cuba Libre, sporting my junked up, sweat stained, well-travelled captain’s hat with its cracked brim. I had on a pair of ratty deck shoes, tattered shorts and a t-shirt that, in broken letters, advertised my law school alma mater.

I had taken the boat out for the morning and upon my return had spent a couple hours of lovingly shaking out and rolling up the sails, scrubbing the deck, hosing off the rigging. As I turned over the meat and opened up a fresh beer I laid plans for my evening. This was before I had built up a stable of regular lays, so I was thinking I might go on the prowl for pussy by hitting some of the high end bars along the beach, or maybe calling one of the two escort services I then engaged from time to time. Yes, I thought, as I sat back to anticipate a good meal, a fine wine and, later, playing with some nice tits and ass, life was good.

I remember thinking, as the sun slid behind the glassed towers, as the clank and clatter of halyards banging against the forest of masts and the metallic jingle of the marina’s rigging picked up in volume with the evening breeze, why the fuck do I need a condo?

Then, as if to interrupt such heretical thinking—my cell phone came alive. It was the front gate. “Mr. Lasher, sir. Sorry to disturb you, but there is a Mr. Abraham Heinz and a young lady at the gate to see you.”
I waited at the end of my boat and watched them move down the pier. Abe is a big guy, a bear of man—he doesn’t look so good on a tennis court or even a golf course. But I would learn later that he had over the course of the previous decade spent two consecutive years and a third one later in the Israeli navy—the last stint as a commando of all things.

He would prove himself to be fleet of foot on the deck of my boat and a nimble sailor.

He was dressed casually, in a summer weight navy blue blazer, pink pants, white deck shoes, open collared baby blue shirt—very Miami, circa 1980. But Abe could pull it off.

Of more interest, however, was the woman walking at his side. Lateshay was sporting a magenta colored one piece, form fitting, strapless dress. The bottom end rode high up on her thighs and the top was pulled low to expose a good portion of her chest, offering up a view of some deep, rich cleavage. Further, I saw the pink strap of a bathing suit.

At first, from a distance a man’s reaction might have been, hmm, that’s interesting. Then, as she moved closer, damn, that’s kind of hot to, finally, hot fucking damn! Lateshay’s hips and tits bulged against the dress’ tight material and they moved with a life of their own.
I stared as her hips rolled and her tits wobbled, and thought, “I’ve got to get me some of that.”

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?” Abe deftly stepped on deck and turned to assist Lateshay.

I admitted this was quite a surprise and Abe explained that Lateshay liked to see her potential patrons in their “natural habitat.”
We sat in the well of the stern, drinking and finally eating. Talking and laughing. I had opened up a couple bottles of fine red wine and it lubricated the afternoon quite well.

Lateshay turned out to be an engaging conversationalist—refined, articulate—and with her incredible body I could see quite readily why she was so valued as a consort and not merely as an occasional fuck.

At one point during the afternoon, however, a secret signal must have passed between Lateshay and Abe. Abe had stood and said he needed to get some work done. When I asked what he was up to he replied, “Well, the Mayor wants to get fucked tonight but not by his wife.”

He had finished off his wine and continued, “It’s one of those tricky, logistical nightmares in which I sometimes find myself embroiled. He and his wife are attending a fundraiser in the early evening for the Happy k**s Academy—you know—the orphans. Then, the wife is off to a fundraiser for one of the museums and the mayor is, quote, unquote, to go back to his office for a couple of hours. He is to meet his wife again at a late night cocktail party at the Henson mansion—a fundraiser for his re-election campaign. So, between the orphans and the Miami elite, I have to get the mayor laid.”

We all chuckled at his plight and I wondered how much he was being paid to pimp on behalf of the mayor of Miami.

When he left, I told Lateshay that I had been working on my boat before they had arrived so I was going to take a quick shower.

Fifteen or so minutes later, as I came up from below, briskly rubbing a towel through my damp hair, Lateshay had removed the dress and sat there, sipping a daiquiri. She had on a skimpy bikini, not unlike the one she wore on her biographical video. I stared openly at her huge G-cup sized titties, precariously buoyed up by a bikini top that was at least two sizes too small.
After my shower I had donned a pair of baggy boxers, sans underwer, and loose fitting, sleeveless Yale sweat shirt. Sitting there, looking at those tits bulging out of the bra, those fleshy thighs, my cock made its customary protest against my shorts.

Still, we sipped our drinks, allowing the humid breeze to rake over us. Then, at a pivotal moment Lateshay sat up and as I stared at those wobbling wonders—she got down to business.

“Here’s my proposal Eric.” And for the next several minutes Lateshay presented her terms.

As I’ve already noted, I am quite wealthy. Not outrageously so—but I will never have to work again, except for managing my money and protecting my assets. Also as mentioned, I have half a dozen money earning accounts dedicated to my hedonistic pursuit of big busted women and the enjoyment of all their favors—tits, tongue and tail.

Now, let me add that I keep myself on a budget—even when it comes to fucking. I allow myself a set, albeit generous, amount of money at the beginning of each week and diligently say within that allowance.

Even though Abe had warned me Lateshay would be expensive, I was still a little taken aback at her proposed price. It amounted to a little over half of my pussy fund!

As if reading my mind, Lateshay leaned forward and I emitted a little moan at the sight of her huge honeys ballooning out, swinging out from her body, “Honey, I know you understand—I can’t afford to give it away. But, I could give you a little sample of some of the pleasures you’d be buying.”
She stood, and hooked her thumbs in the straps of her bikini top and made her terrific looking titties bobble and bounce. Then, one flopped out and dropped down in a delicious titty tumble. Then the other one flopped free and fell out. Beautiful.

I grabbed myself through my shorts, to wit she admonished, “No baby, that’s my job.”

After slipping me out of my boxers, Lateshay commenced to delight me with her lovely attentions.

A word or two about her cock sucking skills. I sat there, in the stern of my boat, as the Miami sun made its slow descent and shadows stretched. I sat there while being serviced by this buxom beauty—totally mesmerized; overwhelmed by the pleasure she was affording me. In reflecting on that first time she made me cum, three words surface. Intensity. Technique. Intuition.
First, intensity: as she knelt down, taking my swollen cock in hand Lateshay was able to convey the appearance of a total dedication to my dick. When she wasn’t sucking on me, or licking me, she was hand jobbing me and gazing at her work with a little smile. I felt so incredibly good.

Technique: Lateshay used her tongue with uncanny dexterity. Since my first year of college, I have maintained the practice of keeping myself completely shaved and shorn of pubic hair; a startling recommendation from one of my female professors and part time lover. Lateshay let her tongue dance over my balls with butterfly flicks, then she used it to graze up and down my shaft. She would softly enclose me with her mouth and move up and down with perfect pressure, sometime pursing her lips and running them up one side, and down the other. Her fingers were so gentle, her touch so soft.

Of course, there were those gorgeous titties that, while she didn’t titty fuck me, she let them bump against and droop onto and d**** over my thighs—adding to the wash of sensual waves of pleasure brought on by flesh on flesh.

Intuition: I’ve been with a lot of women who truly seem to enjoy orally servicing their men. And, they have practiced the art of fellatio to a high degree of refinement. But what made Lateshay even more special was—is—her ability to sense and measure the stage of my excitement. That afternoon, on the deck of Bustin’ Out, sucking on me, licking on me, hand jobbing me, Lateshay must have brought me close, right to the fucking edge of rampant release, and then lowered me back—at least half a dozen times, if not more.
When I did achieve climax, Lateshay let out a little giggle, a sweet little feminine bark of delight. “Oh baby, look at you go.”

And, I must admit, the man mess was quite impressive. Throb after throb of creamy cum boiled out of the end of my dick, coating her hand, my abdomen, my shaft, my balls. I sat there, totally enthralled by the scene. Her tits looked gorgeous. Lateshay’s face looked almost blissful and certainly proud—mission accomplished. Another man caught in her sexual orbit.

She cleaned up, finished her drink and slinked back into her dress. Before leaving me, cum coated and sweaty and slack jawed in my post climactic daze she kissed me and said, “Think about my proposal, baby and then give Abe a call.”
The next morning, I was awakened by a call from my interior decorator—a severe woman who reminded me of Cruela de Vil from 101 Dalmations. She had come across a couple pieces of furniture—I really couldn’t understand what the hell she was talking about—the image of Lateshay’s head moving up and down on my dick was running through my mind. I found myself jacking off while Cruela droned on about a wardrobe with lion’s feet.

When Abe answered his phone, I heard lively salsa music in the background. “Well, Abe, did you get His Honor the Mayor laid last night?”
Abe laughed, “Well, let’s just say I’m having a bloody Mary at Pepi’s. Fuck what a night. Do you know how difficult it is to sneak a woman into City Hall and 8:30 in the evening? I sure as hell hope he didn’t get any on his desk’s blotter. Have you ever met His Honor’s secretary? Jesus, she reminds me of Heinrich Himmler. And you, my good man—just how was your interview with our sweet Lateshay?”

I reply, “Where do I sign up?”

Abe had emitted his another-deal-done chuckle.
And thus, these few months later I am roaming a hand up and down Lateshay’s body, griping her ass cheeks, jiggling them, making them mine. For her part, she sips her drink and rubs softly over my body.

“You know, Eric baby,” she pulls free and moves toward the living room, “We don’t have much time before they arrive with our food. Why don’t you come over here and stick your cock up in my pussy until they get here.”

“Damn,” I think, “What a sweet little fuck she is!” and guided by my dick I make my way to where she awaits by the couch.

I sit down on the couch and then she sits down on me.

Yes, Lateshay climbs up and on me—her tits swing about and wobble around; her thighs rest against me and she guides my cock up inside her. We both gasp and sigh in delight. We begin to slowly fuck—my hands roam free all over that lush female terrain of flesh.

I kiss her titties. I suck on her titties. I bury my face into the cool, pliant softness of her titties. I jiggle and jostle her titties. Then, I grab her ass and guide the action, the pace, of her up and down movements on my cock.

Lateshay presses close to me and whispers in my ear, “We don’t have much time baby. Our food will be here any minute. Do you want to cum?”

“Oh yes, oh yes oh yes.”

I allow myself to slip into my zone—I stare at her hopping boobs and grip her gorgeous ass a little tighter, encouraging her to pick up the pace. I savor the feeling of my cock up inside Lateshay’s pussy—that soft, warm primal grip—and right before that first surge of total and wonderful and mind numbing release, I pull her close. Ever true to her talents, Lateshay knows just how fast to pump, just how hard to press down, just how far to rise up.

Just as the doorman buzzes our intercom, I blow into her with pulse after pulse of cum, feeling pure pleasure, ‘Oh, my fucking pussy. My pussy to fuck.”
“Hmmm,” she breathes into my ear, “You pump my pussy so good.”

We uncouple. We each wrap a towel around our waists—but Lateshay leaves her tits out. She goes into the kitchen for plates and pint glasses for our beers, napkins and so on. She takes everything out onto the balcony.
Mitt, the day doorman tells me through the remarkably clear intercom that Max from Nick’s Mediterranean Deli is at the desk. I tell him to send the young man up.

When I open the door, sure enough Nick’s son has obviously won the job of delivering our lunch and, thus, the opportunity to see a naked or at least scantily clad woman or two.

When he sees me wearing only a bath towel he senses he just might be in luck. “Hey there, Max,” I say in greeting, noticing his nervous twitches of anticipation.

“How’ve you been Mr. Lasher?”

I invite him in and Max places all the bags on the island in the kitchen, glancing around the condo. Presently, he is rewarded. Lateshay comes into the condo from the balcony, her bare breasts jiggling with little hops as she walks.

“Hey Max,” Lateshay says nonchalantly, grabbing the six pack of Mythos beer and retreating back to the balcony.

I pay the tab and tip Max well, ushering him out. It is clear the boy could have stayed around all afternoon. He unabashedly looks over my shoulder for another view of Lateshay’s large lovelies, “Mr. Lasher, I got to tell you, sir. For us guys at the deli, you are our hero.”

I laugh and give him a playful shove out the door.
Lateshay and I eat with as much lusty exuberance as we have applied to our fucking.

Half an hour later, I’m banging her from behind. I have her on her hands and knees, Lateshay’s hooters hang and swing and I love the pussy pumping I’m giving her. Again, I watch the action in the various mirrors that surround us, and watch myself groping and grabbing and patting and probing.

A few minutes before, I had been doing her missionary style, slam fucking her, making her yelp and whoop in her wanton lust, making her cum, diving in deep with her growling out, “Yes, nail my fucking ass to this bed. Nail me!” I had humped away at her until she went limp.

I had pulled out, rolled her over and lifted up that ass for my pleasure. I leered down once more and pondered all the sexual delight this woman had given me over the past several weeks. I’d slipped inside, moaning and groaning in my perverse triumph—if all those assholes up in Chicago who had tried to ruin me could see me now. Yes, here I was, in a million dollar condo, fucking a million dollar piece of ass—fucking my way through another afternoon in paradise.

Now, I stand still but with one hand on one of Lateshay’s hips and another on an ass cheek, I push and pull her back and forth over my cock, using her body to jack off my dick.

After a few minutes of this, however, I begin to pick up the pace. Lateshay, sensing I’m ready to hammer it home begins to urge me on, “Oh yes, baby, fuck it. Bang my butt baby. Oh yes, make yourself happy back there.”

And I do.

I start working it with vigor, desperate now to cum. I ram that rump, begin to piston pump that pussy. Her titties flop and fly like crazy. She grunts with each of my dives into her deep reaches. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and the thought races through me that I’m am one pussy fucking fool. Horses couldn’t pull me free of her body right now. It feels so good to just be able to fuck this woman, over and over and over—just take what I need, when I need it—to get sucked and licked and titty hugged, to spread her legs any time I want—to get me some pussy any time my dick gets hard.

My breathing becomes labored, a dribble of perspiration makes its way down my forehead and another treks along my neck. I am fucking her once more like a man seized, possessed with total lust.

I yell out in the bright heat and otherwise mid-afternoon calm, “Oh fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! You’re my fuck bitch. This ass is mine!”
“Oh, yes baby, take it! Take it! You’re the pussy fucker today, baby.”

A split second before I reach orgasmic release I pull out. I smack her ass and groan at her, “Take my load you beautiful fucking bitch!”

I realize I’m a little crazed at this moment—I jack it out. Shots of cum flick and fly, and as I furiously work my dick, my fist punches her cheeks, making them quake and the sight of this action simply urges me on—it all looks so fucking good.

Gasping, I lovingly look over her back and ass with—now sprinkled and sprayed—a veritable archipelago of cum.

I lean against her and before my cock goes flaccid I slip back inside her pussy. “I can’t stop fucking you. I simply can’t stop fucking you.”

“Oh baby, that’s why I’m here.”

I pump her until my balls are truly drained. I stay inside her for a time, loving the feel of that pussy as I catch my breath.

A little while later, after having indulged in a large lunch and a morning of raucous, randy rutting, we lay in bed and doze. Lateshay is pressed up against me, lying on her side. I awaken and notice it is seven or so minutes after 2:00 pm.

I remember I have a brief conference call to attend to 2:30. I am thinking of investing in a small resort on a distant and rarely visited island in the Caribbean. It is in reality a destination for erotic vacations. A full service enterprise where for a few thousand dollars the erstwhile patron flies into anonymity, enjoys a nicely appointed if somewhat small bungalow on the beach, the full and complete attentions of a female companion or two, unlimited booze, unlimited food—a week of drinking, eating, sailing, swimming, and, of course fucking.

The man who owns the place is an old college classmate of mine. He wants to expand and needs an infusion of “off the books” cash. He has invited me down for a week so I can, as he had put it, sample the experience.
The amount of money my potential partner is asking for is actually quite modest and with the added incentive of my having unlimited access to the facilities and attendant amenities—i.e. the girls—makes the deal quite attractive.

I plan on flying down next week and the thought of being able to spend a week fucking my way through half a dozen or so little cuties causes my cock to stir anew. With the soft body beside me, with Lateshay’s at once firm, yet pliant breasts pressed against me, her thigh thrown over my own, all this naked female flesh against me—my cock hardens into readiness.

I roll her onto her back. She moans, “Oh, baby.” She knows what’s coming.
I rise up and survey the scene. Oh what a lovely spread she makes. Her big tits are graded to the sides, her knees up and spread outward, her pussy all
out there for me. I kiss over titties, and move slowly down, tracing my tongue along her stomach. She whispers, “Oh yes, baby, get that pussy ready.”

I kiss over her thighs and Lateshay begins to writhe in anticipation of my tongue action. I tickle her clit and she pushes my face into her. I begin to lap at her pussy lips, ejecting saliva onto her clit, tongue fucking her, kissing her—all the while Lateshay is moaning, groaning and repeating, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” over and over.

My efforts prove more than sufficient. Soon, my face is slick with her juices and her thighs clamp tight against my head. Lateshay barks out, “Oh shit!” She arches her back and yelps and then goes slack.

As she catches her breath, Lateshay gently lifts up my head, “Oh good boy, come on baby, come on up here and get your reward.”

I stand up and survey the scene. Lateshay’s pretty face is still flushed, her eyes lidded halfway shut, and her mouth a bit slack jawed. Her arms are winged out and her titties are graded out to the sides. With her knees still are up in the air, her legs are parted and her pussy exposed, open and available for entry. I jack on my dick and think once more of just how lucky I am.

‘Oh I need that pussy. Oh dammit I got to have some more of that pussy.”

“Oh yes, baby, come and get it. There it is. There it is, just for you and your big dick.”

As my cockhead presses against her she sighs. Her eyes open a bit wider and Lateshay says, “Oh shit. Damn Eric, you are the horniest man I’ve ever met.”

I work my dick back and forth and slide in, savoring the feel of that pussy receiving me. As I push in deep I smile in I delight as I hear her little gasp, “Oh Eric, fuck that’s good cock.”

“Oh I can’t get enough of your pussy.” Again, I seem to melt into her, I lay out on top of Lateshay, loving the feel of all that female flesh beneath me—her tits, thighs, her stomach, so soft and warm and welcoming. Her hands move over my lower back and ass.

“Oh honey, you just can’t enough pussy, period. Now fuck me baby. Don’t hold back. No reason to hold back. Take your pleasure, darling. You’re gonna get to fuck me as many times as you want.”

I begin to fuck her. Slowly, rhythmically, I draw my cock back out almost free, till the tip is right at her pussy lips, then push in, giving the full length of my shaft. Each time, she moans. Each time, I moan. Any man who has fucked a pussy knows that feeling of never wanting it to end—yes, plays with that tension created by the primitive drive to cum, with the slightly higher brain desire to feel unending pleasure.

That’s where I am, I work in and out of her pussy slowly, then gradually pick up the pace until I am indeed nailing her ass to that bed, piston fucking her, bringing myself almost to the brink of blowing my load, blasting my cum into her. Then, I pull back, regain control and resume my steady, slow humping.

We carry on this way for several minutes. Lateshay lays out there for me, letting me do what I have to do to get my pleasure. When I’m moving slowly she rubs her hands and fingers delicately over me, urging me on, “Oh that’s such sweet fucking baby. Do you feel good baby? I want you to feel good, honey. I want you to enjoy that pussy, enjoy my body.”

And, I do. I alternate between laying out on top of her where I have the full tactile experience of a woman beneath me and then I extend my arms so I can watch the action, my cock sliding in and out, her titties wobbling around, her eyes again half lidded shut—she has that look of a well fucked woman.

I jiggle her jugs, and when I reach under her Lateshay sweetly accommodates me by raising up a hip so I can grab some ass while I’m driving into her.

But after time, while I am spaced out on top of her, giving Lateshay’s body a good drumming, her grunting, me grunting, I feel her body tense. “Oh, fuck baby, don’t stop,” she begs, her fingernails digging into my ass, “Keep fucking, don’t stop. Ooooh, you pussy fucker, I’m gonna cum again.”

And she does. I feel her soak my cock. Lateshay’s eyes pinch shut, her face reddens and then, the storm of passion and heat and lust passes and her body goes limp. Then, I ask her, “That feel good baby?”

She looks up at me and emits a little laugh, slapping me on my ass, “Yes, but it’s my job to make you cum.”

I pump Lateshay a few more times, suck on her titties and roam my hands over her. Then, I pull out of that wet pussy and roll the woman over. I keep her flat on the bed and take my dick and spank that fleshy ass. Spreading her legs, I angle my way back into the moist pussy and hammer down on her with several more strokes, pummeling those cheeks, making her grunt and bark out with each of my desperate drives into that wonderful pleasure place. I slip into my zone. I am now once more a pussy pumping fool. That body beneath me, those ass cheeks mashing and quaking, our bodies clapping together, my fucking this beautiful, big boobed bitch with wild abandon, my cock wearing out that pussy, me getting my pleasure, me taking what I need—it all drives me mad with lust.

In my wantonness, I pull out, jacking on my cock like crazy, “Roll over you big tittied bitch! I need another go at those titties!”

When Lateshay rolls over, I straddle her at the waist. Lateshay presses her huge honeys together and the sight of all that deep, rich, inviting cleavage nearly sends me over the top, “Oh yes, Eric baby, get you some titty.”

I slip into that big boob valley and, as I did when fucking her pussy, I alternate between slow slides back and forth to wild, rampant rutting where I make those big bangers quiver and quake and the slapping sounds breaks into the soft sounds of mid-afternoon. Then, back to the soft and slow savoring of a tit hug.

For a few minutes, I also alternate between sliding down and slipping back inside her pussy for a few good pumps, then back up to the tits; back to the pussy, back to the tis and so one.

I think, this is indeed once really nice fuck. But alas, all good things must cum to an end—forgive my little pun, but it’s true.
While I am once more rocking and rolling in between those bunched up beauties, Lateshay senses my closeness, “Oooh, yes, honey, let go of that load—shower me with it baby.”

I stand up on my knees and leer down at the terrain of tit, her neck and shoulders, her face, Lateshay’s eyes intently watched my jack off action, a smile of satisfaction on her face—an earning her pay smile.

“Oh, Eric, yes, yes, yes, I want you to feel it. I want you to feel it good.”

With all the sensations—her body beneath, her ass and hips in my hands, my cock in Lateshay’s mouth, her titties wagging around, then hugging my dick, that pussy, oh fuck yes that pussy feeling so good, her hands on my ass, her lips on mine—it all had built up my load and when I blew spunk it spewed everywhere.
I lobbed a glob up onto her forehead. Another hit her chin. Then, as I am jacking away, it is flicking and flying: onto her tits, her shoulders, and right, upper arm.

Lateshay looks over the man mess splattered over her, laughs and lets her head fall back onto the pillow, “Damn baby. Where does all that shit come from?”
I fuck in between her tits a little longer, slide down to get some more pussy, then I roll off her.

A great fuck indeed.

After cleaning up, we both freshen our drinks. Lateshay resumes her place on the balcony lounger, picks up her book. I set my cellphone to speaker and call in for the conference call with one of my business attorneys--Frank, my college buddy who owns the sex resort--Freddy, and his local partner—Franz.

Frank—“Uh hey Eric, before the other two get on the line, just wanted to let you know that I checked on that issue of a money transfer. If you choose to buy into the deal, you’re good