1. F.M.B.


    Date: 8/19/2015, Categories: Straight Sex, Author: BelleFleure, Rating: 2, Source: LushStories

    yourself under the table." Was that all? I could hardly believe that was the extent of it, but knew I had to comply. I craved his cock that much. Running my fingers below the table edge, I traced them to my thigh beneath the napkin and wiggled, sliding the already short dress upwards. The heat from my pussy was incredible; could power a small city for a day. I brought a digit to my centre and coated it with juices, then dared to run it up to my clit. He could immediately tell when I hit the spot as my eyes fluttered. Fuck, it felt amazing. Relief if not release. With one elbow resting on the table, hand partially concealing my mouth to prevent the breathy 'Ohs' and chewed lip from revealing what was going on beneath, I started to ease into a rhythm. Dip. Slide. Circle. Dip. Slide. Circle. Every so often I'd glance around the room to check I wasn't observed. Other times I'd be watching him watch me, evidently pleased at my wanton behaviour. My pussy oozed fluid and I swept it to my central oyster, perpetuating the juice cycle. A self-fulfilling contract between my electrified clit and wet tunnel. As excitement percolated in my belly, gradually rising to take over my whole body, I began to want again, the same as I had at the bar. To want him, right then, as if the other restaurant patrons were oblivious to our actions, yet thrilled that they would witness our bucking union over the tabletop as he pawed my tits and filled me in the effortless manner that makes me melt. The ...
    exhibitionism would double the effect of every inch he slid inside me, every bite of my nipples, every shallow breath in my ear. I pressed onwards, inwards, watching him the whole time through narrow slits. Waiting for any further command, but losing the ability to respond with each passing second. My sluice gates opened, faint clicking audible to anyone who dared to listen closely as I neared climax, breath shortening and becoming louder. He recognised the signs and when I was a mere handful of insistent circles away from exploding, one word shattered my progress: "Stop." So cruel. I didn't at first, trying to finish, quickly realising that might not be prudent. So I slowed, leaving my hand still touching myself, eventually pausing as requested. Waiting. "Wipe yourself up." I arched my eyebrows. "With the napkin." Was he serious? It seemed that way, his calm exterior patiently awaiting my compliance. I brought my sticky hand atop the pressed linen in my lap, spread my thighs and pushed down and inward once more. The cloth began to absorb my wetness and I gently stroked the area, using the touches as an excuse to continue elevating myself. Why had he chosen now to make me stop, the bastard? I continued to mop my sopping area, feeling the material stick to me with each stroke. Looked up at him enjoying my predicament. He leant forward and whispered, "OK good. Now come for me, all over the napkin." Already so close, I was only too glad to continue. I pressed my finger through the ...
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