Page 21 of College Boy

“Why?” Mitch gushed. “Have you seen these puppies?”

They chuckled shamelessly, Emma hanging, naked and practically dripping with desire from where she clung to a curtain rod over her head and Mitch, cock straining and leaking in his all but invisible sleep shorts, barely held aloft by the loosely tied string knotted around his waist.

“Not the way you do, obviously,” Emma said quietly, shaking her head. “My ex was always on me to get a boob job.”

“Dumbass!” Mitch spat before he could help himself. “They’re perfect just the way they are, Emma.” He kissed her then, sensing her vulnerability even as she hung, tempting and flawless before him. Her lips responded gently, almost gratefully, as if thanking him with a kiss. “Just like the rest of you.”

As if to prove it, Mitch slid his left hand around to cup her round, ripe, perfect ass. She shivered and bucked and gasped anew, flesh so raw and smooth Mitch could hardly help but cup it eagerly in his big, desperate hand. His right slithered across her belly, embracing its soft, fleshy expanse, squeezing and teasing it like warm, damp dough as poor Emma gulped and muttered desperate curses Mitch doubted she even heard escape her gasping, bared lips.

As if to save her voice for other, more pressing matters, Mitch relented and let his aching fingertips dance along her perfectly sculpted strip of dirty blonde pubic hair, damp and matted atop her clearly weeping bud.

Emma seized once more, body growing rigid as his hands made short work of whatever cocky, temptress tease she might have played at before Mitch had stripped her bare in more ways than one. “Jesus,” she cursed anew, Mitch’s fingertips dancing along the crest of her throbbing clit to savor its almost stiff, pliant heat. “Oh. Good. Lord!”

Mitch stifled a chuckle as he began to squeeze with his left hand and tease with his right, a push and pull, back and forth motion that thrilled him nearly as much as it did poor, writhing, sweating, cursing Emma. He’d never thought of his big, veiny hands as weapons before, but when applied to his lover’s sex, they clearly made her defenseless—a writhing, weeping prisoner of her own desperate desire.

He added his lips to the mix, kissing her between gasping grunts and fevered curses, then pressing lower, against each taut breast to lick the sweat clean and clear before favoring her lips once more. She spoke to him in murmurs and wriggles, guiding his fingers where she so desperately needed them to go, pressing against his palm as he glanced back, a warm and ready palette with which she could paint her mounting ecstasy.

“Oh, baby,” Emma grunted desperately as his fingertips deftly traced her puffy folds, dragging along their dripping moisture and incessant heat until she gracelessly spread her legs to all but beg for more. Mitch gave it eagerly, a single fingertip slipping through the tightly clenched gate of her vulva to slide just inside and taste the volcanic heat within for itself.

She hitched, leaning forward to bite into his shoulder as Mitch got the not-so-subtle message and slithered in another finger, dragging them both deeper inside before slithering them gently out and around, all while using his left hand to hold her throbbing, writhing ass in place.

“Oh!” Emma gasped, a new, raw, aching sound to match the fiery liquor coating Mitch’s fingers as he slid them gently back inside, deeper, then deeper still, mining her essence for every ounce of desire the poor woman could spare. “You. Little. Shit!”

He kissed her silent again, sensing the end was near and eager to draw it out as long as he possibly could. That is, without giving the poor woman gasping against his lips an aortic event.

Emma all but hung from the curtain rod by now, arms sinewy and straining as sex sweat drizzled down her flushed, fiery skin. Her thighs were spread, sticky and coated with her liquor as Mitch’s big left hand alternated between flanks, squeezing each in turn as his right hand focused on Emma’s sex, puffy and writhing and ripe for ruin.

And, even as Emma wriggled and jiggled her body in place, Mitch denied her best efforts at guiding him where she thought she wanted him to go and, instead, pressed and squeezed and teased her pulsing bud to within an inch of its throbbing, glistening life.

And then ... just beyond. “Shit!” Emma seized in reply, Mitch’s hand wrapped around the throbbing pulse of her pussy, the heel of his palm meaty and firm against her pounding, seizing clit. “Jesus! God!”

She came then, loudly, richly, unmistakably, the heat and moisture filling his hand as he merely clung to her sex as if to contain its irresistible fury. Her body twitched and turned, as if trying to escape, even as, moments later, she pressed against the palm of his hand anew, releasing one more climax as if to layer it upon the first.

Despite the teeth digging into Mitch’s shoulders or the curtain rod tempted to yank itself free of the ceiling it was bolted into, Emma seemed in no rush to push his patient hand away. And, indeed, Mitch could have stayed there all night, plying his sticky hand against her pulsing flesh.

And, while she greedily writhed and pressed, pulsed and throbbed her way into a third and, then, a fourth orgasm, Mitch grew bolder with each one. He thumbed her to climax next, the pad of his thickest finger circling her weeping bud until it seized and throbbed with undeniable pleasure. After waiting a suitable moment to feel Emma’s teeth dig into his flesh even as her curses drowned his ears, he slid a single index finger along her pulsing folds before seizing upon her overworked clit at last, earning a fresh orgasm in reply.

And then, just when he was about to get his toes in on the act and see what kind of damage his little piggy might do, Emma staged an almost acrobatic escape, releasing her grip from above and slithering just out of reach, gasping and panting as she literally hid behind an armchair.

“Stay over there,” she seethed, breathless and sweating all over the battered leather wing chair as Mitch shrugged and admired the sticky coat of lather that literally covered his hand. “I’ll just make do with all those little souvenirs you left me, Em.”

He licked himself clean, savoring the taste of her essence until all five fingers glistened with his gratitude. Her eyes widened in reply, then traveled down his bare, sweaty chest to the raging hard-on currently tugging his poor, battered, sticky, damp, tented sleep shorts away from his own sodden belly.

“Take a seat, College Boy,” she purred, patting the very chair behind which she cowered. “And I’ll give you a few souvenirs of your own.”

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