The Tangled Web
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa,
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Lies. They lie to each other. They are lied to. They lie to the world. The only thing that is true is that they love each other. -- I won't lie to you, I left out some story codes.
"Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive." - Sir Walter Scott
Yes, that's right: Sir Walter Scott, from his epic poem 'Marmion.' He published it in 1808 some two hundred years after Shakespeare lived. [I had to look up the date. I don't keep that kind of trivia in my head.] Not everything said in the English language that is beautiful and true was penned by the Bard.
I am now in the middle of such a tangled web that ... well, it's very tangled, okay? Nobody lied. But deceive? Boy, oh boy, did we deceive. I'm just starting to pull at a thin strand on the edge of that web; maybe it'll unravel. Where to start ... I'll start when I met Katherine.
Have you ever been in Manhattan on the first beautiful Spring day of the year? It's stupendous. All the girls – excuse me for not being totally PC and saying 'women' – have shed their winter boots and calf length skirts and bulky warm coats, and shaken the dust off short skirts and tight tops, and they have that 'look at me' makeup on. For a 28 year old guy, it's like breathing in clean, fresh air after an angel has fluttered by.
I was 6'2" tall and in pretty good shape, had short sandy hair and wasn't horribly bad looking. I got my share of attention from the ladies. I wasn't exactly a player, but ... well I looked and they looked back, okay?
Or ... you could say I got hard every other block just looking.
I met her near Central Park, in New York City – more precisely, I was on the way to Central Park. I was staying at The Plaza – at 59th St. and 5th Ave. in Manhattan. Officially it's on 59th and Grand Army Plaza, but that's a dinky little street, as streets go in NYC, and The Plaza occupies the whole block – 59th to 58th. It was an early Sunday evening in late April, five years ago, and all the girls in Manhattan were strutting their stuff in short skirts, because the weather was really nice.
It was a pleasure to be 'out and about' in Manhattan, especially when the hemlines were up and the necklines were down! I could almost hear Frank singing 'Younger than Springtime.' That's almost a melancholy song about love, but I was singing it in my head in an uptempo beat and was ready to look at the girls today. By the way, that's something I got from my mother: a love for old crooners and their songs.
I was 28 years old, a lucky owner of a software company now worth too many billions to count. That was the good news. The bad news was it was located in Silicon Valley. That's in California. What can I say? You go where the talent is. I founded and owned the company, but I didn't run it anymore. We – is it immodest to say I? – wrote the program that has become an industry standard in the tracking and scheduling of railroad tank cars. Oil tank cars. That's a boom industry nowadays. I know, I know: what a mundane way to make a billion. If I weren't so busy counting money, I'd agree with you. When we got to the point of being more than a mom and pop kind of setup, I moved the company to SilValley, and I got a real manager to run the company. That's all 'by the way' information. It has no real impact on the story, except to explain why I could justify the expense of staying at The Plaza. It is, after all, one of the more expensive hotels in the city / the nation / the world.
I was a New York kid, growing up. My family lived in Brooklyn (No! I don't have a 'dese', 'dem' and 'dose' accent, thank you.) and the first place I hacked into was the NY Public Library to get rid of some overdue fines. I was here, now, to visit my mother, who was staying at an 'Assisted Memory facility' in Connecticut. She wouldn't remember me at all, but I kind of felt obligated, you know? We'd listen to some Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett and Rosemary Clooney. She'd be happy for a day, and I'd be satisfied that I'd done what I could for a woman who'd been my whole life growing up. Dad disappeared into the ether a long time ago. There was no love lost for good ol' dad. That son of a bitch ran off with Miss Titty Bar of 1980 leaving my mom and me in the lurch.
Anyway, I was staying at The Plaza and going out, toward Central Park. Kate was coming in. She had two large Bergdorf's shopping bags – one in each hand – and entered the revolving door to come in just as I entered from the other side, going out. I noticed her through the glass of the revolving doors, of course. How could I not? She was wearing a mid-thigh skirt in 'please notice me' yellow, a scooped-neck top that almost touched the skirt around the midriff in cyan and yellow, and a turquoise necklace that appeared to be in an Aztec design. She had good legs and appeared to be about my age. She was wearing strappy heels that said 'I don't walk in Manhattan; I take taxis.'
It was my fault, really. My jacket got pinched in the revolving door as I hurried into the opening. Hurrying in New York City is an acquired disease, one that I kind of enjoyed. Back in SilValley we didn't even have revolving doors; everything was electronic and self-opening, and everyone had a more leisurely pace. If you don't know about revolving doors, imagine four doors, making a big X. The doors revolved around a central post and they were encased in a tight fitting metal sleeve on two sides. The front and the back were open, to allow entry and exit, in the Lobby and on the street side.
Anyway, my jacket caught in the door, which made it stop. I freed the jacket and pushed on the door to get it going. It stopped again with a jerk. One of her Bergdorf's shopping bags was now on the outside side of the door, the handle of the bag was in her hand, and she was trapped in the middle, as I was.
She tugged on the handle. Naturally it didn't come through. It was like putting your hand in a small mayonnaise jar and making a fist and trying to pull it out. No go. Then she tried pushing it backwards. Revolving doors don't 'revolve' backwards. She looked up at me in frustration. I rapped on the glass to get the attention of the doorman. He'd obviously dealt with this kind of thing before. He got in the open space of the door, grabbed the bag and yanked it free of the door. He then pushed slowly on the door; it revolved -- depositing Kate in the lobby, and me outside, quickly followed by the doorman with the bag in the lobby.
I took the opportunity to push again on the door, and 180 degrees later, I was in the Lobby as well. "I'm terribly sorry," I said. "It was all my fault. Are you okay?"
I knew perfectly well that she was okay. She was much better than merely okay, as a matter of fact, but ... no shot is a sure miss, right? She was about my height – maybe an inch or two shorter – in heels, so that would make her about 5'9" or 10" tall. She was model gorgeous. The legs I've already commented on. She was slender, medium busted and had long auburn locks that were fashioned in a loose twisted affair that either took her zero time to arrange or over an hour to get the semi-disheveled look just perfect.
"Nay, 'tis my fault entire," she said, with an obvious Irish lilt to her voice. "You'll be forgivin' me, now, won'tcha?"
"Well, that will depend," I said. I wasn't exactly on the prowl, but she was awfully attractive – at least to this member of the male species. "If you'll have dinner with me, I'll forgive all past indiscretions." Like I said, no shot is a sure miss.
"Oh, but I can't. I've got tickets to the Lincoln Center. 'Tis the last concert of the season for the Philharmonic, and a friend of me Da' has taken the train down from Boston. So, I've got a date, ya see." That Irish lilt was going to be the end of me. Not to mention the sparkle in her green eyes.
"I am crushed," I said, feigning crushedness. "Now I won't be able to forgive you till ... lunch tomorrow?"
"Well now ... that'll be nice." She smiled. What a smile! Her face lit up and I was enslaved.
"I'm staying here. Just ask for me at the desk." I handed her a card. One of my New York cards: just my name, John MacKutchen. In my other pocket were business cards with the company's name in big letters and my name and contact information below. This was definitely not a business meeting. The hotel would know me. I stayed in one of their Rose Suites for a week, every month, for the past two years.
"And I'll be Katherine ... Kate uh Flaherty. I'm stayin' here, too."
"Well, pleased to meet you, Katherine. And I've taken far too much of your time ... especially if you're meeting someone. I'll see you tomorrow."
We parted ways. I went on to stroll through Central Park and she went to heaven knows where, to do who knows what, and then presumably to have dinner and see the New York Philharmonic with a friend of her Da'.
I found myself at the zoo, in front of the lion's cage in the gathering dusk, wondering if they were jealous of the perfect color of Katherine's auburn hair. What's that expression the Brits have? I was gobsmacked. I was infatuated. Enslaved is more like it. Voluntary servitude. Whatever she wanted me to do, I'd do. Maybe I'd follow her back to Ireland and we'd buy a castle together – or something.
A change of scenery would do my heart good, not to mention what she'd do for it.
The next day dawned gloomy and rainy, as any proper Monday should. However, in my room, Room 1714, it was a cheerful and happy guy who got out of bed and hopped in the shower. I was going to have lunch with my new paramour: Katherine Flaherty. Not that she knew the situation. No longer was I relegated to the depressed masses of men who could only hope to achieve happiness with a woman. A special woman, in my case.
No longer would I be sad at my previous failures in love. Frustrated at finding one special woman and only later finding out that she cheated on me, and chose another – in my case, a well-hung man of mixed black and Asian descent. Discovering that, since before the marriage, she was getting her fancy tickled by a former lineman for the Oakland Raiders. That I was just a meal ticket to her. No, that pain was in my past and soon to be forgotten. I could hope.
To borrow the title of Hal Kemps hit song of the 30's: I got a date with an angel.
I was a little early for lunch: it was only 7:30. Well ... I chose a chocolate colored pair of slacks and a lighter brown-colored polo shirt. Checked myself in the mirror. Not bad. Made my sandy colored hair come out pretty well and favored my brown eyes. No – they were not 'limpid pools of mocha' or anything like that. This isn't a bodice ripper novel, after all. But I needed something else to complete my ensemble.
I went downstairs and hailed a cab to go to Barney's. By the time I got there, they were open. A few moments in the casual mens' wear department and I found what I needed. A neat, light tan, corduroy jacket – leather elbow patches included. Okay, so I looked a little like a foppy university professor. But I wanted to impress Miss Ireland without seeming to impress her. I got a dark brown pocket square and I looked pretty good, I thought.
Manhattan traffic was not kind, this weekday morn. One taxi ride later and I was back at The Plaza; it was 11:20. I stopped at the front desk and asked for Katherine Flaherty. I was surprised to learn that no such person was a guest here.
I was puzzled. She didn't seem to be brushing me off abruptly, last night. And yet ... she was not registered. I decided to wait in the Lobby.
It was a good thing that the Lobby personnel knew me at the Plaza, but I'd counted on that. Sometimes you do get what you paid for. Some twenty-five minutes later the concierge came over and said I had a phone call. It was Katherine! She had called the desk to get my room and they had found me sitting on an overstuffed armchair, reading an e-book on my Kindle.
"Hi, John. 'Tis I, Kate. Remember? We're to have lunch."
Remember? I was sitting here, drooling all over my corduroy sport coat, waiting. "Oh sure. Hi Kate. I'm down in the Lobby. Do you want to go out or The Palm Court is always nice for brunch." I was showing off, but The Palm Court was nice for brunch – if a bit pricey. Everything was pricey at The Plaza.
She was dressed simply, but on her it was lovely. I was struck stupid. She wore a plain navy dress, with cream piping. It had a modest neckline, pinched in at the waist to show her curves, and an above-the-knee hem. A double strand of pearls at her throat and matching ear studs. Stout two-inch heels that wouldn't be much trouble to walk the streets of Manhattan. The only thing racy at all was the dark tinted stockings with the heavy seam up the back of those beautiful legs. But it all hung together on her, accenting her curves nicely. Like I said, I was struck stupid. If she were wearing a potato sack, it would have been the best looking potato sack ever worn.
Over a champagne brunch we talked about each of us, individually: I liked 'classical American crooners' – like Como and Crosby – and she liked 'classical nouveau-romantic tunesmiths' – like Rachmaninov and Dvorak. I liked skiing – water – and she liked skiing – snow. I was about to spend several days in Kentucky buying the next Secretariat, hopefully. She preferred show jumping.
Somewhere along the line, I casually mentioned that I'd asked for her at the desk and had been told there was no Katherine Flaherty.
"Oh that. Well..." she paused some, and I think I could tell that she was deciding how much of the truth to tell me. "'Tiss because I'm registered under my official name. My married name: Baroness Katherine von Wurtenberg. I ... was married at a very young age to an elderly fellow, the Baron von Wurtenberg. Kinda nice guy, actually, who I grew to love, in my fashion. We're minor royalty only in Lichenstein ... He ... well, he died some time ago, but I'm allowed to use his title. There are no little Barons von Wurtenberg running around. The title will be allowed to go vacant when I'm done with it. But I prefer to be known as who I really am. Or was ... My family in Ireland was dirt poor. The Baron's wealth is ... was ... extensive. He needed someone who could care for him ... medically and ... well ... sexually. So I was sent off to get educated and be ... well ... I became the Baroness."
"Baroness?" I stood, click my heels together in my best imitation of Adolphe Monju playing a matre'd in some B grade movie and said, "But Baroness, I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance." Then I clicked my heels again and sat down.
"They really do that in Liechtenstein, you know," she said with a laugh.
The brunch went on. We laughed over some war stories I told of SilValley types. We shared sadness at her early marriage – at age 14! – to the 68 year old Baron.
"So why are you in New York?" she asked.
"Mostly to see my mother. She's an Alheizemer patient and in a home up in Connecticut. And you?"
"The usual." From my blank face, she could tell I had no idea what her 'usual' was. "Shopping, see some shows. I was hoping to see some Picasso prints at MOMA [Museum of Modern Art] later today."
Brunch was mostly over. I signed my room number on the bill and stood. "Baroness, if you will permit..." I was Adolphe Monju again. "I will be pleased to squire you around MOMA, this afternoon." I paused as she rose with a smile. "Or, if you prefer, I have some interesting etchings up in my suite."
I looked at her green eyes, with what I hoped was serious interest.
She picked up her purse and paused. "The etchings, I think for today. Do you think there's enough there to hold our interest 'til suppertime?"
"My dear Baroness ... I shall make it my business to see that you are entertained until well after supper."
Up in room 1714 we did indeed entertain ourselves for several hours. She wanted to see me naked at first. I wondered if I was being compared to a 68+ year old man. I would not allow her to proceed further than looking, however, 'til I had some candy for my eyes, too.
She turned and I unzipped the dress. She shrugged out of it, but then held it up like a shield when she turned around.
"What's wrong Kate?"
"Well, the Baron ... he didn't like me to be naked before nightfall. Always did the deed in a darkened room. I came to believe that I was disfigured in some way that he found unpleasant. I don't have any sexy underthings. And you – you fine specimen – you're the first man I've seen in the all together. So I guess I'm a bit of a virgin – at least mentally."
"Can we put away everything that happened with the Baron, please?" I said. "I'm not him. It was his loss to have you disrobe in the dark. I have seen a fair number of lovely ladies – and in the all together, as you say. Will you believe me if I tell you that you are the most winsome of lassies? You outshine them all, from the top of your auburn curls to the bottom of your luscious toes."
"Oh pish-posh. I can't be."
"I can prove it," I said, pointing to my hard as iron dick.
"Oh!" She hadn't looked directly at it.
"Can I kiss you?" I closed the distance and put my arms around her. Kissed her, softly at first. When she began to respond, I slipped my tongue between her lips. She pulled back, looking surprised.
"It's the way lovers kiss, Lady Katherine," I explained.
She nodded and kissed me, her tongue attacking my mouth.
"Slowly, m'Lady," I whispered. "It's a mutual thing, to be savored."
She started to apologize, but I kissed her in mid-'I'm sorry'. We kissed again, first my tongue, then hers, each exploring the other's mouth.
I took a step back and reached for the dress she was holding to her bosom. I tugged on it softly, and she released it. I took a moment to enjoy the view that was unleashed on an unknowing world.
From the top: a sprinkle of freckles across her chest. A plain white, utilitarian bra that could also probably stop bullets. Breasts that were still fully concealed, but were probably a C cup. A pale white belly that narrowed appropriately – if appropriate was the right definition for a swimsuit centerfold. A sexy black garter belt, that looked out of place. Over it was a pair of plain white granny panties that would cover Kate and my grandmother at the same time. Her hips, let me note in passing, seemed to widen just right for (a) proper fucking and (b) sometime later, for the bearing of children. Lots of children, I hoped. Then the suspenders of the garters, in black lace, leading the eye down over perfectly muscled thighs. I thought briefly of the hours she must have experienced on the backs of those jumping horses of hers. Then my gaze panned down over the black nylons that encased perfectly shaped legs. They seemed to go on forever. Until they came to those clunky, utilitarian shoes.
"Do I pass your inspection, then?" she asked. The question came out in a heavier than normal Irish version of English. I couldn't tell if she was anxious for an answer or laughingly mocking my slow taking in of her charms.
"You are perfect. Nothing less. Do something for me?"
"What do'ya want now?"
"Take off your bra. It mars your beauty. You don't need it and I'll not have it on you. You should wear nothing but lace and fine silk."
She shyly reached behind her back and unsnapped it. Sliding it off her arms, she held it in front of her, again like a shield.
"Toss it away, Kate. No matter what, promise me you won't wear something like that again."
"While I'm with you, I promise. For the rest, we'll see. They're very conservative back in Liechtenstein."
"Not for beautiful women, they're not."
"We shall see 'bout that." But she laughed and tossed the bra over her shoulder. It went over the couch and thudded against the wall. I'd have to remember to collect it before the room was made up again. Don't want to shock The Plaza personnel. Though on second thought, I'll bet that there was more than one orgy held in these staid rooms.
She stood proudly, now. Shoulders back, hands fluttering nervously at her side. "Well?" she said, her voice quivering. She seemed to be on the verge of flight.
Her breasts matched the rest of her: lovely. Perhaps a C, or maybe a B+ in size. In quality they were A+ material. Just a fraction of a millimeter of sag, with aureolae that seemed to be just above the horizontal; they were dark tan in color. The nipples were unusual. They seemed to be pulled inside at the very tip. A sort of innie, I guess. I'd never seen that before. We'll have to find out what happens when suction is applied. I found myself smiling at the thought.
"You're laughing at me. They're deformed! I knew it. That's why he never had me undress in the light," she said in a panicky voice. She threw her left arm over her breasts.
I reached out and took both her hands in mine, and pulled her arm down. "You're beautiful. And perfect. I wasn't laughing at you; I was thoroughly enjoying myself. To put you in the dark is a sin against mankind."
I kissed her again, softly. "Now," I continued, "take off those ugly granny panties. Once again, you should wear lace and silk over your ... what shall we call it? Your girly parts? Your pussy? Your privates? I'd prefer to call it your cunt. That has just the right amount of crude passion to express what I want to do to you, for you, in that place."
Her eyes opened wide at my use of the word 'cunt.' Her thumbs went to the elastic waist of the panties and she shimmied out of them and tossed them over her shoulder, too. They landed on a chair.
She had trimmed her public hair into a neat little auburn V.
"My one vanity, don't ya know," she tried to apologize.
"Don't you ever apologize for making yourself beautiful. You'd be beautiful with it shaved off, or thick as a forest or as it is now," I assured her. She was getting used to being without clothes in front of me, hearing my lavish praise. "Leave on the garter belt and stockings, they're sexy as hell, but you don't need to wear them. Your legs are gorgeous ... but get rid of the clunky heels, please."
She kicked them off in a second, and they flew off to another corner. She dropped two inches in apparent height.
Baroness Katherine Flaherty von Wurttenberg stood before me, undressed. But it was Kate that stood there with a glint in her eye. She pushed me gently back 'til my knees hit the bed and I flopped backwards.
"I'm not very good at love makin', love," she said, the passion in her voice matching the glint in her eye. "Let me be showin' ya what I can do, before you're showin' me things I know not of."
She dropped to her knees and literally inhaled my cock. Her hands were probing at my balls and my ass. Her mouth worked on my cockhead. And then it slipped lower on the shaft and she took me all the way in. At six and a half inches, I was not that big. Certainly not up to Oakland Raiders lineman standards. But Kate seemed to like it.
"'Tis a bit larger than I'm used to," she said popping off me. "I hope I can do justice to such a lovely bit of man-flesh."
I just groaned and flopped back on the bed. The Rose Suite and the New York Plaza had a lovely ceiling. I closed my eyes when she deep throated me again. I don't know that I even reached her throat, but what the hell ... it was the best and most enthusiastic blow job I'd ever had.
She knew when to use and when to withhold her teeth. When to stroke heavily between my asshole and cockroot with fingers – and with tongue. When to form an 'O' around the base of my cock to keep me from coming. When and how to use her tongue on the sensitive underside of me. And when I was thrashing about in dire need of a cum, when to stick her fingers into my ass and stroke my prostate while sucking heavily on the head of my cock.
Nearly unconscious, I felt her getting to her feet and leaving the bed area. I grabbed an arm.
"Mouthwash," she said. "You won't be wantin' to kiss me, like we do, with a mouthful of yourself in there."
I pulled her to me. "If you want to spit it out, okay." A quick negative shake of her head belied that. "But if not..." A quick jerk on her arm sent her into my arms. I kissed her. Yeah it was a little spermy. But soon enough I was going to lick my sperm out of her cunt, so a little sperm in a kiss would be okey-dokey. I kissed her 'like we kissed' – full tongue.
She got the message and said, during a time of coming up for air, "John MacKutchen, you're a caution, ya are. I take it ya like women."
"Nope," I said. "Just you."
Her hand slithered down 'til it found my semi-hard cock. "I left ya clean, Mr. Johnny Mac. Will ya be havin' your way with me now?"
As I hardened in her hand, I rolled her over and got between her legs.
"I've never done it this way. I dinna know what to do," she said nervously.
"What ways do you know, love?"
"Well, the old Baron would just lie on his back, and I'd mount up, so to speak."
"We'll do that, then." And I rolled over again, taking her with me. She wound up with her legs outside my hips as she sat up.
"But, sir," she said in that soft Irish accent. "You're so much bigger. You'll ruin me, ya will."
"Take as much or as little as you want, lovely Kate."
"That I shall." And so saying she dropped her fine cunt down and took me 'entire, ' as she would say, all in one stroke. Her eyes popped out of their sockets. The Baron must have been on the small side. "Move not an inch, ya pirate. I feel yer sword comin' out me throat." Her Irish got heavier as she got more passionate.
I cheated. My right hand snuck in between her legs and found her clit. I rubbed it softly, in a little circle.
It was her turn to explode. She collapsed her upper body down on my chest. "What have ya done? You've ruint me for all others."
"I just stroked your clit. Worshipped you as you deserve, angel. There's more I'll do, too. You'll see."
"More?" She slid her hands under my shoulders and cried softly against my chest. "I never knew." She said it in a quiet murmer against my shoulder.
"Give me enough time, and you shall," I promised.
She was boneless after that first orgasm. She clung to me for long minutes, impaled on my still hard cock and didn't want to move. I rolled her slowly over and was soon on my hands and knees above her, and still inside her.
"Oooo. That's nice," she whispered in my ear. "I like the way you take me."
"I haven't taken you ... yet. But I mean to ... right now." And so saying, I hooked first one leg and then the other in my arms, and pushed them back almost to her shoulders. She was folded up in a neat bundle, then, her cunt now totally open to me. "This is how a pirate would take his little Irish girl."
I plunged in as deep as I could get and started pounding her.
"Oh!" she said. "Ooohhh!" she said. "Ooooooooohhhhhh!" she said. When she got the idea that I wasn't going to quit anytime soon, she just opened her mouth in a silent 'Ooooohhh!'
I kissed her and started raping her mouth in tempo with my thrusting.
Her hands on the back of my shoulders began to dig in, leaving scratches on my back, that I swear are there to this day. Maybe not, but I'd wear them with pride if they were. I can still feel exactly where they were.
She started to moan into my mouth as I bounced us into the mattress. Over and over and over.
She came several times, or perhaps it was only one long one. I'll never understand the mysteries of the female orgasm. Then she tapered down. But the repetitive thrusting were finally getting to me. That's what gets men going, in case you don't know it: the repetitive motion of going in and out. Well ... once you're past the 'Oh my god, it's a woman' – spurt – stage of early manhood.
I released her legs and she wrapped them around my ass. She had the legs of a horsewoman, and if she'd have had spurs, my ass would be scarred. "Don't be getting soft on me, now. I'm not done with ya yet," she said softly. "Ya scurvy pirate, ya." She punctuated her works with a clench of her legs around me.
"Despite what you may have heard about pirates, we do need to reload our cannon now and again. But never fear ... I'll find something to do."
As I softened and squirted out of her cunt, I slithered down between her legs and found myself just at titty level. I sucked softly at her breast and the nipple just popped out for me. Little John Jr. or Katherine Jr. would have no trouble at all. Not to mention all the little ones to come thereafter: Connie, Seamus, Colleen, Michael and the rest.
She curled a hand around the back of my head. "Oh. That's so nice. It makes me feel ... warm and tingly, all over." I switched to her other breast and kept sucking softly. Then I took a little traction with my teeth and pulled.
I lifted my head a little. "Maybe I'll have to beat them with a crop, someday."
"You wouldn't." Our eyes met. "You would!" she said softly.
"You can't tell what us pirates would do," I leered.
I slid down and stuck my tongue in her navel. She giggled. It made her abdomen move and that made my tongue work more effective. She giggled again. After a while I relented and gave her a soft kiss there.
Then I moved south again.
"Oh no! John. I'm messy there, you can't. He never..."
But her words were cut off when I began to suck softly on her clit. I vaguely remember her thighs clamping around my head and the silky softness of her stockings on my back.
Even as she held me to her with her legs, she tried to scoot away, up the bed. I just followed the bouncing clit and kept my mouth in place.
"John. Please ... It's not right. We just..."
I lifted my head again to look at her. "Did you not just take my cock in your mouth?"
"And did you not suck me, taking my sperm in your mouth?"
I tapped her abs. "Goose." I pointed at me. "Gander." Her again. "Goose." Me again. "Gander."
She was still shaking her head 'no.'
Then I lowered my head and licked her labia. Licked into her cunt as far as I could. I came up for air and lick/sucked on her clit.
I felt the tension go out of her legs and looked up from my rug munching position. Her eyes were closed. She was just saying "Yessssssss. Ooooohhhh yessssssss."
A couple more cycles of cunt licking followed by clit loving and she was getting into the swing of things. Her feet were planted on the bed now, and she was hunching up toward my mouth.
Time for a new experience. I doubted that the Baron had heard of a G-spot. I inserted two fingers – which she liked to an extreme degree – and began my search. When I found the slightly thickened place, just where it was supposed to be, I tapped it rather firmly, in time with my clit licking.
It was Mount St. Helens. She first pushed her pelvis way up into the air. Fortunately, I was expecting some sort of reaction and was holding on with my left arm; it was wrapped around her leg and across her hips. Therefore, I didn't lose contact with the victim's sensitive places.
I kept tapping and increased the pace of my clit licking. She was balanced on her shoulders and feet, but she moved her feet to wrap her legs around my upper torso. This caused her ass to immediately drop to the bed. I kept on licking and tapping. She flexed against me and arched up again, resting now on her shoulders and my back. I use 'resting' only in the technical sense, because she wasn't resting at all. She was fucking against my face – much more than she ever did when we were actually fucking.
Of course, in retrospect, I have to admit it wasn't a fair comparison: she didn't have that much range of motion when we fucked. I thought of that only later.
Ever the Baroness, she eloquently said, "Godddd dammmmmmmmmmm. Youuuuuuu uggggghhhhh!" And then she hit a high C, moving to an even higher note: I think it was A flat.
I was prepared to keep at this all afternoon, but she peaked. Her whole body convulsed several times and I could feel the heat of the flush of her skin on her belly. Then she placed her feet on my shoulders and pushed me away.
"I ... I ... that never happened before." She frantically pulled me up on the bed and curled against my side. I could feel the tears on my chest. I wrapped my arm around her back and pulled the sheet up.
"There's more, baby girl. Stay with the pirates!" I said quietly, toward the top of her head.
I could feel her head nod and the tears were wet on my skin. We slept for long hours.