Chapter 3

Victoria shocked me, asking, “How many times do you think you can cum today?”

“Uh ... what?”

“If you can only do it once, that’s fine. But if I get you off quick now, the second one will take a lot longer. I want to have you in me a long time. Do you think you can do it more than once?”

“You’re such a sexy little hottie, I can definitely go twice. Maybe three or four, if I take a pill. But we have a date to go on first.”

I stepped into a charcoal-grey Italian suit that hugged my shoulders just right, feeling the crispness of a fresh white shirt against my skin. I wanted to look the part of the man who could provide everything for the exquisite creature waiting in the next room. When Victoria stepped out, she looked like a vision of curated innocence and budding temptation. She wore a pale lavender silk dress that skimmed her small frame, the hemline teasing the tops of her thighs, and a pair of white kitten heels that made her walk with a delicate, rhythmic click.

We arrived at the salon, a high-end sanctuary of scent and steam. I sat in a velvet armchair, my eyes tracing every curve of her silhouette as the stylist worked. I watched, mesmerized, as her long, straight dark tresses were wound into tight, springy curls that framed her youthful face like a halo of midnight. Then came the manicure and pedicure. I leaned back, my pulse quickening as I watched the technician soak her tiny, soft feet. I admired the way her small, plump toes dipped into the warm water, thinking about how they would feel curling against my calves later. When they painted her nails a shimmering, pearlescent pink, I found myself staring at her delicate fingers, so small and fragile, yet possessing a power over me that felt absolute.

I struggled to keep my manhood soft on the way to the car.

“You look breathtaking, Vicky,” I whispered, the words thick with a hunger I was fighting to keep contained.

She beamed at me, her new curls bouncing as she tilted her head. “Do you like them, Daniel?”

“I love them. Everything about you is perfect.” I took the time to kiss every fingernail individually, then her cheek.

The air between us felt electric, charged with the promise of the night. She leaned into me, her small hand slipping into mine, her skin soft and smelling of expensive floral shampoo. I could feel the heat radiating off her, a magnetic pull that made my trousers feel tight.

We detoured to a small artisanal creamery near the edge of the park, and I bought two towering cones, salted caramel for me, and strawberry swirl for her. As we wandered into the shaded, wooded trails of the park, the canopy of ancient oaks filtering the sunlight into golden shards, I stopped walking. I didn’t care about the scenery; I only cared about the way Victoria was attacking her ice cream. She didn’t just lick it; she used her tongue in slow, deliberate swirls, savoring the sweetness, her lips glistening with melting cream. I watched her mouth, the slight pout of her lower lip, the dexterity of her tongue, and a vivid image of her head between my legs flashed through my mind with such intensity it nearly knocked the wind out of me.

“You have a very talented tongue, Vicky,” I murmured, my voice dropping to a low, raw growl. I reached out and brushed a stray drop of caramel from the corner of her mouth with my thumb, then sucked the sweetness off my own skin while staring straight into her brown eyes. “When we get home, I want you to use that tongue on me. Exactly like that. Every single spot.”

She stopped chewing, a mischievous glint appearing in her eyes as she looked up at me. She didn’t blush this time; she leaned in, her voice a playful, breathy whisper. “I can do that. But only if you do the same for me. I want to feel your tongue everywhere, Daniel. Everywhere.”

“Deal! But first, a movie at the matinee, like we planned.”

“If I’m gonna sit a couple hours, I need a cig first.”

I knew it was unhealthy, but loved watching her suck things far too much to refuse. “Okay. Let’s stand behind the building, so nobody else sees.”

We stepped into the cool shadow of the cinema’s brick wall. I stood close, my chest almost touching her shoulder, and handed her a Menthol 120. She took a deep, slow drag, her cheeks hollowing out in a way that made my stomach flip.

As she held the smoke in, her eyes fluttered shut, and she looked like a delicate, corrupted angel. She exhaled a thin, ghostly stream of white that curled around her new dark curls, then looked up at me with a lazy, heavy-lidded gaze. The contrast was intoxicating: the sophistication of her lavender silk dress against the raw, rebellious habit of the cigarette.