I cum around his fingers for the third time. It's like he gets off by watching me fall apart in his hands, waits for me to cum until I beg for him to enter me, to fill the void, because fingers can only do so much. His do enough as it is. "Please." I mewl. "What?" He asks sarcastically, looking up at me and digging a third finger deeper inside. "I couldn't hear you. I'm swimming in the Pacific right now." He sucks on my clit again. "It's soaking wet out here." "PLEASE." He moves his mouth to my neck and probes his other head at my entrance, I guide my hips up, knowing it won't make a difference, he'll take his time, whether it be an hour or a minute from now, he'll wait to give me what I want, so that he can hear me beg. He slowly guides himself into me, and slowly begins to thrust. I won't lie to make it all the more sensual; he's not exceptionally large. Nonetheless, I cry out as if I've been impaled by at least 10 inches. The way my walls stretched to accommodate him felt. It was the list of guests that most concerned Sarah’s parents. There was a limited number of seats at Conglingbury Abbey and the question was who should not be invited. Did the Honourable Member for Lower Strickland, whose family’s wealth was built on the proceeds of gambling take precedence over Lord Cumberford who despite his blue blood carried a very strong whiff of scandal about him? Should the Prime Minister be seated next to the Prince of Baden Hofstadter? Was it prudent to issue an invitation to the immediate members of the Royal Family even when one knew that the betrothal to a man of such humble stock as Charles Kingston would most likely result in a polite refusal? The forthcoming marriage had so soon become the most exciting event in Sarah’s life. And as it got closer any worries she had about leaving the family home were as nothing compared to the exciting prospect of moving into one of the many villas, mansions, yachts and castles Charles owned both on home soil and.
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