She gazed over her shoulder, and their lips met again, but there was no chance he’d wait. She had opened her gates, she had shown him where the treasure was kept, she had given the guards the day off. He grabbed her hand and placed it on her vulva with his over top, and their two hands moved in unison on her, with a precision like he had owned and tended her genitalia for decades. As if through careful study he had come to learn each freckle, each sensitivity. There was a bit of pain in her below, and she knew he knew, but he didn’t want to stop, and he knew she didn’t want him to. And even if they both wanted to stop, neither one could now. This was choreographed long, long ago. The steps were perfected when the phyla of life were still young.“All yours,” she said and fell forward onto the desk, bi-lobed brown heart of her ass in the air as his hands locked around her hips. “Tear it up.”Not the words she had planned on. Maybe she had planned too much anyway.She could feel her heart. It was warm to the touch and he soothed it along its length, stopping occasionally to probe a finger, feeling for tautness and any discomforture, I may feel with his probing, to which I would reply, 'No'.He eased my top up to my brassiere and ran his fingers along the ridges created by my tight fitting denims, 'You know this tightness can cause stomach pain, due to restricting movement inside', he said softly, somehow making sense, as the pain subsided slightly, and I said as much.Then he asked me to try and lift my hips slightly and in doing so, he eased my denims and my panties down and continued to push until they were at my knees.'Sorry' he apologized, 'I need to quickly check down there to ensure they are no blockages', his hand on my bared hip and my bum, exposed and in full view.'You OK', he asked me gently, 'Sure, I am fine', and he took a jar from the table, opened it and dipped his finger in, scooping out some creme, which felt cold as he guided his finger onto my.
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