Porn Battle 6.0 Entries
So, oxoniensis hosts her Porn Battle every year, and it's always a fantastic time. I managed four entries, two of them in brand-new fandoms to me, surprisingly enough:
"It's Hard to Be a Saint in the City" (Swingtown, Tom/Janet)
Oh God, she was really in for it this time.
Because he'd kissed her. Pot brownies and half-naked games of Twister at the Millers' cabin were one thing, but Tom Decker had kissed her, while they were utterly sober. And the most surprising thing about it hadn't been how soft his mouth was, or how gentle his hands on her face had been, but the fact that he'd called her beautiful.
Roger hadn't called her beautiful in years, since before they had Ricky. Tom had seen her at the pool, back in her own fussy clothes and not that gorgeous dress of Trina's, makeup removed and everything, and called her beautiful.
Maybe that was why she found herself back at the Decker house the next morning, in an old blouse that was a tad too small, and her best red and white skirt. Maybe it was why she rang the bell and stayed, instead of scurrying away.
"Janet!" She must have caught him about to head out for a flight; crisp blue jacket buttoned, his cap tucked under one arm. "I'm sorry, but you caught us at a bad time. Trina's out shopping and I'm about to leave for this week's Tokyo run."
"Tom, wait. I just - I wanted to tell you, ask you, really . . ."
She trips over her words - God, she's always doing that around Tom and Trina! - and her palms are starting to sweat, so she grips her skirt in her fists and blurts out what she really came here to say.
"Did you mean it?"
Surprise flashes across his face, but he doesn't need to ask what she means. He steps back, motions her inside, and closes the door, leaning against the wall. She's never been this close to him, not since the cabin, when he beat her at Twister by flashing those gorgeous blue eyes of his at her and knocking her foot off the red circle.
"Do you have to ask?"
"Yes," she breathes out, placing one hand on his chest to steady herself. It's not an excuse to touch him, she tells herself.
She's such a liar.
He bends to kiss her, and oh, this is nothing like last night. Last night was sweet and fleeting, and this is Tom, hands threading through her hair, tongue sweeping through her mouth. She hits the wall, hard enough to jolt, but she doesn't care. His mouth has moved to her ear, muttering the filthiest words in her ear, and it's turning her on like nothing ever has.
"Know what I'd do to you? Could fuck you here and now, up against the doorway, pull your skirt up, put my mouth on you. Roger doesn't eat pussy, does he, Janet? I'd lick you until you screamed. You're so gorgeous when you're screaming, all flushed and tense. Could fuck that tension right out of you, couldn't I?"
He thumbs open the top two buttons on her blouse, and she shudders, hand lacing through his blonde hair. It's softer than Roger's, silkier. His mouth trails down to the top of her breasts, and he grins as she gasps.
"Your breasts are fantastic, you know. You filled out that dress last night better than Trina ever did. Don't think she didn't notice. You think that all the time, right? That no one notices you, mousy little Janet, huh?"
"Why - why would they?", she grits out, back arching against the wood of the door, her breasts pushing out of her blouse like she's some streetwalker.
He shoves the material of her bra to the side, and closes his mouth around one nipple. He doesn't let up until he keeps his promise and she screams for him. She's soaking wet against his thigh, and he pulls up her leg to tuck around his waist, rocking his erection against her. There's still that line, she thinks dimly. He won't fuck her because he promised Trina to stay faithful. But his loyalty apparently stretches to making her come fully clothed against his front door, his uniform still on.
As she comes down, he kisses her again. She raises an eyebrow - he didn't get off - but he shakes his head.
"I know you, Janet. You won't cheat on Roger - you're better than that."
She's not sure if she should be disappointed that he's right.
~*~*~*~
"if you want a way out" (Mad Men, Don/Joan)
She's not a girl you buy jewelry for.
With Betty, it was strands of freshwater pearls from Tiffany's, worn with some of the couture dresses she still had from her modeling days. With Rachel, it was Harry Winston diamonds, worn to remind him that while she could afford it herself, it pleased her to have him buy her things. With Midge, it was gold and emerald bracelets, far too expensive for her bohemian tastes, but that she still kept when she ran off to Europe with whats-his-name.
Men buy women gold earrings for their birthday, diamond rings for their engagement, pearl necklaces for anniversaries, because it shows the women belong to them. He never buys jewelry for Joan, because he knows as well as anyone that no man will ever own Joan Holloway like that.
He buys her shoes instead: a pair of sky-high Christian Dior sandals Betty was oohing and aahing over one day. They're silver, size 8 and a half, and he buys them with the intention of fucking her in Roger's office with them on. Maybe on Roger's desk, Joan wearing only those jaw-dropping black lace panties she has.
Reality, for once, is so much better.
They're in Duck's office. Everyone's left early for the Christmas holiday, and they're the only ones in the building. Roger's in Chicago with Mona and the family, Betty and the kids are at home and he's not expected until much later tonight, and Joan is perched on the conference table in nothing but those silver shoes and a smile. She'd left a little trail for him to follow from the elevator down the hallway into Duck's office, and he's been rock-hard ever since he saw her panties dangling from the coffee machine.
She smiles as he reaches her, that gorgeous, cat-full-of-cream smile that's got just enough edge to it. He lets her pull him down by his tie, and shudders as she lies down on the table, legs spread. God, she's wet - auburn curls darkening as she extends a leg over his shoulder. Joanie's never been shy about what she wants, and what she wants now is his mouth on her. Not that he minds.
His tongue delves into her cunt, making her shudder and moan above him. He works his tongue first deep into her, then shallow licks around her pussy as she squirms and directs him. She's the first woman who's managed to successfully order him around in bed. A press of one stiletto heel to his ass makes his cock jump, and he follows her directions. Suck on her clit. Scrape teeth gently over it, then start tongue-fucking her again.
She shrieks when he inserts two fingers while scraping his teeth over her clit. It's always more fun to take her by surprise, make her swear like a sailor and whine out "Don, Don, fuck, please, oh God please fuck me".
He turns her over on her belly, then slides her down off the table so she's bent over, arms on the top. God, she's beautiful, the curve of her ass, her long legs extending down to those heels planted in the carpet. He fucks her the way she likes it - the way she demands it - fast and rough, one hand playing at her breasts, the other rubbing at her clit. She lets him come first, then drops to her knees and sucks him off, tasting herself and moaning like it's the first time.
He'll never be able to keep her, but he's fool enough to try.
~*~*~*~
"Riders on the Storm" (Doctor Who/Torchwood, Nine/Tosh)
She learns - as Jack has told her - that when you travel with the Doctor, your name is woven into some of the oldest stories in the universe.
On Laloptera, home of the greatest historians in the universe, historians tell of a "tosh-ee-koh" venturing out into the greatest of storms, placing her hand upon the lightning, singing to the thunder, and walking out under a calm sky.
Jack has warned her about Satellite Five, the Daleks, and the Master, and the lure of the Doctor. But oh, Jack hadn't told her this. How the Doctor's anger transformed him into the most avenging of angels, and stripped away everything that was even slightly awkward - or, indeed, human - about him.
"How dare they? You lot have already learned that slavery isn't the way to go, and if a bunch of stupid apes can figure it out, why can't they?"
She placed a hand on his back, and it was the first time she'd touched him anywhere but his hand. As he turned around, he didn't need to vocalize what was in his eyes - don't, or you'll get burned - but Tosh spent enough time in UNIT's prison to learn to play with fire. She laced her fingers in his, and leaned up to kiss him.
There's more than one kind of fire, and she found herself lifted against him, his blue eyes - older than seas and skies on worlds she'd never seen - asking only one question. Her answer is, of course, yes, and he seals his mouth to hers, tongue licking hotly at the seam to her lips and then sliding against hers. She gasps, locking her legs around his waist, and runs her hands over his cropped hair. It's softer than she expects; everything about him is sharp, designed for utility and not comfort. The leather of his jacket scrapes against her silk blouse, and the snap of his jeans digs into the flesh of her inner thigh.
He flashes her one of those trademark grins as he sets her down again, then removes the jacket to lay it down on the sand. Tosh kicks off her shoes - flats, the one concession she has to this life of running - and starts to shimmy out of her blouse. His hands assist her in getting it halfway down her arms, then flick the snap of her bra and divest her of that along with her shirt.
He's still fully clothed, but doesn't give her the opportunity to return the favor as he runs a finger over the cuve of one breast, grinning at her self-conscious shiver. He pulls her down to kneel opposite him, and his mouth is on her breast, hellbent on making her come from that alone. His teeth scrape at her nipple, then his mouth trails over to her other breast, licking and biting until a scream tears itself from her.
"Good girl," he says, his hand sliding up her skirt. He laughs wickedly as he encounters her lack of panties, and she kisses his amusesment right out of him, shoving him onto his back and straddling him. His hand remains between her legs, thumb flicking her clit as he sinks two fingers into her, but she's got just enough coherancy left to pull his jumper over his head and unsnap the button to his jeans.
He wrings one orgasm out of her while she negotiates removing his jeans, single-mindedly rubbing her clit and fucking her with his fingers until she tightens around them in surprise. Then he guides himself into her, rolling her over so that she's on top, and oh, he is a mind-reader then. At her nod, he takes hold of her hips and begins fucking her, hard, encouraging her to move faster in counterpoint.
Looking down at him, the fierce concentration on his face, she thinks she knows why Jack loved this Doctor best. She knows how it works - he's the same man, he just looks different - but there's something primal, something about this Doctor that she's never seen in the one Martha knew and spoke of. This Doctor hates fiercely and loves even more fiercely. If she's not careful, she could easily throw away everything to stay with him.
As she comes again, equations behind her eyes and in his voice, she makes her decision. When they return to the city, she asks the scribes for one thing: a copy of the "tosh-ee-koh" legend written in English. She wishes she could stay with him, but a letter, left on the TARDIS console, will have to do.
Find the one you can share the storm with, my Doctor. London is nice this time of year.
~*~*~*~
"The Masochism Tango" (Profit, Profit/Gail)
G&G is deserted, they're 12 hours from one of the biggest deals of the year, and Gail is perched on his desk, skirt around her hips, asking him questions.
"If I ask you to do something, will you do it for me?"
He could debate with himself. Is it worth getting involved with his secretary? Worth the body count if and when it ever comes out? What does he get out of it, other than getting laid? What does she get out of it?
In the end, it doesn't really matter. Jim knows he has trust issues - that he's never been truly honest in a relationship - and that, as partners go, he could do (and has done) much worse than Gail Koner.
"Yes."
"Good. Unzip your pants and take your cock out."
Direct, isn't she? He hesitates, and that's all she needs to brace herself against the desk and plant one heeled pump directly on his groin. It's not as bad as Kelly's stilettos, but Gail has more control than Kelly ever did, in a few different meanings of the word. She presses down delicately, and he can't stop the gasp she causes.
"Did you hear me, Jim? I told you to do something."
Her foot eases out of its perfect arch, and the heel presses harder into his cloth-covered groin. Oh, she's got beautiful feet - he doesn't usually fixate on body parts, not like he's ever considered himself an "ass man" or a "breast man", but Gail's tiny little feet exercising such control over him is attractive, in its own way. Better show a little humility, though, before she presses too hard. He doesn't actually like pain, but toying with the edge of it is fun, especially when you're playing with someone who knows the game.
"All right," he breathes, relaxing a little as she removes her foot. He unzips his pants, folding the seperated halves of his fly down so they don't get in the way, and pulls his dick out. If Gail's surprised he doesn't wear underwear, then she doesn't show it. "What next?"
Gail slides herself up onto the desk, skirt hiked up around her hips, and rests her heels on the arms of his desk chair. "Keep your hands on the chair. You don't get to touch yourself until I say so."
Oh. She does know him, then, knows him well enough to smirk at the apparently-intrigued look on his face. His cock jumps - an interesting and novel sensation - at the sight of Gail sliding her pantyhose down her legs, followed by her panties. They're plain white cotton high-cut, absolutely what he'd expect her to wear to the office, and he's a little disappointed as she folds them together and places them on the desk, out of his reach.
She's got his undivided attention, though, when she replaces her legs to either side of him, allowing him to look at her cunt, using her fingers to spread apart the damp curls. Her hands are delicate, but show no hesitation as she circles the tip of her opening with her middle finger, dipping it shallowly inside herself and trailing the wetness she finds up to her clit. He can feel his breathing start to get faster, and his hands clench against the chair as he watches her rub her clit eagerly, going straight for it unlike many women he's encountered. They'd toy with their pussies, trail fingers over outer and inner lips and graze at their clits, but Gail goes right for what she wants.
Good girl.
She lets out a series of squeaky gasps as the tempo picks up, and he makes the mistake of raising his eyes to her face. Oh, she's delicious like this, head tilted back, exposing her throat unthinkingly. He wonders if she's doing it deliberately, knowing him and his proclivities as well as she does. She couldn't have hit on a better temptation for him, and he hardens further, cock pressing uncomfortably against his suit pants. She licks her lips, and he unconsciously groans, low under his breath.
Her eyes flick open, and she grins at him. "Something you want, Jim?"
Fuck, yes. He wants to pull her forward and bury his face between her legs until she screams. He wants to push her back and fuck her until she blacks out. He wants her against the wall and bent over his desk and any way he can get her, really.
Luckily, she's got nothing against indulging his wants. All of them.
Feedback, as everyone knows, is loved and hugged and squeezed and called George.
"It's Hard to Be a Saint in the City" (Swingtown, Tom/Janet)
Oh God, she was really in for it this time.
Because he'd kissed her. Pot brownies and half-naked games of Twister at the Millers' cabin were one thing, but Tom Decker had kissed her, while they were utterly sober. And the most surprising thing about it hadn't been how soft his mouth was, or how gentle his hands on her face had been, but the fact that he'd called her beautiful.
Roger hadn't called her beautiful in years, since before they had Ricky. Tom had seen her at the pool, back in her own fussy clothes and not that gorgeous dress of Trina's, makeup removed and everything, and called her beautiful.
Maybe that was why she found herself back at the Decker house the next morning, in an old blouse that was a tad too small, and her best red and white skirt. Maybe it was why she rang the bell and stayed, instead of scurrying away.
"Janet!" She must have caught him about to head out for a flight; crisp blue jacket buttoned, his cap tucked under one arm. "I'm sorry, but you caught us at a bad time. Trina's out shopping and I'm about to leave for this week's Tokyo run."
"Tom, wait. I just - I wanted to tell you, ask you, really . . ."
She trips over her words - God, she's always doing that around Tom and Trina! - and her palms are starting to sweat, so she grips her skirt in her fists and blurts out what she really came here to say.
"Did you mean it?"
Surprise flashes across his face, but he doesn't need to ask what she means. He steps back, motions her inside, and closes the door, leaning against the wall. She's never been this close to him, not since the cabin, when he beat her at Twister by flashing those gorgeous blue eyes of his at her and knocking her foot off the red circle.
"Do you have to ask?"
"Yes," she breathes out, placing one hand on his chest to steady herself. It's not an excuse to touch him, she tells herself.
She's such a liar.
He bends to kiss her, and oh, this is nothing like last night. Last night was sweet and fleeting, and this is Tom, hands threading through her hair, tongue sweeping through her mouth. She hits the wall, hard enough to jolt, but she doesn't care. His mouth has moved to her ear, muttering the filthiest words in her ear, and it's turning her on like nothing ever has.
"Know what I'd do to you? Could fuck you here and now, up against the doorway, pull your skirt up, put my mouth on you. Roger doesn't eat pussy, does he, Janet? I'd lick you until you screamed. You're so gorgeous when you're screaming, all flushed and tense. Could fuck that tension right out of you, couldn't I?"
He thumbs open the top two buttons on her blouse, and she shudders, hand lacing through his blonde hair. It's softer than Roger's, silkier. His mouth trails down to the top of her breasts, and he grins as she gasps.
"Your breasts are fantastic, you know. You filled out that dress last night better than Trina ever did. Don't think she didn't notice. You think that all the time, right? That no one notices you, mousy little Janet, huh?"
"Why - why would they?", she grits out, back arching against the wood of the door, her breasts pushing out of her blouse like she's some streetwalker.
He shoves the material of her bra to the side, and closes his mouth around one nipple. He doesn't let up until he keeps his promise and she screams for him. She's soaking wet against his thigh, and he pulls up her leg to tuck around his waist, rocking his erection against her. There's still that line, she thinks dimly. He won't fuck her because he promised Trina to stay faithful. But his loyalty apparently stretches to making her come fully clothed against his front door, his uniform still on.
As she comes down, he kisses her again. She raises an eyebrow - he didn't get off - but he shakes his head.
"I know you, Janet. You won't cheat on Roger - you're better than that."
She's not sure if she should be disappointed that he's right.
~*~*~*~
"if you want a way out" (Mad Men, Don/Joan)
She's not a girl you buy jewelry for.
With Betty, it was strands of freshwater pearls from Tiffany's, worn with some of the couture dresses she still had from her modeling days. With Rachel, it was Harry Winston diamonds, worn to remind him that while she could afford it herself, it pleased her to have him buy her things. With Midge, it was gold and emerald bracelets, far too expensive for her bohemian tastes, but that she still kept when she ran off to Europe with whats-his-name.
Men buy women gold earrings for their birthday, diamond rings for their engagement, pearl necklaces for anniversaries, because it shows the women belong to them. He never buys jewelry for Joan, because he knows as well as anyone that no man will ever own Joan Holloway like that.
He buys her shoes instead: a pair of sky-high Christian Dior sandals Betty was oohing and aahing over one day. They're silver, size 8 and a half, and he buys them with the intention of fucking her in Roger's office with them on. Maybe on Roger's desk, Joan wearing only those jaw-dropping black lace panties she has.
Reality, for once, is so much better.
They're in Duck's office. Everyone's left early for the Christmas holiday, and they're the only ones in the building. Roger's in Chicago with Mona and the family, Betty and the kids are at home and he's not expected until much later tonight, and Joan is perched on the conference table in nothing but those silver shoes and a smile. She'd left a little trail for him to follow from the elevator down the hallway into Duck's office, and he's been rock-hard ever since he saw her panties dangling from the coffee machine.
She smiles as he reaches her, that gorgeous, cat-full-of-cream smile that's got just enough edge to it. He lets her pull him down by his tie, and shudders as she lies down on the table, legs spread. God, she's wet - auburn curls darkening as she extends a leg over his shoulder. Joanie's never been shy about what she wants, and what she wants now is his mouth on her. Not that he minds.
His tongue delves into her cunt, making her shudder and moan above him. He works his tongue first deep into her, then shallow licks around her pussy as she squirms and directs him. She's the first woman who's managed to successfully order him around in bed. A press of one stiletto heel to his ass makes his cock jump, and he follows her directions. Suck on her clit. Scrape teeth gently over it, then start tongue-fucking her again.
She shrieks when he inserts two fingers while scraping his teeth over her clit. It's always more fun to take her by surprise, make her swear like a sailor and whine out "Don, Don, fuck, please, oh God please fuck me".
He turns her over on her belly, then slides her down off the table so she's bent over, arms on the top. God, she's beautiful, the curve of her ass, her long legs extending down to those heels planted in the carpet. He fucks her the way she likes it - the way she demands it - fast and rough, one hand playing at her breasts, the other rubbing at her clit. She lets him come first, then drops to her knees and sucks him off, tasting herself and moaning like it's the first time.
He'll never be able to keep her, but he's fool enough to try.
~*~*~*~
"Riders on the Storm" (Doctor Who/Torchwood, Nine/Tosh)
She learns - as Jack has told her - that when you travel with the Doctor, your name is woven into some of the oldest stories in the universe.
On Laloptera, home of the greatest historians in the universe, historians tell of a "tosh-ee-koh" venturing out into the greatest of storms, placing her hand upon the lightning, singing to the thunder, and walking out under a calm sky.
Jack has warned her about Satellite Five, the Daleks, and the Master, and the lure of the Doctor. But oh, Jack hadn't told her this. How the Doctor's anger transformed him into the most avenging of angels, and stripped away everything that was even slightly awkward - or, indeed, human - about him.
"How dare they? You lot have already learned that slavery isn't the way to go, and if a bunch of stupid apes can figure it out, why can't they?"
She placed a hand on his back, and it was the first time she'd touched him anywhere but his hand. As he turned around, he didn't need to vocalize what was in his eyes - don't, or you'll get burned - but Tosh spent enough time in UNIT's prison to learn to play with fire. She laced her fingers in his, and leaned up to kiss him.
There's more than one kind of fire, and she found herself lifted against him, his blue eyes - older than seas and skies on worlds she'd never seen - asking only one question. Her answer is, of course, yes, and he seals his mouth to hers, tongue licking hotly at the seam to her lips and then sliding against hers. She gasps, locking her legs around his waist, and runs her hands over his cropped hair. It's softer than she expects; everything about him is sharp, designed for utility and not comfort. The leather of his jacket scrapes against her silk blouse, and the snap of his jeans digs into the flesh of her inner thigh.
He flashes her one of those trademark grins as he sets her down again, then removes the jacket to lay it down on the sand. Tosh kicks off her shoes - flats, the one concession she has to this life of running - and starts to shimmy out of her blouse. His hands assist her in getting it halfway down her arms, then flick the snap of her bra and divest her of that along with her shirt.
He's still fully clothed, but doesn't give her the opportunity to return the favor as he runs a finger over the cuve of one breast, grinning at her self-conscious shiver. He pulls her down to kneel opposite him, and his mouth is on her breast, hellbent on making her come from that alone. His teeth scrape at her nipple, then his mouth trails over to her other breast, licking and biting until a scream tears itself from her.
"Good girl," he says, his hand sliding up her skirt. He laughs wickedly as he encounters her lack of panties, and she kisses his amusesment right out of him, shoving him onto his back and straddling him. His hand remains between her legs, thumb flicking her clit as he sinks two fingers into her, but she's got just enough coherancy left to pull his jumper over his head and unsnap the button to his jeans.
He wrings one orgasm out of her while she negotiates removing his jeans, single-mindedly rubbing her clit and fucking her with his fingers until she tightens around them in surprise. Then he guides himself into her, rolling her over so that she's on top, and oh, he is a mind-reader then. At her nod, he takes hold of her hips and begins fucking her, hard, encouraging her to move faster in counterpoint.
Looking down at him, the fierce concentration on his face, she thinks she knows why Jack loved this Doctor best. She knows how it works - he's the same man, he just looks different - but there's something primal, something about this Doctor that she's never seen in the one Martha knew and spoke of. This Doctor hates fiercely and loves even more fiercely. If she's not careful, she could easily throw away everything to stay with him.
As she comes again, equations behind her eyes and in his voice, she makes her decision. When they return to the city, she asks the scribes for one thing: a copy of the "tosh-ee-koh" legend written in English. She wishes she could stay with him, but a letter, left on the TARDIS console, will have to do.
Find the one you can share the storm with, my Doctor. London is nice this time of year.
~*~*~*~
"The Masochism Tango" (Profit, Profit/Gail)
G&G is deserted, they're 12 hours from one of the biggest deals of the year, and Gail is perched on his desk, skirt around her hips, asking him questions.
"If I ask you to do something, will you do it for me?"
He could debate with himself. Is it worth getting involved with his secretary? Worth the body count if and when it ever comes out? What does he get out of it, other than getting laid? What does she get out of it?
In the end, it doesn't really matter. Jim knows he has trust issues - that he's never been truly honest in a relationship - and that, as partners go, he could do (and has done) much worse than Gail Koner.
"Yes."
"Good. Unzip your pants and take your cock out."
Direct, isn't she? He hesitates, and that's all she needs to brace herself against the desk and plant one heeled pump directly on his groin. It's not as bad as Kelly's stilettos, but Gail has more control than Kelly ever did, in a few different meanings of the word. She presses down delicately, and he can't stop the gasp she causes.
"Did you hear me, Jim? I told you to do something."
Her foot eases out of its perfect arch, and the heel presses harder into his cloth-covered groin. Oh, she's got beautiful feet - he doesn't usually fixate on body parts, not like he's ever considered himself an "ass man" or a "breast man", but Gail's tiny little feet exercising such control over him is attractive, in its own way. Better show a little humility, though, before she presses too hard. He doesn't actually like pain, but toying with the edge of it is fun, especially when you're playing with someone who knows the game.
"All right," he breathes, relaxing a little as she removes her foot. He unzips his pants, folding the seperated halves of his fly down so they don't get in the way, and pulls his dick out. If Gail's surprised he doesn't wear underwear, then she doesn't show it. "What next?"
Gail slides herself up onto the desk, skirt hiked up around her hips, and rests her heels on the arms of his desk chair. "Keep your hands on the chair. You don't get to touch yourself until I say so."
Oh. She does know him, then, knows him well enough to smirk at the apparently-intrigued look on his face. His cock jumps - an interesting and novel sensation - at the sight of Gail sliding her pantyhose down her legs, followed by her panties. They're plain white cotton high-cut, absolutely what he'd expect her to wear to the office, and he's a little disappointed as she folds them together and places them on the desk, out of his reach.
She's got his undivided attention, though, when she replaces her legs to either side of him, allowing him to look at her cunt, using her fingers to spread apart the damp curls. Her hands are delicate, but show no hesitation as she circles the tip of her opening with her middle finger, dipping it shallowly inside herself and trailing the wetness she finds up to her clit. He can feel his breathing start to get faster, and his hands clench against the chair as he watches her rub her clit eagerly, going straight for it unlike many women he's encountered. They'd toy with their pussies, trail fingers over outer and inner lips and graze at their clits, but Gail goes right for what she wants.
Good girl.
She lets out a series of squeaky gasps as the tempo picks up, and he makes the mistake of raising his eyes to her face. Oh, she's delicious like this, head tilted back, exposing her throat unthinkingly. He wonders if she's doing it deliberately, knowing him and his proclivities as well as she does. She couldn't have hit on a better temptation for him, and he hardens further, cock pressing uncomfortably against his suit pants. She licks her lips, and he unconsciously groans, low under his breath.
Her eyes flick open, and she grins at him. "Something you want, Jim?"
Fuck, yes. He wants to pull her forward and bury his face between her legs until she screams. He wants to push her back and fuck her until she blacks out. He wants her against the wall and bent over his desk and any way he can get her, really.
Luckily, she's got nothing against indulging his wants. All of them.
Feedback, as everyone knows, is loved and hugged and squeezed and called George.