Elevator Love: An Erotic Story
As the elevator doors closed, I found my body drawn magnetically to yours. Resting my chest on your chest the juxtapositions of our hearts with opposite see-saw play on and with each other, ups and downs.
“What did you whisper in her ear?” I asked.
Your breath exhaled as mine inhaled, in and out, liquor-ish like.
“I told her that the fragrance on her neck reminded me of a white orchid”. I love when you place your hand exactly where you just placed it, I thought, as you spoke.
“Such trash. Her side cleavage was imploding or exploding, whichever is worse!” I whispered into your neck and licked.
“I could hardly imagine her nipples being tucked away from sight. Do you think her nips would react to soft suckling or snake twisting pinches?”
You ask me this as my hand slips into your trousers. The circumference of your erection exceeds my hand remarkably. The familiarity of your heart pounding as I feel some pre-leakage onto my palm is reassuring. Unbuttoning my blouse, I anticipate snake twisting pinches but you softly suck, instead. I could barely moan in my pleasure.
Driving your tongue into my mouth, I want your warmth to devour me. The elevator chimed another floor passing, we are half way there. An evident and tender throbbing was clearly in performance between my thighs.
“Isabella” you sneer, barely audible while I stroke your shaft ever so gently. I know you like it serenely before storming. I plan on storming your body. I feel the covetous knick of attention jealousy entice my pussy even stronger for you. Why do you smell the skin of sluts? Ahh, to watch me shine brighter.
Cinching the waist of my skirt, I feel your hands on the tops of my garters. The black laced ones that we both love. Cupping my sex with your strong hand, I close my eyes as your fingers dance and tease inside of me.
Forgetting the fondling on your hard dick, I can’t spread my legs wide enough to feel your fingers fucking me. It’s almost like your palm is smacking my peach with your grasping and letting go.
A little harder, oh a little harder, I murmur.
Grabbing my hair sternly, you kiss my lips.
“Please don’t smell orchids anymore!” I plead in between heavy breaths. You are making me pant and I feel an orgasm riding waves.
“She is an orchid, but you are the bouquet, the bouquet that is freshly cut and displayed on our kitchen table. The table that you and I share breakfast at, watching the blackbirds gather their families around our yard. The kitchen table that is perched at our kitchen window. A window that you greet me at every day with beautiful green eyes that guide me home.”
He sighed and orgasmed in my hand.
And I, in his.