She wants to suck his dick in the bathroom. She’s knelt too many times on the plush, cream carpet in the bedroom, fellating against a backdrop of family photos in silver frames, his wife’s perfume hanging in the air, his copy ofWar and Peaceon the nightstand. Every time he brings her here, she surreptitiously checks his progress, but his narrow leather bookmark never seems to move. He must be the slowest reader in the world.
He’s careful not to muss her hair or clothes too much – there’s always a 3 p.m. meeting, or a client presentation, or another reason why he won’t come on her face, no matter how much she begs for it. There’s nothing dirty about this affair.
As she pees, her knickers round her ankles, her head resting against the cool, teal tiles – she’s dizzily tipsy – she imagines the ache of thestone…
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