Free Girl Trade - full length erotic adventure novel (Xcite Erotic Romance Novels) by Chloe Thurlow Page B
Authors: Chloe Thurlow
the beachcomber, after the initial shock of his hand crossing my backside, I discovered the perverse pleasures of bending over and being spanked. I had shamefully screamed fuck me, fuck me, fuck me during that brutal assault by the man in black. The humiliation of being naked on the beach had transcended to the immaterial by the time the immigrants arrived and only returned when I saw myself through their eyes.
I was lying there now cosy and satiated, ripe like an animal in heat with a stranger who held over me the power of life and death.
The reverberations from that orgasm echoed through my womb. I panted for breath. I was staring up at the sky and, in the movement of the stars I was struck with sudden insight. It was a Zen moment.
I had a plan.
I untangled myself from the sheikh and he seemed content when I began to massage his feet, pressing my thumbs into the arches, pulling each little toe. I rubbed his shins, his thighs, his chest. I urged him to roll over and he did so after a moment’s hesitation, a moment’s doubt, a moment when he remembered that no woman ever commanded him to do anything, that women were there to obey and serve.
He looked back at me, then buried his head as I sat astride his waist and pressed the heels of my hands in a slow dance up the his back. There was no tension in those strong muscles, but like a cat being stroked he wriggled and writhed. I massaged his neck, his head, and I rolled him back over again. I kissed his nose, his lips, his chin and by the time I moved slowly down his torso, the little creature awoke from his slumbers ready to play again.
‘You are a clever boy,’ I said, and planted a friendly kiss on the winking eye of his helmet.
‘Shush,’ he replied, and I gave it a good shake to remind him that while he was the boss, I had power over the little sheikh between his legs.
It was nice taking it small and limp into my mouth and feeling the blood race back into the thickening shaft. Up and down, sucking toffee, biting and nibbling, teasing the eye of the needle. I adored this smooth rod of flesh. I was going to dream about it on long winter nights when I awoke with Bobby, or some replacement Bobby, in my cold bed in the shoebox garden flat at the down-at-heel end of Fulham. Up and down. Getting harder. The 14 bus. The bars and shops. Lick and suck. The cappuccino, comfort food, the unfinished croissant. I dribbled spittle over that stiffening cock and like a doctor beating life back into a still heart I beat the wet flesh up and down, up and down until the spring was rewound and it was fully charged and ready to go.
Sucking for breath, slithering up his body like a snake, pussy slippery as a fish, his cock glided into me like a kite through warm air; a stiletto through nylon; a knife through water. It’s just so nice fucking after a really colossal orgasm. There’s no hurry. No urgency. Nothing to prove. You slide up and down that oiled column of flesh like it’s a piston in some marvellous machine, a lightning rod, the mast of a sailing ship. You roll over so he’s on top, pushing in further, deeper, like a missionary with a duty to perform, rolling back again, his knees raised, feet pushing into the sand, the sarong coiled in a ball, his eyes gleaming like black gold.
You can feel it coming again. He’s coming again. His neck is thrown back. His body tenses. He’s leaking sweat that smells of roses. He’s thrusting hard. He’s trying to reach something just out of reach. He’s an athlete going for gold, a man attempting the pole vault. The bar is set high, higher than he’s ever been before. He’s making that last run, breath short and sharp, loud and clear. He’s going faster, his body a concentrated fission of nuclear energy. He digs the pole deep in the groove, he throws himself into the air and he makes it.
He makes it.
‘Agh, agh, agh.’
His hot come spurts in short jabs over the saturated canal of my burning pussy. His face distorts with
I was lying there now cosy and satiated, ripe like an animal in heat with a stranger who held over me the power of life and death.
The reverberations from that orgasm echoed through my womb. I panted for breath. I was staring up at the sky and, in the movement of the stars I was struck with sudden insight. It was a Zen moment.
I had a plan.
I untangled myself from the sheikh and he seemed content when I began to massage his feet, pressing my thumbs into the arches, pulling each little toe. I rubbed his shins, his thighs, his chest. I urged him to roll over and he did so after a moment’s hesitation, a moment’s doubt, a moment when he remembered that no woman ever commanded him to do anything, that women were there to obey and serve.
He looked back at me, then buried his head as I sat astride his waist and pressed the heels of my hands in a slow dance up the his back. There was no tension in those strong muscles, but like a cat being stroked he wriggled and writhed. I massaged his neck, his head, and I rolled him back over again. I kissed his nose, his lips, his chin and by the time I moved slowly down his torso, the little creature awoke from his slumbers ready to play again.
‘You are a clever boy,’ I said, and planted a friendly kiss on the winking eye of his helmet.
‘Shush,’ he replied, and I gave it a good shake to remind him that while he was the boss, I had power over the little sheikh between his legs.
It was nice taking it small and limp into my mouth and feeling the blood race back into the thickening shaft. Up and down, sucking toffee, biting and nibbling, teasing the eye of the needle. I adored this smooth rod of flesh. I was going to dream about it on long winter nights when I awoke with Bobby, or some replacement Bobby, in my cold bed in the shoebox garden flat at the down-at-heel end of Fulham. Up and down. Getting harder. The 14 bus. The bars and shops. Lick and suck. The cappuccino, comfort food, the unfinished croissant. I dribbled spittle over that stiffening cock and like a doctor beating life back into a still heart I beat the wet flesh up and down, up and down until the spring was rewound and it was fully charged and ready to go.
Sucking for breath, slithering up his body like a snake, pussy slippery as a fish, his cock glided into me like a kite through warm air; a stiletto through nylon; a knife through water. It’s just so nice fucking after a really colossal orgasm. There’s no hurry. No urgency. Nothing to prove. You slide up and down that oiled column of flesh like it’s a piston in some marvellous machine, a lightning rod, the mast of a sailing ship. You roll over so he’s on top, pushing in further, deeper, like a missionary with a duty to perform, rolling back again, his knees raised, feet pushing into the sand, the sarong coiled in a ball, his eyes gleaming like black gold.
You can feel it coming again. He’s coming again. His neck is thrown back. His body tenses. He’s leaking sweat that smells of roses. He’s thrusting hard. He’s trying to reach something just out of reach. He’s an athlete going for gold, a man attempting the pole vault. The bar is set high, higher than he’s ever been before. He’s making that last run, breath short and sharp, loud and clear. He’s going faster, his body a concentrated fission of nuclear energy. He digs the pole deep in the groove, he throws himself into the air and he makes it.
He makes it.
‘Agh, agh, agh.’
His hot come spurts in short jabs over the saturated canal of my burning pussy. His face distorts with
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