seven years

She never saw my face.

Seconds after stepping into my living room, I had her pressed against the front door, my hand under her dress to find her bare and wet. My fingers slid inside her easily, a coarse invasion made in silence. Her head fell back against the door and she struggled to keep her legs from buckling.

I dragged my fingers free, slick and warm in evidence of her desperate need.

I led her to the stairs. Blindfolded, it can be hard to maintain balance in high heels but she managed to stay upright in her ascent. I took her into my study and closed the door.

Her dress concealed a tight black corset and stockings. Dress pooled around her feet, I pressed her across the desk, ass raised. My hand came down in a solid slap that left her ass pink and then followed with another that left it red. She had small hips, and I practically lifted her off the ground when I pulled her back against me, nestling myself along the length of her ass. She laid herself along the top of the desk, raising her ass so that her naked sex slid roughly across my jeans.

Seven years since she had last been touched. Seven years since her husband had made love to her. Seven years where her only solace was found in her own fingers and imagination.

I pulled her away from the desk and threw her onto the large leather chair, legs hooked over the arms. I lowered my face between her thighs, tasting her, two fingers impaling her again while my tongue found the right tempo across her clit to have her crying out, hands clenched on the sides of the chair. Her cries of pleasure reached an apex and then slid into tears of another sort. I waited, lightly running my fingers across her thighs, giving her the moments she needed.

Then I started again.