I could see her brow furrowing as she concentrated on getting the rhythm and length of the strokes just right.In the light of the TV, I watched her face as this innocent young girl jerked my huge cock.Any man she ever saw after me would be a real disappointment I thought, and smiled again as I leant over and took her other hand and wrapped it around my cock as well.Both her small hands were moving in time now, wrapped around my meat and I could see a glisten of cum start to seep from the end.She saw this and frowned, but like the good (or bad) little girl she was she didn’t break stride.‘that stuff coming from the end, its called ‘cum’’ I told her, ‘don’t worry about it, it’s a good sign’She nodded, and kept at it.‘some women think its tasty’ I whispered, evilly.She paused then, mid stroke and looked first into my eyes, and then down to the glistening knob sticking out from between those little hands.She frowned again, and by now I recognised this was a good sign. With a determined. All I can do in the entrance to the opulent hotel bar is steady myself, gawp and take a shaky breath. Tabby at work's been catfished enough times that I know men can be all Brad Pitt in the profile picture and Benicio Del Toro in person.But this guy? Off. The. Fucking. Charts.He's right where he said he'd be, when he said he'd be. Towards the far end of the curved bar with a tumbler of vodka; condensation forming on the nearby bottle of tonic. With one foot on the brass bar rail, his gunmetal suit stretches deliciously across his firm behind.The piped piano music washes over me as panic grips. A host of emotions claw at my judgement and knot my stomach: primarily fear. Fear over what the hell I'm doing meeting him. Fear it's too soon. Fear I may have overindulged from the minibar. Fear my husband might discover I'm not actually out with the girls, and I'd lied about staying at Clare's to sleep it off tomorrow.Nausea wells. Choirgirls shouldn't lie, nor commit adultery. I'd lost.
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