The First Thing That The Police Asked Is If...

I push forward until my nose rests against your pelvis, tears spilling down my cheeks as I swallow over and over again to suppress my gag reflex. Your cock throbs at the back of my throat. My own arousal is almost painful now, but pleasing you is so much more important. “Fuck,” you mutter. “What a damn slut you are!” Your hips thrust forward, forcing your cock deeper into my throat. I’m accustomed to being used this way, and remember to relax my throat and neck as I’m used as your personal fuckdoll. “Lift up your dress,” you demand. “I want to see those tits while I throat-fuck you like the whore you are.” “Yes, Sir,” my speech is muffled; your still-thrusting cock gets in the way of my verbal acknowledgement, the vibrations from it thrumming around you. I reach down and lift up my dress and bra, exposing my C-cup breasts to you. Still thrusting, you bend down and squeeze my painfully erect nipples until I cry out around your throbbing member. I hear you grunt, and the pressure on my. A sudden breeze carries my cocktail napkin off my table and it lands near your chair. You bend down to retrieve it and return it to me, in the process asking if you could join me at my table with an understood hand gesture. After a slight hesitation I invite you to sit with me. At this point the two Italian men are clearly annoyed with me, and leave mid-drink to prey upon other women, mumbling something in Italian as they walk past our table. You offer to buy me another drink, a glass of wine this time, and introduce yourself as Aleksander. I tell you my name–Veronica–and we proceed to chat back and forth about the night, what brings us to Italy, our favorite places to visit here, and so on. It is a mock conversation of building acquaintanceship, play-acting on an elevated level. A violinist begins playing in the plaza near the fountain. The beautiful melody floats through the air and you offer your hand to me, inviting me to dance. I blush, take another sip of wine, and lay my.
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