“But the thing is much as I like the idea, I’ve got another theory,” she purrs, deliberately letting her words hang in the air.“How come that ...oesn’t surprise me?” I answer finding the words that spill from my lips deep and gravelly. Hunger consuming my veins as she saunters into my office and with a sheer audacity uses her gorgeous body to get what she wants.“Maybe we both know a little more than we’ve let on,” she answers as her fingers reach between her thighs, peeling the lace aside to. "Maggie, what do you want?" I finally asked. Her mood changed and she looked down at the ground, she body gave a few little shakes and she started crying. I went to her, men are programmed to do that, and taking her in my arms asked again, softly this time, "Maggie, what do you want? Just tell me Maggie."The damn broke and through her sobs she told me. "I don't want to be alone, and I don't want to be afraid, I don't want to be ashamed." Maggie that is what you don't want, what do you want?". Her hands ran over his bald black head repeatedly as her legs and thighs trembled and shook in ecstasy while laying across his back. His face was buried deep between her shapely legs and her hands seemed intent on keeping him in that position. The black bull was intoxicated by the smell and taste of her married pussy as he dove into her wet hole for another sampling. Her hands moved to her own abdomen and slid down her mound and rested on the sides of her pussy. Her fingers found her outer. The one that consumed her frame and made his hands eager to press against the loose fabric, discover the slender, warm body beneath it.Her curls were the exact color as the sofa, a deep brown that, only when the sun glided in through the bay windows, lightened to a glistening almost-burgundy. Her hands would be curled, her eyes filled with lust-shroud-doubt, fear peppered in between. And he would stand there, leaned against the banister, the mere weight of his gaze saturating her surroundings.
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