The caress turned to a grab when he was at full mast.
She had a way with her fingers, tracing the underside with her thumb and veins with the index.
Marke jolted, sucking air through his teeth. "Where did you learn that?"
She pulled back, smirking at him. "This morning," she said. "Self-taught."
"You're a fast learner—woah!" were the only words he could utter when fingertips gently began stroking his dragon.
A step forward, and her breasts squished against his abs. With her other hand, she grabbed the hem of her sweater and lifted it halfway up: a gray butterfly with wings colored by transparent red and blue rubies rested in her belly button, the hook of the navel piercing protruding just over the belly button, a square slate of pink with the word 'sorry' written in white with tiny pearls.
The slight paunch of the front of her abdomen, the way her hips flared out, and the piercing called all the attention foremost.
Then, Mrs. Olivarez gave him a smile, plump lips pulling alluringly to the sides. "How's the apology?" She asked huskily. "Real Diamonds. Cost me a lot."
"Why?" Marke asked despite the pleasure he felt.
"Because," she let go of his shaft, grabbing his arm and guiding it to her left ass cheek, and pouting, "I want to apologize, Marke. Can't I do that?" She pushed her abdomen against his shaft; the warmth transmitted as it poked into her skin created an indent. Coupled with her tone, a grown woman pouting and acting like she was role-playing a harlot trying to rile the other party up caused Marke to exhale, reaching behind to grab her cheeks with both his arms, pulling her close like he was trying to paste their bodies together.
"I don't know what's going on with you," he said to her, grabbing a handful of her cheeks and lifting her up to her tiptoes. She didn't complain, only gasping slightly with a challenging look. "But I don't dislike it."
Her arms curled around his neck. "How many times do I have to tell you, Papi?" She asked with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm just here to apologize by letting you do whatever with me today."
"Won't your husband ask questions?" He asked. This wasn't the appropriate time to ask this, but there was no appropriate moment to ask questions such as these.
"He's out on a trip," Mrs. Olivarez said.
Had she come here because she was lonely? Or as was with powerful men at the top of the pyramid, they cheated, and she was just trying to get back at him? A corner of his mind, for whatever reason, whispered that wasn't it. He would like to believe she was because she liked him. Everyone would. But Marke wasn't that arrogant.
Whatever the reason was, her presence distracted his mind from visiting Mrs. Ann tomorrow, and he was thankful for that.
He pressed his lips against hers, strands of her lipstick conjoining their lips with viscous strands before breaking apart. "When you meant anything," he met her eyes, striking green eyes enchanting, "did you really mean anything?"
"I don't go back on my word," she smirked.
Marke wanted to try something new. Something degrading. Spit in her mouth. It was the first idea to be denied. With women, Marke had learned, they didn't mean everything they said.
Letting go of her buttocks, he pulled her down by her hips. Acknowledging his intentions, Mrs. Olivarez got to her knees, her face aligned with the tent he was pitching.
"Stay here. I'll be right back." He said, trotting to the kitchen island and taking out a jar of strawberry jam.
When he turned around with the jar in hand, a flicker of recognition flashed in her eyes.
Marke smiled. Nonverbal communication at its finest.
Walking out into the open, he pulled the knot of his joggers, holding them up, preparing for a grand revelation, only for the front of his joggers to hang onto his erection, the weight suddenly pressing down, causing him to hiss in pain as he flung the trousers off.
Mrs. Olivarez had her lips pursed, holding back a smile.
Hiding his embarrassment by staring somberly at the ceiling, he marched forward, his phallus pointing at her face, the arm holding the jar stretched out towards her. "People should prepare their own meals," he said.
"That's true," she shrugged, taking the jar from his arm, twisting the lid open, and with her index and middle fingers curled up, scraping out a blob of pink jam.
Marke's stomach churned in anticipation.
Setting the jar down, she grabbed his bare shaft with her left, swiping it on the spot just below his phallus. Her warm palms contrasted with the cold sensation from the jam.
She pulled him a step forward, a section of the blob of jam falling off; a cupped palm caught it, landing on the band of her wedding ring. Gently, she balanced it atop the blob.
In a single swift motion, she moved her head forward, engulfing his shaft halfway in her orifice, plump lips clamped around his shaft, leaving a trail of her pink lipstick as she pulled back, taking the jam along with her.
She played with it in her mouth, staring to the sides as though judging its taste, and swallowed. "Hmm," she nodded. "Not bad. You know what," she repeated her actions from before, topping his phallus this time, "I think this needs a further taste test." She dove in, lips vacuuming around the phallus, licking and flicking the jam off, all while staring up at him, lapping up the pre-cum that escaped from his urethra from the intense pleasure.
"Salty, sweet, and tangy," she spoke to herself, eyes wandering. "I don't hate it, you know," she told him, "like pineapple pizza."
"For uttering such blasphemy," Marke opened the jar, grabbing a handful and lathering his shaft generously, uncaring of the jam plopping onto the floor. "You must be punished."
"Such animosity with pineapple pizza," Mrs. Olivarez teased, knowing well he despised the combination. Sweet and salty was a flavor he only accepted when going down on women. The contrasting qualities didn't mesh well in other facets of life. Like Mrs. Ann, he thought. Body of a goddess, mouth of a sailor whose wife just divorced him and ran off with another man. A dreadful combination.