Marke set a palm on the back of her head, pulling her towards his shaft.
Her lips parted, his phallus knocking on the roof of her mouth and gliding deeper gradually, lips scraping his flesh as she took his length fully into her throat, accompanied by a stifled choking sound. Then, she pulled back, his shaft clean of any jam, instead replaced by smudges of her lipstick and viscous spit, thick strands of viscous saliva from the back of her throat connecting her mouth with his shaft, cascading down onto the floor.
Marke had his own cheeks clenched at the sheer intensity of the delight and serotonin that coursed through his brain, shooting out a spurt of jizz over her sweater. Usually, he would have to hold himself back, worrying about his stamina. Not today. The woman couldn't have visited him at a better time since he had invested points into stamina just prior.
"This early?" She asked, raising a brow.
Exhaling a breath to calm himself down, Marke replied, "I can go all day, Miss. Just try me."
"Oh?" She went in, devouring his shaft in one swift motion.
"Fuck!" Marke yelled out as the woman took it to the base once more, a gag resounding as she did.
One. Two. Three. Marke counted how long the woman would stay in her position. Ten. The woman pulled back, gasping for air this time, tears filling her eyes.
She was struggling to do this. It didn't sit well with Marke when his partners didn't enjoy the activities they did as much as he did. It was like they were here to fulfill an obligation. Marke knew he wasn't useful enough for anyone around him to take spending time with him as an obligation. He would be, that was sure, but not right now. Besides, he wasn't a masochist.
As Mrs. Olivarez was coughing, he crouched down, curling his arms under her knees and back and carrying her into his room. She deserved it.
She twisted the door to the room open, and Marke threw her lightly onto his bed, getting on top of her, her eye shadow smudged from the tears she hadn't been able to hold in.
"I-I'm fine," she protested.
"Sure." Grabbing the hem of her sweater through the gap in her legs, thighs warm and wafting a peculiar yet familiar smell of excitement, he peeled it off her, Mrs. Olivarez raising her arms voluntarily. "I just want to do something else."
A see-through latex micro-bikini, a triangle just large enough to cover her nipples and leave a little of the areolas visible, her nubs stiff against the material, adorned her breasts.
"Was going to the beach your excuse for people at home?"
"Maybe."
There were cameras everywhere in the apartment. Wasn't she worried? Marke caught himself before the train of thought continued. I'm not worried about it. Why are you? Ms. Terri's voice echoed in his mind. In comparison to people like Mrs. Olivarez and Ms. Terri, he was a small fry, and maybe reminding people, like the wives of rich and powerful men, that they should be careful caused him to be perceived as more of a nuisance than someone giving genuine advice. He wasn't in a position to give any advice either. They had a lot more to lose than he did if their affair was revealed.
Yeah. He thought. Let's just enjoy ourselves.
Lifting her legs, he held them at a ninety-degree angle, grabbed his shaft, and inserted it through her thigh gap, feeling the material coarse and uncomfortable. Instead, he told the woman to turn around into the doggy pose, strings of her underwear peeking out as the pants rode down when she did.
She looked back at him.
Grabbing her hips, he pulled her love-shaped booty against his shaft, squashing it between her cheeks and his abs.
"All right, shake it," he ordered.
"Huh?" She asked. "Like...twerking?"
"Yup."
Her expression suddenly shifted from nervous to teasing. "You know these jeans restrict movement," she suggested. "Maybe you should take them off. I have a surprise waiting for you...." She drawled out the last word, a sudden flush taking her cheek.
What could it be? Marke wondered. They had done and explored a lot together since the first time they slept together. What could be the reason the woman blushed now instead of when she slurped down jam from his shaft?
Solemnly, he reached around and unclasped the button at her hip, pulled down the chain, and peeled it off her skin, needing to wiggle when it reached her saddlebags.
There it was—her muff visible under a slim piece of see-through white silk, a string running through her rosebud, covering very little. However, it was the words written on fair skin and dimpled booty that captivated him.
'Spank me,' on the left cheek. 'Papi,' on the right cheek. The handwriting was jagged, like a toddler's attempt at writing in cursive. But he understood it at first glance.
"You like it?" She asked. "It's hard to stare at a mirror and write it with a marker."
Why? He wondered. She had already barged past the boundaries she herself had set by coming to visit him when it wasn't a Sunday, offering herself to him. This was something more. These questions can wait till later, he thought. Whatever the reason, she came here to get fuc*ed, and that duty I shall fulfill.
Lifting his right palm, he brought it down over the words, a smack resounding in the room as Mrs. Olivarez let out a yelp, ripples spreading through the cheek and settling. Then, her other cheek.
"Okay, okay." Mrs. Olivarez reached back, blocking her ass cheeks after the tenth time, a print of his palm glaring red on her cheeks. "That's enough—"
Her palms were too dainty for her to cover the entirety of her booty. Another smack landed on the side of her ass, causing her to yelp. Giving her no time to speak, he grabbed her by the hip and turned her around.
A scream tore through the air, hair a mess as she swept the tresses that had blocked her eyes aside. He grabbed the jar of jam from under the bed, scooping out a generous amount, with her legs locked around his hip as she lay supine, leaned over her, biting the edge of the triangular patch covering her nips, and shifting it aside.
"I want to apologize too," he said, looking up with a smile.