The best messages may be smeary
The stolen delivery uniform was itchy as hell, but the way my tits pushed against the too-tight polo shirt made it almost worth it. Almost. I adjusted the fake name tag—Blooms & Petals—for the third time as the private elevator dinged open to J-Jaz's penthouse suite.
The scent of sandalwood and something musky hit me first, then the sight of him, shirtless, his back to me as he scrolled through his phone. The man was a fucking specimen online, in the flesh, I had the tingles; broad shoulders tapering into a V that disappeared into low-slung sweatpants, the kind that left nothing to the imagination. My throat went dry—my workout influencer idol. God, I wanted his autograph. My pussy secretly wished for more.
"Delivery for Mr J-Jaz," I chirped, holding up the oversized bouquet of lilies. Hoping our fingers might brush. And I'd get up the courage to get his autograph.
He turned, one eyebrow arched, his dark eyes flicking from the flowers to my cleavage to my face.
"Didn't order any flowers, Blooms & Petals."
The name rolled off his tongue like he'd been saying it for years, slow and deliberate. A smirk tugged at his lips.
"Seems to me that your uniform is one size too small? You need to get it off!"
Confused, I let the bouquet hit the floor. Processing being, sprung and stripped.
"Baby, I know my fans."
"Oh, I'm Siobhan. I really want your autograph."
Trembling, I revealed my mini book and clicked my pen.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his abs flexed with every breath. His finger hooked under the collar of my polo shirt, tugging just enough to expose the freckles dusting my collarbone.
"Siobhan. Siobhan. Those freckles suggest you may be a genuine redhead. Your hair had me, but a guy can never be sure until—"
I thrust the pen and booklet forward, "I'm real, can I have your autograph—"
"Babes, I'm going to autograph every inch of your skin."
I should've been nervous. Should've bolted. But the way his thumb grazed my skin, the heat in his voice—fuck, I'd planned for this, but not this. Well, yes, humping my pillow. But does humping your pillow ever turn into a guy like J-Jaz?
My nipples were hardening under the cheap fabric, my pussy clenching like he'd already touched me there. My favourite three-finger fellowship.
His other hand landed on my hip, fingers digging in on the underside of a potential bruise.
"You want my autograph, sweetheart? You're gonna earn it."
A pause. His lips brushed my ear.
"Naked. Sweet Siobhan. Now!"
My pen and notebook joined the flowers on the carpet.
The spa was already running when he led me in, steam curling around us like a promise. The tile was cool under my bare feet as I stripped, his gaze burning into me with every button undone, every inch of skin revealed. The uniform pooled at my ankles.
His sweatpants tented obscenely when I stepped out of it, my bra and panties following without hesitation.
I was naked, and he was still dressed, and the power imbalance made my head spin.
"Fuck," he groaned, raking a hand through his hair. "That babes is fire engine red. And a bushfire to boot!"
Well, I had let it grow out a tad in my planning for this day. My autograph day. Not my pussy displayed.
His fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to grab me.
"Get in."
The water was warmly sweet, bubbles frothing around my thighs as I sank in. J-Jaz didn't hesitate—he stripped, his cock springing free, thick and veiny, the tip already glistening. He had the inches of dreams.
My mouth watered. He slid in across from me, his knees spreading mine apart under the water.
"You're gonna be a good girl and spread those legs wider, or I'm gonna do it for you."
"Uhh, uhh," as my thighs parted, and his hand shot out, fingers sliding through my folds without warning. I gasped, my back arching.
"Already wet for me, huh?" His voice was rough, amused. "Dirty little fan. Siobhan! "
"Mmm, mmm," I moaned, my hips rocking into his touch, chasing the pressure. His thumb found my clit, circling lazily while his fingers teased my entrance.
Please, please," I whimpered.
"Please, what?"
He leaned in, his lips a breath from mine.
"Be dirty, Siobhan."
"I want your cock." The words spilled out, desperate. "I want you to fuck me."
His chuckle was dark.
"Oh, you'll get it."
He raised me to the edge of the spa. My thighs spread-eagled. Pink lipettes glistening between tangled red pubes.
His fingers plunged inside me, crooking just right, and my vision whited out for a second.
There is finger frigging, and there is manic pussy play. I got the latter. And boy was it good. The stretch, the ply, the elasticity of super wetness. Girly tightness unfolded, petal by petal, in absa-fucking-bliss.
"Aaggh yes. Oohh yes. Aagghh, yes! Yes! Ooh, yes! Ooh! Ooh!"
His fingers could have stayed resident in my pussy forever.
Reality clocked me as he said, "Now you're gonna suck me off like the good little slut you are."
He didn't wait for an answer. He stood, water sluicing down his body, and guided my mouth to his cock.
The first taste of him—salty, musky—had me moaning around the tip. My lips stretched as I took him deeper, my tongue swirling over the ridge of his head.
His hands tangled in my hair, guiding me, his hips rolling in shallow thrusts.
"That's it," he grunted. "Take it all, baby. Gonna fuck that pretty throat next time."
The promise sent a jolt straight to my pussy. I hollowed my cheeks, bobbing faster, my free hand dipping between my legs. I was so close, my orgasm coiling tight—
"No."
He yanked me off his cock with a wet slop, hauling me up against him. His mouth crashed onto mine, his kiss bruising, possessive. I could taste myself on his lips.
"You come on my tongue first."
Before I could react, he spun me around, bending me over the edge of the spa. The cool air hit my dripping pussy a second before his mouth did.
His tongue was everywhere—licking, sucking, fucking me with long, deep strokes. He hit the sweet spot inside my spread lips. My tight grotto of fem-release.
I cried out, my fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick tiles.
"J-Jaz—ooh yeah! J-Jaz, oh my, so good, so good. Mmm, mmm, mmm!"
"Louder," he growled against my cunt, his fingers replacing his tongue as he lapped at my clit. "Want the whole building to hear how good I eat red pussy."
I was a goner before he grabbed my pubes. His clutch enflamed me.
From a flicker, like an igniting matchhead, to a glorious, fully ignited flame.
"OrRGH, fuck! That is good! OOHH! OOHH! AHHH!"
I came with a scream, my thighs shaking, my release gushing over his face. He didn't stop, drinking me down like he was parched and I was Eden's fountain.
"Nectar, babes, absolute nectar."
He eased to the doggy. Nothing else would have satisfied me.
"You're getting the deluxe sweetheart, your pink gash and fanning red entourage deserve me."
You may have been dogged. I was a submissive whore. You need to be. Enjoyment escalates. Hold the position. Yeah, I could do that. But when I took control and slid back and forth off his pecker. J-Jaz felt all man. Even more, I felt all woman. My control. My clench. My encirclement of him.
Okay, he grabbed my hair. He held my throat. Red is the sign of a wild woman. I helped my clit. He rimmed my arse. A perfect debauched partnership.
But once the bastard started raking my back, sweet Jesus, I was a double goner. He arched high, the obscene, indecent plunge from above, into my pussy.
"Orrgh, you sod, you frickin sod! But don't you dare stop! Orrgh! Arragh!"
Every girl deserves a dogging climax. Mine was a beaut. Yep, up there with Mount McKinley. I had no desire to come down
"OOHH Yes! OOHH My! ORRGGHHH!"
The bugger wasn't done yet; he glazed my tummy with his jizz.
Sweet Mother of Mary, I got his autograph, his index finger signed off with J-Jaz, in cum.