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Mouths open as we both pant a bit, you much more than I. Your hips writhe as you struggle to keep from flying off the handle, eyes boring into me, as you watch me study how you react to each motion of my hand. The forgotten book tossed to the side.Another breeze passes into the porch, and you almost growl. Leaning into me, your hand pulling my closer, mouth on my ear “Get…Inside…Now!” You release my hand and neck. Hearing your Daddy voice I stroke you twice more, then release your dick with a tap to the underside. I stand up and walk into the sitting room. You take a beat or two to catch your breath, then heave yourself out of the chair. You come inside, already disrobed and pushing your boxers down. You eye me up against the large plush chair with winged arms. I’m lined up on the left side, parallel to the arm. My hands on the edge, and arched just a bit, facing the wall with the mirror.You come up to me soundlessly, pushing down my pajama pants to just under my ass, aim your. Such was my attraction to this fine lady that my body responded without my will whenever she walked into the room I occupied. This was far more than mere lust, though, and the feeling was quite intoxicating. I was also becoming hopelessly obsessed and, whilst Jana’s efficiencies ensured that this did not infringe upon the success of the agency, my behaviour was becoming something of an irritant for those with whom I socialised. Matters came to a head one evening that July. I had accompanied Thomas Greenhorn and Alexander Buchanan, an old friend, to a dance somewhere in the West End. It was a private affair but large enough to warrant a band, and the guest list seemed to comprise half of London’s young, female socialites. Everywhere one looked nubile young women were dancing and cavorting in dresses that would raise an eyebrow or two even in these liberated days. Alcohol flowed freely and as the evening progressed, a Bacchanalian air began to permeate the hall. I stood aloof, my mind.
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