ONYX GRYPHON, the fourth book in the Gryphons vs Dragons series, is coming soon! when it's available, or keep reading for a special preview!
1
CASSANDRA
I sat in the conference room and pretended to listen, even though my mind was on tonight.
"I just don't think they're sold on the campaign." That was Jimmy, an empty-chair Vice President and the one who'd called this last-minute meeting. He also happened to be my boss. He swiveled in his chair and shook his head. "We might need to come up with new ideas."
"That's not the impression we got," Amy said with barely contained frustration. I noticed, but doubted Jimmy would. "Their reaction to the March proposal was more enthusiastic than we'd ever seen."
I could hear the subtext in Amy's statement: we saw their reaction, not you. Jimmy was famous for introducing himself to the clients on the first day, skipping all the important meetings, and then swooping in at the last minute to give his unrequested (and unsubstantiated) opinion. Even after working with him for three years I wasn't sure why he did it. Maybe it made him feel more important. Or maybe after skipping most of the client meetings he felt the need to justify his role in the process by saying something before a campaign went live. But whatever the reason, it was always a pain in my team's collective ass.
"Well..." Jimmy began. Amy shot me a here it comes look. "I had lunch with Thomas Roddick yesterday. Their VP of marketing? Now, he didn't say so explicitly, but I got the impression his people aren't satisfied." He put up his hands defensively. "Just telling you what I'm seeing."
It took every ounce of willpower not to roll my eyes. It was always some vague bullshit with Jimmy. Thomas Roddick could have coughed at the wrong time during their special executive lunch and Jimmy would have taken it as a sleight against my team.
I could see the steam rising in Amy's ears. It was time to intervene.
"How about this," I quickly cut in. Six sets of eyes swung toward me. "I'll speak to Sharee discretely. See if they're truly satisfied with our proposal. If not, we can go over the backup proposals we had and see if anything else catches their eye." I nodded at Jimmy. "It's always good to make sure we're bringing as much value to our clients as possible."
It was what he needed to hear: that his input was being considered. He nodded as if there wasn't any other possible conclusion we could have come to and rose from his chair. "Great work, ladies. I don't say it enough, but you're crushing it out there."
Amy waited until he was out of the room and the door had closed with a click.
"Ladies," she muttered. "I swear he says it more condescendingly every time."
"He means well. He's just..." I scrunched up my face. "He's just too high up. Doesn't realize he doesn't need to micromanage every client anymore."
"We're not really going to dig up the backup proposals at this stage in the campaign, right?" Amy asked. "We've already purchased the air time..."
"Of course not," I said. "Not this far along. I'll send an email to Sharee to make sure they're satisfied with our direction. I know we are, but it'll give us something in writing to show Jimmy." I put on my best manager's voice. "I've got it taken care of. Don't let this distract from the rest of the campaign. Not when we're so close to launch. Are there any questions, comments, or concerns?"
The women around the table all shook their heads. I met each of their eyes one at a time, decided they were all comfortable with the direction, and then nodded.
"Sorry we had to have this last-minute meeting," I said as I rose. "Next time I'll try to head Jimmy off at the pass."
They began shuffling out, and Amy put a delicate hand on my shoulder in passing. "Thanks, Cassie. You're the best."
"I'm not Jimmy--there's no need to stroke my ego," I whispered, and we both chuckled.
Ego-stroking aside, I was good at my job. Advertising wasn't just about picking a good idea and blasting it on television and billboards; it was about reading people. Finding out what your clients wanted, especially when they themselves didn't know what that was. That was the true talent in a job like this, beyond all the client-massaging bullshit that Jimmy did.
And reading people made me an expert in my other job.
"You got lunch plans?" Amy looked at her watch as we left the conference room. "I'm thinking Chang's, but I'm not sold on Thai food..."
I gave her an apologetic smile. "I brought a salad."
Amy blinked. "Salad? Saving up those calories so you can splurge on the weekend?"
"You know me."
"Well then enjoy your salad." Amy made a face and broke off down the hall toward her office.
I strode along with extra strut in my step. It was true that I'd brought a salad for lunch, but that wasn't the real reason I was staying in. I had other plans. The plans I'd been thinking about all morning.
My name was Cassandra Kim, and I was the most sought-after escort in Chicago. And Friday was when I picked my weekend clients.
*
I carried my laptop into the office lunch room, choosing a secluded table up against the far wall. The view from the 32nd floor was normally breathtaking, but today the fog rolling off the lake made it impossible to see farther than a few blocks. I sat at the table with my back to the window so nobody could see my screen.
I opened my salad, took a few bites, and then got to work.
First I disconnected the laptop from the company Wi-Fi, choosing instead to connect to the hotspot of the burner phone in my pocket. The symbol in my system tray spun, then gave a green check-mark. Once that was done I navigated to the folder deep on my hard drive with the TOR browser installed. I launched that and waited for the VPN to initiate, then logged into the ProtonMail account I shared with my "recruiter."
The entire process was agonizingly slower, but one couldn't be too careful in this business. Every veil of privacy was a shield to keep me safe.
My recruiter--who I'd never even met, but who I trusted after two years--had forwarded 15 applicants for this weekend. Busier than normal, but my heart sang to see so many. Each one was a boost to my ego, rich and powerful men who wanted to pay exorbitant amounts of money for my time.
I gazed around the crowded lunch room, picked at my salad, and began examining the applicants.
They were as thorough as job applications, maybe even more so considering some of the questions asked. Employment. Income. Marital status, sexual history, sexual perversions, ethnicity, religion. All the things you couldn't ask on a real job interview. Then the requests for this appointment: length of time, public or private event, then the specific sexual acts expected. In this line of work, it was ideal to get everything laid out up front. Sometimes clients held back on their applications, but I could usually read between the lines. See what they really wanted.
Last week had been a blast. A beautiful silver-haired man who reminded me of Richard Gere, quiet and thoughtful and devastatingly handsome. Someone whose scattering of wrinkles only accentuated his good looks. He took me to dinner before the ballet, where we had tickets in a private box overlooking the stage. By the end of the night I was dying for his touch as much as he was for mine, and then we fucked until our throats were sore from moaning and our bodies too fatigued to move.
I sighed at the memory of my Richard Gere lookalike. Another night like that would be divine.
After two years of this (95 weekends to be exact, but who's counting?) I'd gotten good at spotting red flags. One guy, an executive at some downtown law firm, stressed multiple times in his application that the need for secrecy was paramount--yet listed himself as "single." Yeah fucking right. Declined. Fake names were to be expected, but one guy used a name so ridiculous that I couldn't help but hit the delete button. Sorry, Mr. Bigdick McHugecock. Maybe next weekend.
Two applicants were women. Although I enjoyed the company of women occasionally, that wasn't what I was looking for this weekend. Tonight, I wanted a man. And when you were as sought-after as I was, you could afford to be picky.
And then it was time to look at the perversions. I deleted three men who were looking for BDSM. I'd done bondage two weekends ago, and wanted something more vanilla tonight. Another applicant didn't actually list any sexual requests, and instead used the space to ask me half a dozen questions about my feet: the size and proportion of my toes, whether they were polished, if I would wear a pair of heels he already owned. That one I forwarded back to my recruiter with a "WTF?" note. Don't get me wrong: I'm not one to judge someone for their sexual quirks. Everyone has their thing, and for the most part they can't help what squeezes their lemon. But my recruiter knew I wasn't into feet, and she should have filtered this one out.
That left me with seven remaining applicants.
Now I could be a little more shallow with my selections. It was important to have an immediate connection with the applicants. I wasn't some Vegas hooker who faked it for an hour; I threw myself 100% into whoever I chose. No faking--there had to be a spark. That's what made me so good.
With that in mind, I opened each of the seven remaining head shots and arranged them on my screen. I ate my salad, stared at the men, and listened to my heart.
By the time my salad was gone I'd narrowed it down to three candidates. Three gorgeous men, each of whom I'd be excited to spend the weekend with.
Something vibrated in my pocket--on my work phone. I opened it and cursed: a five minute reminder for a conference call. I'd spent almost an hour in here reviewing applicants.
I quickly closed the TOR browser and disconnected from my burner phone's hotspot, then carried my laptop back to my office.
I listened to the call with only half an ear, which I could get away with since I was only on it as a courtesy. All I could think about were the three remaining candidates, one of whom I'd be spending the weekend with. Their faces and names (face or otherwise) replayed in my head while I stared at the ceiling.
Edgar Degas, an art dealer who probably thought he was clever with his fake name. He had a handsome triangular face and a hooked nose, and a smile that boasted of unspoken secrets. He only needed me for one night: there was an art gallery opening downtown, and he wanted me attached to his arm the entire night. In the notes he mentioned a specific dress he'd commissioned specially for me, a detail which had originally piqued my interest but was beginning to creep me out the more I thought about it. One night only was another drawback. I was in the mood for a weekend affair.
Jamaal Young, a forward for the Boston Celtics in town to play the Bulls. A bench player for the Celtics, a quick search told me. I liked the cockiness of using his real name. Confidence turned me on, especially when they were already attractive. He wanted me to sit court-side during tonight's game, then go clubbing with him after. The team wasn't flying out until Sunday, so it was a two-day engagement. Sexually, he wanted someone to sit on his face. I imagined straddling his muscular body, moving up his chest and then smothering his face with my sex, pinning him to the floor of the hotel room with my curvaceous hips, covering him like it was a full-court press. Mmm, that did sound nice.
Someone asked me a question on the conference call. "That sounds like a good plan to me," I said, then muted the line again. That seemed to placate them.
The last applicant was Miguel Rojas. An investment manager for a company I'd never heard of, which meant they were small. No particular sexual requests, which could have meant he was too embarrassed to list them or could have meant he was relatively vanilla. He wanted me through the entire weekend, all the way until Sunday night, which was the maximum time the form would allow someone to enter.
Oh, and he was gorgeous.
He was Latino, with delicious dark skin and eyes like drops of caramel. His hard jaw was lined with a thin beard, and I could see the muscle in his shoulders and neck. I imagined what the rest of him looked like, and I liked what I pictured.
The lack of other information intrigued me. He was single, and the same age as me: 32. His sexual history was suspiciously low, but as I imagined him gazing at me I believed it. He didn't want anything fancy, no movie premiere or art gallery opening to attend. Just some dirty horizontal dancing.
I was used to being taken out by notable men. I was an accessory to most of them: something that hung onto their arm and smiled in public, with the fucking as an added bonus. I liked that. It made me feel important.
As I'd said, I was good at reading people. It gave me an advantage in advertising, and made me the perfect escort. Reading between the lines, the things they didn't list on their applications. The desires they didn't even know they wanted.
But for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what Miguel wanted.
There were other escorts in Chicago with price tags far below what I charged. Like, literally an order of magnitude lower. If all he wanted was a night of passion, why come to me?
The question intrigued me, and once it had latched onto my brain it wouldn't let go. There was something there, I could tell, but what was it?
My conference call ended, and then I was alone with my thoughts. Friday afternoons were always the toughest with the excitement of the weekend bubbling in my head, but today more than most. I'd narrowed it down between Jamaal and Miguel, but struggled to go from there.
In the end, the mystery was what won.
I switched my laptop back over to the hotspot and connected to my VPN long enough to send the acceptance email out. My recruiter would take it from there: notifying the applicant, requesting payment, then coordinating our meeting place.
A tingle went up my spine the moment the email was away.
"Hey, Cassie," one of the middle managers said as I left for the day. "A bunch of us are getting drinks if you wanted to stop by."
I gave him a polite smile. "I appreciate the invite, but I've got plans."
"No worries--have a great weekend."
I strode toward the elevator with a silly grin on my face.
Oh, I intend to.
2
CASSANDRA
America had weird issues with prostitution.
I mean, I guess I understood it in broad strokes. The stereotypical prostitute was a scrawny homeless woman in a tube top with track marks on her arms and half her teeth missing. Someone who had no other options in life but to have sex for money, and who was beholden to her pimp's demands. Someone who had to sell their body out of desperation, because the system had failed them, and because the alternative was to starve and die.
But I was an educated adult. I had a Master's Degree for crying out loud, and a thriving career. I had options in life. I didn't have to sleep with strangers for money. I chose to, with full informed consent. I got as much out of it as they did, my recruiter ensured all applicants were clean of STDs and had nothing suspicious on their background checks.
I was a high-end escort in the 3rd largest city in America, and I loved it.
What was so bad about that?
I swung by the dry cleaners to pick up my favorite cocktail dress: it was cream-colored and covered with black lace in floral designs, and hung off my arms in a way that accentuated my shoulders. Not only that, but it fit me the way most dresses didn't.
I was curvaceous. Not large, but I had a lot of shape to me. Wide hips and an ass I was proud of, which I kept looking the way it did every week at the gym. An ass that NBA players wanted to be smothered under.
Which meant when I found a dress I loved, I took care of it like it was my pet.
Once I had that I Uber'd home to the high-rise apartment in the Museum district of Chicago. With my dual salaries I could afford something more luxurious, but I loved my little one bedroom in the middle of the city. I hung my dress on the door frame, turned Spotify to a classical piano station, and began my routine.
I loved my little ceremony. A coronation all for me. A long bath with lavender oil, taking the time to condition and then shampoo my hair. Shaving my legs and trimming my pubic hair. Rubbing coconut oil lotion over my arms and legs while my black hair dried naturally, then blow-drying the last bits of wetness away. I was lucky to have gotten my silky hair from my mom, because once it was dried I didn't need to put much in the way of hair products into it to get it just the way I wanted.
Picking underwear took 15 minutes. Most men were visually stimulated; the wrapping paper was just as important as the present itself. Imagining Miguel's tastes, I settled on a lacy red thong and matching bra.
And then I was sliding into my dress, using a nifty hook tool I'd bought on Amazon to reach behind me and pull up the zipper. I had plenty of time, so I tried on four different pairs of heels before settling on the glossy black pumps.
I looked good. I felt good.
I grabbed my heavy clutch and took a deep breath, ready for another adventure of a weekend.
The meeting place selected for us was the lobby bar of the Omni Hotel, one of five locations my recruiter rotated through. The moment I stepped through the door the manager was there, a clean-cut black man with an easy smile but sharp eyes.
"Welcome back, Ms. Kim," he said with a knowing look. "Please let me know if there's anything I can do for you."
I thanked him and continued toward the lobby bar, giving the bartender a nod of acknowledgment. It was always nice to know I had backup in case the meeting went poorly; one signal and either of these men would be there in seconds. It was rare, but did happen occasionally. Again, you could never be too careful. The weight in my clutch was a reminder of that.
I stopped in the middle of the lobby.
He was already waiting, even though I was half an hour early. Miguel Rojas sat in one of the plush chairs facing diagonally away from me. He was dressed in a perfect-fitting suit with the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and one leg was crossed over the other with his hands interlocked over the knee. I felt my breath halt in my lungs; he was even more handsome in person, with skin like smoked wood and a subtle thickness beneath his suit that spoke of unseen muscle. His jawline was hard as his gaze moved across the lobby, searching.
This was the first time someone had ever beaten me here. I wasn't sure what to think about that.
And then he saw me; his eyes locked on like magnets snapping into place, surprise and then realization. They widened almost imperceptibly as he took me in, all of me, toes to my crown.
I always felt a burst of excitement and danger at the beginning, in this very moment where we identified each other. You never knew how it was going to go, like a normal date but with the intensity dialed up to 11. Every night may have been prearranged, but always a unique little adventure.
That's why I did it. Not the huge sums of cash, or being wined and dined and taken to fancy events. I did it for the thrill. The same reason a kleptomaniac stole a stick of gum from the convenience store.
Okay, so it was a little different than that. But still.
I resumed breathing and strode the rest of the way into the lobby bar. My date rose and smoothed out his suit with large hands, and gave a nervous smile.
"Nice to meet you, Miguel," I said, embracing him and giving a polite kiss on the cheek. His cologne was spicy with cloves.
"I... nice to meet you too." He hesitated a moment when I said his name, which meant it was a fake one. Not unusual at all. Especially for someone who looked nervous; the ring of moisture on the table next to him meant he'd come early to get some liquid courage. "How are you, Cassandra?"
Sweat was beaded at his temples, and he gave an awkward smile. The juxtaposition of his boyish nervousness on a body so solid and masculine was adorable.
"You can call me Cassie," I said, taking the seat across from him and giving a warm smile. "And I'm doing wonderful."
I raised a finger to the bartender, who nodded and began making my drink. He knew what I liked.
"You're... gorgeous," Miguel said.
"Thank you," I said, "but I doubt you would be here if I were homely." I gave him a wink to know I was joking.
"No, I mean..." he struggled. "I didn't get to see, ahh..."
I stiffened with realization. "Someone recommended you to me?"
"Yeah. Well. I mean, he told me what you looked like, but words are only..."
This happened sometimes. Someone would apply for their friend, whether for a bachelor party or birthday or any other special occasion. Sometimes a rich father would splurge for his spoiled son on his 18th birthday. As if that was attractive to a woman. Ugh. My recruiter knew to filter those kinds of clients out before they ever got to me.
It usually pissed me off. I wanted my applicants to want me, to have chosen me, overwhelmed by a primal lust as old as mankind itself. I didn't like being set up for what was essentially an expensive blind date.
But I didn't feel that way tonight.
There was a kindness in Miguel's eyes to go with the way he looked at me now; desperate to feast on how I looked in my dress, but too polite to overtly stare. He wanted me; I could feel his desire rolling off him like waves. And I'd chosen him for a reason. I didn't want to back out now, and it had nothing to do with the money.
The bartender appeared with my drink: a caipirinha in a short tumbler with four lime wedges at the bottom. I accepted it with a smile and then he turned to Miguel.
"Uhh," Miguel blinked in surprise. "Yeah, make it two."
I leaned forward with a polite smile. "You don't need to order the same thing as me. Not everyone likes a caipirinha." Sweet and tart like a whiskey sour, I'd never seen anyone outside of America order one.
A funny grin spread across Miguel's face, revealing a row of pristine white teeth. "When I said make it two, I meant for me. I already had one before you got here." He held up a palm. "I swear. You can ask the bartender if you don't believe me."
I arched an eyebrow, but said nothing as the bartender returned with his drink. That was one hell of a coincidence.
"My grandfather used to make them," Miguel said after taking a sip. "Always reminds me of being a boy."
The reason was so close to my own that the air almost left my lungs. I got a hold of myself and leaned forward to touch my glass to his. "To an exciting weekend."
His nervous smile returned as he took another drink.
"Tell me about yourself," I said. "You're an investment manager?"
"Technically yes," he said, gesturing with his glass. "But mostly I'm a cryptocurrency trader now."
"Cryptocurrency? Like, Bitcoin?"
"You mean you don't know?" Miguel cocked his head.
"Why do you say it like that?"
"Well, on account of... you know. The payment..."
I realized what he meant. "Oh, I see the confusion. I don't manage any of the... transactions of the arrangement. That's all handled elsewhere."
"Oh." He seemed disappointed that we didn't have the common topic to discuss, but then his face lit up anyways. "But yeah, I'm a crypto trader. Buying and selling, like a day-trader with stocks. It's not just Bitcoin: there are thousands of other digital currencies out there, and it's an art to pick which ones to hold and which to sell."
"That's fascinating," I said. Small talk always helped clients relax at the beginning. "How long have you been doing that?"
"Oh, five years now. I was an investment manager for a big firm before that, then got into the crypto game hard. When my company wouldn't let me add cryptocurrency to our clients' portfolios I quit my job and started my own small firm. It's done pretty well thanks to the crypto bubble." He bobbed his head. "Pretty well."
He stared off, and I could see the nervousness falling back across his face.
"So what do you want to do this weekend?" I asked, gazing at him across the top of my glass.
"Yeah..." he began. "I don't know."
"Oh, I think you do," I smiled.
He ran his free hand over his head, wiping away sweat. He was terrified! It was adorable, in its own sexy way. And the knowledge that I could make such a tall, strong man so nervous filled me with my own pleasure.
"Here's what I think we should do," I said, downing the rest of my drink.
*
I led Miguel by the hand toward the elevators.
My recruiter always booked the same room for me, and I had the key waiting in my clutch. Such an arrangement removed the awkwardness of needing to check-in at the beginning of the night; nothing killed the mood as much as standing around while a desk clerk confirmed your reservation information.
After two years, I was experienced with this sort of thing. Men cames in all different flavors; some were cocky and confident when faced with a new experience, who I preferred to tease and hint and draw out our night before fucking their brains out. But more men were nervous of the unknown, anxious to see what would happen during our date. I'd learned that sometimes it was best to break the ice immediately, get that out of the way quickly, so you could relax and enjoy the rest of the night.
And that's exactly what I was going to do with Miguel.
The moment the elevator doors closed, I pressed him up against the wall and pulled his face down to mine. I kissed him softly, letting my thick lips press into his in a long caress of a kiss, running my hand across his neck. He responded by grabbing my waist, then sliding his hands across my ass, grabbing two handfuls like a man grasping for a life saver. I pushed my tongue into his mouth, tasting the ghost of the caipirinha on his own tongue, sweet and tart and fruity.
The door opened on the 44th floor, and I took him by the hand once again.
"Maybe we should..." he began, but I spun around and put a finger to my lips.
"Shh, just trust me." God, the way he moved in that suit made me tingle; I couldn't wait to get his clothes off and touch the muscle underneath, feel them pressed against my body. I was going to fuck the nervousness out of his gorgeous body. Make him more confident, the way he wanted to be.
I stopped at the door to my usual room, slipped two fingers into my clutch to grab the key, and opened it.
The suit was a split-level, with a couch and TV in the entrance level and with two steps leading down to the bedroom area. The curtains were drawn to display the beautifully illuminated Chicago skyline, tall skyscrapers glowing with a thousand lights through the lingering night clouds.
I let go of Miguel's hand and strode across the room slowly and deliberately, popping my ass like a runway model. I stopped when I reached the bed, and I bent over it and stretched my back like a lazy cat.
"Wow," Miguel said, and whether he meant me or the Chicago view I didn't know.
I turned around and sat on the edge of the bed with my arms behind me. "Why don't you come over here and let me give you a pre-dinner treat?"
He still stood by the door, a dark sentinel whose expression I couldn't discern. "I wanted to talk to you."
"We have all night to talk," I purred, beckoning him with a finger. God, I wanted him. "Why don't you come here and let me remove all thought from your head?"
He moved slowly, cautiously, long legs striding across the room. His delay drove me wild. Fuck, who was the one teasing who, here?
"Maybe we should get to know each other," he said, shoes clicking on the wooden steps as he joined me in the bedroom. "There are some... things, I wanted to talk about..."
"It looks like you want to do more than just talk." I reached out and touched the front of his dress pants, running my fingers against the outline of his stiff cock. Good lord, he was big. I bit my lip and looked up at him through my eyelashes.
"Oh baby, do I," he began. "But I wanted to tell you--"
I unzipped his pants slowly, letting the zipper click on each of the teeth individually. I slid my hand inside and pulled his cock through the hole in his boxer briefs, eight inches of it, hot and hard and juicy.
"Ohh," I gasped, my reaction completely genuine. There was something special about seeing a man's dick for the first time. "You wanted to tell me how big it was?"
He answered with a moan as I ran my nail along the underside of the shaft.
"I know what you want," I said.
Pleasing men was something I loved. It was my passion. I had a variety of tools in my metaphorical box, and choosing which one to use at any given time was an art. A symphony of flesh, segueing from prelude to rhapsody to sonata, our bodies in perfect harmony. I enjoyed the power of it. I was a beautiful woman, I got to choose which men got to enjoy my company for a weekend, and then I made them cum so hard they saw stars.
I didn't just want to give these men a fun weekend. I wanted to be the best fuck of their lives, something that gave them a hard-on decades from now just from memory alone.
I moved my head toward Miguel's cock gradually, tenderly kissing the tip. Slowly I parted my thick lips, wrapping them around his head one millimeter at a time. I felt his entire body stiffen, and then relax, as I moved my lips down his shaft, never stopping, taking almost ever inch of him deep in my throat.
I held him there a moment, my lips brushing against his dress pants, before pulling back just as slowly.
"Oh fuck!" he gasped, voice dripping with lust. "Oh my God, you feel amazing..."
I put my hands on his hips, feeling something in his left pocket--vibrating, like a cell phone, but I was too focused on his meat to care. I deep-throated him again, feeling his long snake fill my mouth and throat. God, I loved that I could do this to a man, even someone as long as him: take all of them in my mouth, make their cock disappear inside. Sometimes this opening salvo made men cum within seconds, which made me tingle with smug satisfaction. Miguel would need more, though. I could tell.
I blew him for another sensual minute before finally pulling his cock all the way out. I gave the head another little farewell kiss and then rose.
"Let's get these clothes off."
I kissed him on the lips while unbuttoning his shirt one button at a time, then pulled it and the jacket off his back, revealing a broad chest lined with shadowy muscles. My imagination hadn't failed me: his torso was perfectly V-shaped, with wide shoulders and a broad chest narrowing down to a slender waist like a goddamn plastic action figure. I broke our kiss to admire him, then moved my lips to his neck, then chest, good lord he tasted so good, and from his groans he was enjoying it just as much.
My fingers found his belt and ripped it away, then let his pants and boxer briefs fall to the floor. For a moment he stood before me, strong thighs spread wide, and I felt a tingle in my loins that could not delay.
I spun him around and sat him on the bed, his nude body bouncing on the soft mattress. Teasingly, I pulled my dress up over my hips to reveal the lacy red thong. He drank the sight of me, devouring me with his eyes, and his response pulled a moan from my throat.
I could tell he was an ass man; the way he'd grabbed my cheeks in the elevator, and how he hadn't gawked at my ample cleavage in the lobby or since then. Excellent; my favorite kind of man. Keeping my dress above my waist, I turned around and bent over slowly, giving him a long view. And then I threaded my fingers into the string and pulled down the thong, over my thighs, then knees and ankles, and I stepped out of them and tossed them aside.
"You like what you see?" I asked, glancing back.
Before he could answer I lowered myself onto his cock, letting it brush against my dripping lips. But then I moved forward and pushed it back, wedging his cock against his belly. Up and down I moved, giving him a lap dance while his cock rubbed between my ample ass cheeks. He let out a noise like a wolf, an animal-like growl filled with desire, and when I glanced back at him I could see the need in his eyes.
Yeah. I knew what he wanted alright.
And I wanted the same thing just as much.
I squatted off of him until his cock fell forward, brushing against my lips again. I reached underneath and ran my nails along his shaft again, then guided him between my lips, back and forth to coat him in my juices. And then I leaned into him, forcing the tip of his cock up inside of my pussy. We gasped as one, each of us surprised and amazed by the feeling, and urged on by the sensation I pushed farther, two inches, then three, and I was so wet that I didn't need to slow as I pushed all the way down onto him and took every inch.
"Oh Cassie!" he breathed, running a hand along my spine, skin touching my skin.
"Grab my ass," I commanded, knowing it was what he wanted. His long fingers palmed my cheeks, fingers sliding underneath to squeeze the muscle tight. "Harder."
He obeyed, fingers tightening on my cheeks desperately.
"That's it," I said, using my thighs to squat off of him. We had a long weekend ahead of us; I decided I wanted to make him cum quickly, and save the slower, more passionate fucking for later. I rose halfway off his long member and pushed back down, feeling his girth widening me, filling every nook and cranny inside of me, all my walls, and I didn't stop until my ass pressed hard against his thighs and I heard him groan again.
"I've been thinking about you all day," I said, letting my head hang down as I rode him up and down. "The way you taste. The hard muscle. The enormous cock, deep inside me. Ohh..."
He was groaning with each pump now, and thrusting up into me. I had him right where I wanted him.
"Ohh, I want you to cum so bad," I moaned, pleasure cascading through me with each stroke.
"I'm close," he gasped, fingers gripping my ass so tight he might take a chunk with him.
His sounds of pleasure rose gradually, building toward the inevitable climax. I savored the sounds and my own pleasure until I sensed he was right on the edge, and then I pulled off of him and reached back to grab his cock.
"Cum on my ass," I said, stroking him quickly. His mouth opened and a deep roar came out. His member spasmed in my fingers and then I felt his hot loads splatter against my back, each one a drum-beat of this man's ecstasy, who I could get off after only a few minutes, and the thought and feeling filled me with a satisfaction as deep and powerful as his strokes had.
When he was spent, I turned around and bent over him, kissing him long and passionately. I broke it away and looked deep into his eyes while our faces were only inches apart.
"We're going to have a fun weekend," I said, then got up to go to the bathroom.
"Ohh yeah, I can feel it," he said, strangely distant.
"I felt it too, baby. We're going to feel a lot more of that before the night is done."
"No, not that," he said, breathing heavily. "It's... well. It's what I wanted to tell you about."
I paused in the bathroom door and turned around. "What is it, Miguel?"
"First of all, Miguel is a fake name. My real name is Orlando." He gave an awkward grin and put a hand on his chest. "And I think I have something to show you. But it might freak you out."