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Angel of Change (21 June 2005)

They didn't have much time. He was interested. She could tell he was interested, though she suspected he didn't know what it was she was offering. Probably he just wanted to grab her and kiss her. That was something men usually wanted to do. She had no idea why. But she loved the look on their faces afterwards, loved knowing she was sending them back to their wives permanently altered.
She loved that moment of anticipation just before her fingertips brushed against his straining cock, through his pants, grasped the zipper, pulled it down, a moment that came in the middle of the kiss. He kissed good. Damn good. She pushed up into him, on her toes, helped by his big hands on her tight round ass, growled a little growl into his mouth, wondered how much not much time really was, the chairs stacked around them in the dark an unwelcome reminder of what they were supposed to be doing, what they had been sent to do.
His hands were up under her blouse, on her bare back, down her pants, on her bare ass, stroking, squeezing, making her forget, forget what she was supposed to be doing, forget what she wanted to be doing. There was nothing but the kiss, and his hands, and the chairs. Damn chairs, but then if it had not been for a shortage of chairs at the potluck they would have no excuse to be in here, and he would not be kissing her, holding her, enveloping her, her, her, her, not his wife, her! Damn wife.

Reluctantly she sank to her knees, away from the kiss; enthusiastically she started to unzip his pants, remembered she had done that already, that his cock was raging free. She could feel it better than see it. Long, hard, slightly curved, perfect. She ached to see it better. But mostly she ached to taste it.
Tentatively she touched it with the tip of her tongue, moved the tip along the long curving shaft, felt him tense, the pressure of his hands on the back of her head growing stronger as she trailed her tongue back out along the bottom, her hands lightly cupping his balls, then slowly, lovingly taking it into her mouth, sucking, licking, looking up at him in the dark room at his beautiful bemused smile of wonderment.
He was in heaven. She could tell. Not just from the feeling, which she knew was incredible, because every man she'd ever blown had told her so, but from the sheer shock of it, the glory, the amazement at what she was doing and where she was doing it, of the proximity of his wife and the sheer audacity of the whole damn thing. Every man she'd ever blown had told her all that too.
His hands were on the back of her head. Time to stop teasing, but not time to stop gloating. Not yet, not ever. She opened wide and engulfed him, sliding almost the whole of his cock into her mouth encouraged, guided, forced by the hands on the back of her head, and then out against the hands, and then in, and out, he was fucking her, fucking her face, her face, not his wife's face, which she pictured, staring at a watch, wondering where her husband had disappeared too, cute face, the wife, cute round face, mouth designed for blowjobs she thought as she felt him tense, tremble, and spurt, jerking, hot, sticky, tasty as hell, sliding easily down the back of her throat, but not this night bitch, not with this husband, he's mine tonight and you can't have him.

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