In the little black dress and the killer heels that bring my shoulders level with his, and with the pearls he gave me—the opera-length string of pearls he pushed into my cunt—looped twice to adorn my décolletage: thus I appear on his arm at the rather swish literary function in the decidedly posh hotel.
Faces turn to us, curious, wondering: Who’s that with _____? Walking tall and feeling twenty pounds slimmer, I’m wearing my face-the-devil smile. Do I look as lucky as I feel? Hands reach out in greeting.
He introduces me as a visitor, a friend of a friend, and a fellow-writer, but they all know, and he knows they know, and he wants them to know, that in just a few hours, in a rather nice room just a few floors up, when I’m finally wearing nothing but a sheen of sweat, he’s going fuck me senseless.
And I am going to fuck him senseless. But, first, I still have the string of pearls that he gave me for around my neck, but I can’t seem to find the ones he stuck up my cunt. Lover, can you please fetch them for me. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
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