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This story only available on Lush Stories. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.He shivered, his teeth biting into the pillow, as he felt her hot tongue trace lingering strokes up his spine. With every languorous lick, she would return to the point of origin, pucker her pink shining lips, and blow coldly along the wet streaks. He lay spread-eagled and face down, with his wrists and ankles tied by black silk to each corner of the iron bedstead. By the time she had reached his neck and was licking and blowing the inner edges of his ear, he was shaking and trying to grind himself into the sheets. She sat up, straddling him across the small of his back and slapped his buttock.“Stop grinding,” she commanded. The Commuter stopped.As a reward for his instant obeying, she began to grind into him in the same rhythm, knowing he would like to feel her tiny weight pressing the length of his hard cock into the mattress.“Can you feel my soaking wet pussy sliding all over you?” She slid her hands up his back and shoulders as she smeared the tops of his buttocks in her juices. He moaned, trying his best not to move, but just feel her. She smiled, and turned herself around so that she faced the foot of the bed. She wriggled backwards a little, so that she could comfortably massage her wetness into his buttocks. She ran her hands down from the small of his back, parallel to his crack, veering outwards and away from his balls. She smoothed down the inside of his thighs, and then returning up the backs of them, squeezing his cheeks together. She continued this for a while to warm up his muscles, and then she gave him some tiny little slaps on the same pattern. She heard his heavy breathing, as he relaxed, tuned into the gentle rhythm.SLAP!“Wake up!”He flinched, the shock of the symmetrical spank on each buttock rousing his cock again. She began to knead his buttocks much harder now, letting her fingers smooth the inside of his cheeks, just flirting with his hole and putting delicious pressure on the smooth, shaven skin between there and his balls. He’d been handed a little note from her on their second meeting. It simply said, “Hairless from the waist down.” And he had ensured he was, too.“Ah, you’re a good boy really,” she purred. Reaching down and fingering his balls, she watched his buttocks clench as he tried to stop himself cumming. She leapt off him and stood next to him.“Don’t you dare cum yet, Commuter! You will cum when I say you can.”Again he bit into the pillow. She gave him a moment to control himself, and then she picked up her discarded lacy knickers from the floor, wiping the crotch along her slit to make it more wet. Roughly, she pulled them over his face. The sodden crotch was right over his nose. He moaned, hiding his face into the pillow so that the only air that could invade his lungs was the musky, sweet smell of her pussy.He was grinding again. She knew: they just couldn’t help themselves. She sighed quietly to herself. Slowly, she undid the silk scarves that tied his feet, and then his hands.“Flip over, show me your cock.”He duly flipped over, his skin flushed and sweaty through the white lace across his face, cock rock-hard and lifting his hips as he fucked the air desperately. She clambered onto him, her knees on either side of his neck, and she pushed her slick hole down onto his mouth.His desperate tongue darted clumsily all around between her lips, and she sighed again. No wonder his marriage was a mouldering corpse of sexless arguments, if this was all he had to offer his wife. She made a quick decision, and flipped herself around, repositioning herself so the motion of his tongue pushed against her clit. She held his hips down so he couldn’t fuck air, and clamped her knees either side of him. Starved of oxygen and needing release, he did his best with his nose as deep inside her as was humanly possible, and his tongue frantically flickering as hard as he could. She ground into him, knowing he was fast running out of steam. She moved forward slightly, allowing the raspy stubble of his chin to give a slightly less inept friction Yeşilköy escort on her spit- and juice-covered nub, looking his cock in the eye.Still grinding, she felt herself nearing a soft release of her own – hardly the most exciting night of her life, but it could be worse. Just as she felt herself tipping over the edge, she wiggled her ass in his face and let him tongue her clit again. She took his cock in her mouth and took him in as deep as she could. Instantly, he shot hot cum into the back of her throat, and she felt rather than heard his cry of abandoned faculties. She swallowed the bitter spurts like a bad shot of tequila, making a mental note to tell him to eat cinnamon toast and pineapple before meet-ups. His hips kept thrusting despite her weight as she tried to sheath her teeth with her lips. The last thing she wanted was to draw blood (unless she meant it).She went to move off him when his thrusts subsided, but he held onto her hips desperately, smelling her intimate cleft and wishing she was his completely. Not just for the things she knew how to do to him, but he wanted nothing more than to fuck that sweet pussy that even now was causing him a dangerous lack of oxygen. God, he wanted to fuck her! But she was cock-in-pussy untouchable.She gave him a moment, and then climbed off, standing level with his head and looking down over her lacy basque cups at him. She wished she was looking down at somebody else. Somebody who insisted on creeping into her dreams, both waking and sleeping. She shook the somebody’s spectral hands off her breasts.“Last longer next time, lad,” she winked at The Commuter.She left him there, exhausted and still red-faced, after her shower. She left the hotel and got the train home. Sometimes she liked to sit in a quieter carriage, opposite and across from another traveller. She liked to feel men looking at her. It never took long for her to be noticed. Small and lithe, with a short mop of blond ringlets, she looked like a little angelic being poured into an off-the-rail floral dress. When she felt the traveller’s eyes on her, she would lean back in her seat and turn to look out the window. She knew he could see the milky white of her small neck, and see her small hands splayed out as she stretched like a cat. She knew he was wishing those fingers were wrapped inexpertly around his cock, like he could teach her something. She would settle against the window, crossing one leg over the other so that her knee and small foot were pointing directly at the starer, her pastel ballet flat hanging onto her toes and the heel bouncing on and off her foot, as if revealing some sexual secret never seen in public before.Sometimes, she would raise her bright forget-me-not eyes up to meet the traveller’s gaze, invariably locking even the most nervous into a silent communication of “Please-fuck-my-innocence,” which always got the silent response, “Oh-dear-god-let-me-fuck-your-innocence.” She would break the spell with a little smile, causing her eyes to dew up, and look away into other worlds through the window.Really, she was weighing up whether she would pass her card on to them or not. Usually she did not. But sometimes, if her stop arrived before his, she would shyly drop the card onto the seat as she scampered past him, and wander shyly alongside the carriage with one little fond glance for him to think on as the train left the station. The “card” was just a scrap of paper, with pencilled writing. All it said was, “The Coffee Bean, nr. Leeds City station.” People who wanted to find it, did. Tucked away in a small alley amusingly called “Back Passage”, on the edge of Granary Wharf, The Coffee Bean looked like a typical greasy spoon café. With just four formica tables and sugar-sticky stools ranged round them, the two waitresses were hefty Northern women with grumpy expressions. Until a regular customer appeared, in which case, they were flashed a large grin, and waved on through to the back.A “regular” male customer was usually dressed in smart business suits or tailored casuals, and held a certain air of furtive confidence. Yeşilyurt escort bayan A little bit of fear lurked, for all they walked in with a swagger. A “regular” female customer was dressed equally well, often glinting with designer jewellery, with perfect nails and hair. These women had no fear, called everybody “darling” (including the hired help), and could eat a man for breakfast. They were usually business people, just passing through the city, or who lived close at hand when they weren’t travelling. People went to The Coffee Bean for various things and the same thing. Some went for somebody to have unquestioning sex with; some went to be treated like a precious gem; others went for the socialising and company. They all went for sexual satisfaction and exploration. The Coffee Bean was not a club, nor a brothel, nor a place where prostitutes met. The only ridiculous pricing was on the exquisite teas, coffees and drinks at the glowing bar. On entry, the rich, dark aroma of fine coffee flooded the senses and pervaded the fibres of visitors’ clothing. It was clear that the place was backed into the Dark Arches that held aloft the train station. The vaulted arches of the ceiling were painted gunmetal grey, curving the enormous room into a wide tunnel lit by soft coloured LED striplights and spots that reflected back off the white walls. The old industrial age met contemporary relaxation in a few strokes of paint. In some places, there were old wooden high-backed booths that could enclose two or more people around a dining table for privacy, and nests of scatter cushions elsewhere with low wooden crates for those who wished to lounge. There were areas of down-lit reading corners with select reading materials and internet access, and groups of leather sofas and chairs for those who wished to mingle and find a partner for intimacy without being too intense.The Coffee Bean was named for the proprietor’s first and only love. He had met her overseas, a dark-skinned beauty with whom he whiled away stolen work hours on his business trips. They had laughingly dreamed up a place where people who were lacking in sexual fun could congregate. Classy, but fun, discreet and comfortable, people who were lonely, or wanted to get or give something specific could congregate there and perhaps find what they sought.On the death of his lover, Bob had built their dream, and named it for her clitoris. It was just an added bonus that the front door was in “Back Passage”. He was sometimes to be found in a reading corner, drawing somewhat childlike pictures of his lost love, and wading through joyful dreams that eluded his reality now. He would often look around the place, and be glad that others were so happy. He never spurned advances, but he preferred to keep to himself. He would mutter something to his bar staff about “keeping the young’uns ‘appy,” and then attend to some admin in the office.Quietly, and steadily, the customers began to visit. There were all sorts of people. Lonely people, people with desires not met at home, single people too scared for relationships, people who wanted to explore sexuality, either their own or somebody else’s, and people who were never really sure what they wanted, but couldn’t stay away. All of them craved company of some kind, even if it was to discuss sport over a cup of Kopi Luwak and a slice of Gold Cake, or to read recommendations of erotica over the internet in the company of a Baileys cappuccino and a gingerbread man. This latter option was fairly popular amongst one group of regulars who then tried acting out what they’d read, and The Coffee Bean was the catalyst for periodic spates of hot, real life stories flooding a certain well-known erotica site.Amongst the regulars, there was a certain group known as “Givers”, and a certain group known as “Takers.” The Commuter was a Taker, and would take whatever was dished out to make him cum. Most Givers had a “thing,” a niche, something specific they could offer a Taker. Some were into anal, others just blowjobs. Some liked candle play, others liked spanking. Escort Zeytinburnu One or two liked to be, or take care of, kitties, and others liked it rough, whilst others liked it romantic. No matter what a person was looking for, at some point, a Giver or Taker would find something that would have them squirming over the memories for weeks afterwards.The innocent, angelic-looking Maggie was a Giver. She gave men great orgasms. Her thing was the sweet innocent appearance, and the fact that she was a virgin. No train had entered her tunnel before. But she was not all she seemed. A man would initially approach her in The Coffee Bean as she sat, small and primly upon a low, leather couch. She would look up with those forget-me-not eyes, and he would be overcome by a desire to pick her up and run away with her. But fear of scaring her off would always rein him back, and reverently, he would fetch her a drink, sit quietly, ask her questions, and figure out how to get her into bed.But everything was in her time. She Gave directions. She knew exactly what she wanted, how she wanted it, and when she wanted it. The first two meetings she would shyly bat her eyes at her admirer, and pass him little handwritten notes that said things like, “I like you,” and “You’re very sweet,” and “I’d like you to be my First one day.” It was sickening, but, bizarrely, it worked. And by the third date, she had the poor would-be fucker literally by the balls and doing whatever she commanded.The Commuter, whom Maggie had just left to catch her train, had been completely taken in by her beguiling act. He had dreamed of sweeping her into his arms and teaching her all he knew about sex (to be fair, it was precious little, but a man needs his dignity). His marriage was on the rocks, a heavy blow falling around the time of meeting Maggie shyly glancing his way across the carriage. His wife had wandered into his office whilst he was in the bathroom, to look for who-knows-what, and had discovered his computer screen glaring with an image of a scantily leather-clad Dominatrix brandishing a whip over a bound, gagged man.“Oh my god, you sick fuck!” she had shouted at him as he returned, wiping his damp hands on his trousers. “What the hell have you been looking at?”He knew the game was up, and he was too tired to deny it.“Porn.”“Porn? Porn? It’s fucking sick, you mad bastard! Porn is degrading to women!”He looked at her bemused.“But… she’s the one with the whip…”Lost for a counter-argument, his wife had used the opportunity to pack her bags, and spent some time at a country spa. He had used the opportunity to start eyeing up a pretty little curly-headed angel on the train.In the months that followed, The Commuter got to know other Coffee Bean regulars. There was Sassy Sall, who enjoyed cowgirl antics; Robert, the serious artist who loved to paint nudes (very well); Rachel, who enjoyed being used as a coffee table, using the low-down opportunity to tie shoelaces together and paint peoples’ toenails; Jon, who wrote poetry that caused the women who heard it to change their panties at least once during the evening (passing on a pair now and again to Steve, who appreciated them very much); Pandora, who ran a BDSM club in Ilkley; Orion, who treated women like queens and made them cum like sluts; Maggie, a virgin who could make a man shoot his cum across the room just by eyeballing him as she sucked him… The list went on. Not everybody wanted to give their real names, hence The Commuter. Sometimes, it was hard to tell who had nicknames and who used their real names. And Bob just pottered around, quietly appearing and disappearing, leaving his childish pictures of his love around the place, which the staff added to albums on a special shelf near the bar.The night after Maggie’s last jaunt into tying up The Commuter, she arrived at The Coffee Bean early in the evening. There were just a few people, one surfing the internet on a Galaxy Note, kindly provided in-house for people who wished to keep their Coffee evenings separate from their work and home phones, two chatting whilst sprawled on the scatter cushions, and Bob, sat at the bar with an orange crayon and a pad of paper.“Hiya, lad,” she smiled, kissing him on the cheek as she climbed up onto the high, caramel stool. “ ‘Ow are yer?”“ ’Appen ah’m ahreet, lass. An’ thee?”“ ‘Appen I am, lad.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32