Frisked And Fucked

By | February 4, 2009

His hand grabbed her wrist, holding it in a grip that suffered no protest.

“But Mr Brooke I am carrying nothing!” She exclaimed.

He turned her round and pressed her against the wall, her cheek pressed against the cold marble. He pressed the muzzle of his automatic into the back of her neck, while his free hand slid down one side of her lithe body, across her round ass and stopped when it felt a bulge under her skirt. He reached underneath and pulled out the small Beretta Px4 that had been strapped to her leg.

He stepped away from her and instructed “Turn around.”

She did, her blonde hair falling forward partly obscuring her face.

“Now take off the dress.”

She opened her mouth to object but he waved his pistol at her to underline his instruction. The dress fell to the floor leaving her standing in a black bra, panties, stockings and suspenders. She slowly turned round. “See!” she said “nothing.”

“Apart from the automatic.”

“I need protection from people like you.”

He ejected the magazine from her gun and threw the emasculated piece across the floor, out of reach. “Now you where were you? Oh yes, you were going to kiss me.”

“How could I forget.” Her eyes sparkled and she pressed her body close against his Italian suite. He could smell her perfume and when her lips pressed against his the flavour of her lipstick insinuated its way into his mouth.

He tossed his gun onto a chair and let her slip the jacket from his shoulders, the expensive fabric left lying in a heap on the floor. She led him to the bedroom, looking coyly over her shoulder as he followed, discarding his tie and removing his cufflinks.

The bed was round and silk-sheeted. Her pale skin and black underwear the perfect accompaniment to the red shiny fabric. He was already hard, a bulge in his trousers ruining the bespoke lines of the tailoring. He kicked off his shoes, then in steps hooked a finger into each sock and threw them aside. His trousers fell and were left on the thick carpet as he took the final step before sliding onto the bed beside her.

Her hand grabbed the hard rod in his silk boxers. She felt the moisture oozing from the tip of his cock. She smiled and rubbed her thighs together, enjoying the tingling this sent through her hypersensitive clitoris.

He cupped a breast through her lacy black bra, squeezing hard, making her gasp. “I need you inside me.” She begged. His hand reached inside his boxers and pulled out his hard cock and tight balls. She pushed her knickers over her hips and kicked them across the room.

He was pushed onto his back, her leg swung over and she straddled him trapping his cock between her wet mons and his stomach. She rubbed back and forth for a while, her pussy, covered in short, neatly trimmed hair milking precum from his cock until they were both glistening from their shared moisture.

Then she rocked forward and with the help of her hand slid onto his penis. His passage into her was accompanied by a sweet friction that was like slipping into wet silk. He could feel her stockinged legs rubbing against the outside of his thighs. The passage of his cock in and out of her fiery pussy.

Her breasts waved in front of his eyes like twin orbs. His hands were drawn to them, squeezing and fondling. She bit her lip, her eyes rolled and her passion sent her crashing down, again and again and again onto his cock as a huge orgasm sent her into a frenzy.

His hips bucked, thrusting up to meet her downward movements, aiding her reckless need to be impaled on him. He could feel himself tensing, groin burning, building, and then releasing a hot, pumping orgasm, cum exploding from his cock and mingling with her pussy’s outpourings.

“How could I forget.” Her eyes barely hid the contempt she felt for the has been actor with the hair transplant

There was a sharp pain across his face. For a moment he reeled …

“He’s a fucking pervert!” she exclaimed, looking down at the bulge in his trousers before storming off set.

“Cut, cut!” shouted the director. “Take an hour everyone.” He turned to the lead actor “And you get your shit together, you were completely spaced out again”. He turned and left the leading man opening and closing his mouth like a fish gasping for air. “Roger Brooke, secret agent. The franchise was dead anyway and this guy was a joke.” Thought the Director “Maybe I’ll get Spiderman 4 next …”