TÉLÉCHARGEMENTS The Erotic Tales of Whore Wives - XIII - Tales of Whore Wives, #13Untitled document
by John

 The Erotic Tales of Whore Wives - XIII - Tales of Whore Wives, #13 pan Arabella Quinn

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Overview

Before my brain could catch up with my mouth, I heard myself saying, "I'm not working, just watching a movie." I wished I could have swallowed the words as soon as they left my lips. His eyes sparked with curiosity, "Oh yeah? What are you watching?" He asked, tilting his head slightly, his eyes reflecting the glow of my screen. I was flustered, my mind a whirlwind of chaos, unable to form a coherent thought.
I stammered a nonsensical response, my face flushing with embarrassment. He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the air, "Doesn't sound like a good movie." He started to move, his body circling around the desk, his eyes drawn to the monitor like a moth to a flame. I sat frozen, my heart pounding in my chest, a drumbeat of anticipation and dread. I could have stopped him, but I didn't.
I let him round the desk, his eyes landing on the paused image on the screen. There, frozen in time, was a naked woman, her body entwined with two naked men. Jason's eyes widened, his pupils dilating with shock. He hadn't expected this, his youth unprepared for the sight of a woman engrossed in such a carnal display. But before he could tear his gaze away, I clicked play. Silently, the men on the screen continued their dance of pleasure, their hands and mouths exploring the woman's body with soft, sensual touches.
Jason was speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, a soft, unintelligible mumble escaping his lips as he tried to step away. I reached out, my hand grasping his waist, my fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath his shirt. "Don't you like porn?" I asked, my voice a low purr. He stilled, his body tense, his breath hitching in surprise. I leaned in, my voice a soft, sultry whisper as I narrated the action unfolding on the screen.
My hand remained hooked in his waistband, but my right hand, freed from the mouse, trailed down to my exposed thigh. I looked down, my eyes tracing the length of my bare legs, the fabric of my skirt bunched up and wedged between my thighs, shielding my most intimate place from view. The waist of my skirt was hiked up, revealing a expanse of upper thigh, almost to the jut of my pelvic bones. The dim glow of the television flickered across our faces, the movie's sultry scenes reflecting in our eyes.
My hand, almost of its own accord, began a slow, sensual dance along my thigh, fingers tracing patterns on bare skin. My legs, as if controlled by some primal instinct, parted slightly, not indecently, but just enough for my hand to slip beneath the fabric of my nightshirt. Jason, transfixed by the film, made no move to disrupt me, my fingers still hooked around his waistband, a silent, tense connection.   

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