Just Relax, Sir

Tyler sits on the table, palms sweating. He’s thinking too much, one foot already pointing at the door. Then she walks in—Kimmy, all sharp cheekbones and silk, says she’ll make sure he remembers this. He doubts it, but strips anyway. Lies face-down under a towel that feels suddenly thin. She warms the oil between her palms, the sound slick and wet. Her hands slide up his calves, over his back, pressing heat into muscle. When he turns, the towel tents. She hesitates, breath caught. He hooks the briefs off and drops them to the floor. Kimmy climbs up, knees planted on either side of his hips. Oil glistens on her fingers. She wraps them around his cock and strokes once, slow, like she’s measuring. Then she stands, loosens the tie on her robe, lets red silk slide off her shoulders and puddle around her ankles. Red lace underneath, barely covering anything. Tyler’s nerves vanish. He sits up, grabs her waist, pulls her forward. Mouth on her stomach, then lower, teeth catching lace. He sucks her nipples, fingers slipping under her crotch, rubbing. Kimmy’s breathing changes. She turns, climbs higher, plants her pussy right over his mouth while her hand keeps working his shaft. He tongues her in slow circles, tasting oil and skin, then faster, gripping her ass so she can’t pull away. Her thighs start shaking. A long, low sound escapes her as she comes, hips twitching, cunt pressed hard against his mouth. Afterward she stays there a second, catching her breath, still lazily stroking him. The quiet ones, she thinks, know exactly what they’re doing.