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Alone In Her Hotel Room

Athletic

I’m standing alone. Another hotel room, another day away from you, courtesy of this fucking job. Tonight of all nights I loathe the dinner-for-one lifestyle and glass of Chablis. Well alright, half a bottle now: needs must. No, I want to be celebrating day three-hundred-and-sixty-five since we met, lost in your kisses, your hardness sawing inside me as passion engulfs our bodies and nothing else exists for those cherished moments of connectedness. Instead, the unblinking red dot on the video camera is my only link to you, albeit not real time. We talked earlier. A racy conversation full of loaded imagery about what we’d do to one another upon my return. It was brilliant to fantasise, your baritone cadences in my ear conducting my free hand across my electrified body, first above my clothes, then under them as you brought me release. But an hour later I’m still horny. You have that effect on me. With the meetings and false promises of clients forgotten, my thoughts once more settle entirely with you. Our times together. In bed. On the living room rug in front of the fire. Over the kitchen table while dinner burned. Latent imprints in my memory of your stubble in the crook of my neck, your thick erection pressing against me, your warm hands massaging my breasts just like I’m doing through the thin, grey pullover. I want to show you what’s going through my head. How much I need you. How much I miss you tonight. This is my way. I’ve flipped the camera’s LCD back on itself, jutting from the side of the machine. I can see the room’s front door framing me, the master light switch to the right. But I’m filling the display from the waist up, moving my hands across my chest, deforming the sparse, pink cat silhouettes that comprise the pattern of the jumper as I squeeze and knead. My mouth opens involuntarily before I catch the left side of my lower lip between my teeth, the pleasure zipping my body, invisibly connecting internal and external erogenous zones. I’m tingling. travesti istanbul It feels so naughty to be making a video for you. New territory, my love. Experimenting, like I promised. Like you asked. Steel-framed glasses accentuate my cinnamon irises set in dusty eye shadow. A dirty blonde lock sways to the left of my parted fringe, escaped from the loop of the scrunchie. I pout, lips forming the shape of an acorn as I stare into the lens. Into you. A condition of accepting the job was no budget hotels, confirmed when my toes curl into the pile of the carpet as a wave of excitement grips me. My eyes drift shut for a moment, hands on autopilot, pinching, squeezing through the layers of clothes. Biting and releasing my lip, breathing hard through an open mouth, already I need more. I can’t resist slithering one hand down to my hip, then up under the sweater to grasp a breast, the neckline of the garment revealing a pale shoulder bisected by the black band of the bra strap. The taut line of my throat that you love kissing is displayed when my head tilts back and slightly left. Echoes of your past caresses light my mind, the recollection of brushes against my vulnerable neck making me shiver. Need burns. I reach forward and adjust the camera angle down slightly, then step back half a pace so you can see me from the thighs up. The narrowest strip of belly shows, asymmetrical between the hem of the jumper and the wide, dark waistband of my slate joggers. The gap widens as my hand continues to grope a breast through my bra, unveiling the deep oval belly button nestled in the gentle swell of my tummy. I’m no supermodel. My waist doesn’t taper like they do, but you never object to my unrefined curves. Quite the contrary. You adore kissing my naked skin regardless of its elasticity and the extra inch or two that spills above the waistband. You call me your ‘girl next door’ who happens to have moved in. You celebrate my shape, and from this viewpoint istanbul travestileri I see you have good cause. I give clothes definition; a purpose. Fuck I’m horny. One hand drops to rub over the vee between my legs as the other squeezes through my bra. Feels so good. I planned for this video to tease you as well as excite you, to represent my rising lust as our bodies become one in my head, but I want to come so badly I don’t know how long I’ll last. If I’m pleased with the way this video turns out I might have to make another later. I’m sure you won’t complain. Inner heat flushes my skin. I draw my hands to the hem of the jumper and lift the front above my T-shirt bra, leaning forward slightly to accentuate my modest charms as I massage my sensitive breasts. A good handful, the flesh swells above the smooth black material as I press them up and together. One finger dips inside a cup to brush the chiselled, encased nipple and I draw breath. You need to see more. Hell, I need to feel more. Crossing my arms I grasp and lift the sweater’s hem fully, discarding the garment. Pale skin contrasts the cups through which I pinch my nipples as I observe my chest rising and falling with my deepening breaths. I sweep the bra and its contents upwards, lean to the camera and jiggle them, the undulating flesh so alluring it brings a gentle smile to my lips. I imagine you’ll be stroking your hard cock by this point, dying to see my firm tits in all their naked glory. And I want you to see them. Just not quite yet. The beads in my thick bracelet spin and clack against each other as I scoop and caress my breasts, wishing they were in your strong hands. Lifting my chest, I dare to extend my tongue and lick the upper slopes of flesh. Faint salt dances on my palate alongside the drifting sweetness of perfume in my nose. One bra strap drops from my shoulder to catch on my bicep. I assist the other, giving a cheeky sideways glance to the lens. As my body writhes to istanbul travesti the touch of my breasts I feel myself getting wet. I want your tongue so badly. Your excited breath across my splayed pussy. Teasing. Touching, your kisses down there becoming coated with my silvery secretions before you trail your lips to my mouth so I can taste my desire. Fuck it, you’ve been patient enough. I reach behind to unclasp the bra with practised fluidity and catch the front before it reveals my mounds, massaging and licking them one final time before letting the underwear drop away. Is this exhibitionism? If so, I’m a convert. It makes me shudder as the cool air graces my proud nipples, and a white heat snakes through my body to counter it. You adore the curvature of my breasts, rose tinted nipples usually crinkled, now very erect as I roll them between my fingertips and sigh. Working my way to the edges, I ladle the pliant flesh, again leaning forward to treat you to the sight of jiggling them in turn. I then form the cleavage into which you love to slide your rigid cock. Pouting and licking my lips, I lift each globe, letting it bounce and sway back to rest, nipples pointing slightly off-axis towards the narrow walls of the entrance hall, the orbs full yet many decades from sag. An urge so powerful overcomes me that I crook my arm to support my chest, pinching and squeezing one of my mini mountains as my other hand digs below the waistband of my joggers. I roll my head and gasp, switching breasts, gripping, squeezing, mouth agape, turning my head to profile for you and diddling fingers through my underwear. I lose sight of myself as my head inclines back a little and I sigh deeply, impure thoughts blinding my conscience. Dropping my chin to my chest, I fix a stare into the camera. A mask of want paints my face. Fuck I need you inside me. Thrusting. Panting. Clutching my body. I can only simulate so much of the times we’re together with my own hands, but it’ll have to do for now. I rub the wet patch in my knickers, grab at my engorged breasts, stroke my damp skin, and think of your sculpted body sliding alongside mine, slick with perspiration. Desire escalates to the point I can no longer deny you the sight of more of my body.

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