I thought about him slapping my breasts and wondered; I think I would have run in the opposite direction if had asked me, but honestly, it made me so ...ot. Even the way he laughingly called me a whore. It didn’t come off as an insult, but almost seemed like a term of endearment. And that last orgasm was mind blowing. My ass felt stretched and full, but not sore, like other clumsy attempts from a previous friend. I thought about really not knowing this guy. Just a casual meet up. What if he. He pulled at the elastic as if to peek into a closed box, lowering the back and revealing the soft curvature of my bum. My mouth was open. I was observing what was happening as if it had nothing to do with me. I wriggled but his hand was firm. The white cotton material was bunched up between my arse cheeks. He pulled again, just softly, staring into my buttocks, and I don’t know why, but for the briefest moment I lifted my bottom from the glass table and watched him lower my knickers slowly. More

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