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Dedicated to the lovely C. T., for recounting her titillating adventures.
It has been a week from hell for me. The last time I had some time to myself was Sunday, when I walked in on Denise and Carter’s fun in our kitchen and they helped me make one of my greatest fantasies a reality. I’ve been mired in work without a moment to breathe, and although I had promised myself that Sundays were to be my days of rest, I am now squinting at a glaring computer screen, responding to a backlog of e-mails from the past few days.
I hear the front door open, Denise’s soft voice echoing in our apartment. Footsteps, then the door to Denise’s room closing. I don’t have time to wonder who is here, I am simply trying to focus on my work. I type at breakneck speed, losing myself in the monotony. I don’t know how much time passes before I hear a soft knock on my bedroom door.
“It’s open!” I call out, my fingers moving over the keyboard relentlessly.
Denise pokes her head through my doorway. “Looks like you could use a break, Morgan,” she comments, stepping into my room and leaning on my desk, raising a dark eyebrow, waiting.
I push back on the rolling chair and get to my feet to stretch out my body. She’s right. I need to be distracted for awhile.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask her, having a flashback of last week’s sexy tryst and wondering what other little tricks she has up her sleeve.
“Well… I think it’s best if you just come with me,” she responds vaguely, turning around and heading back across the apartment towards her bedroom, her hips swaying sensuously to the sides.
I find myself following her, intoxicated and curious. She opens her bedroom door and steps inside, and I am at her heels. Immediately I know why she didn’t want to waste time explaining what she had in store for us.
Jayme, an old classmate of ours from University, is standing up with her back against the wall, naked but for her white cotton panties, contrasting beautifully with the caramel of her skin. Her slim wrists are tied high above her head with a black silk scarf I’d bought Denise for her birthday, looped onto a hook Denise had affixed on her wall for her sweaters and hats. Jayme’s long, wavy black hair frame her breasts, which are lifted up high due to her state of bondage. I am startled by the breathtaking sight, more so because Jayme is squirming slightly against the scarf, which she is too petite to be able to detach from the high hook without our help. Her eyes are pools of melted dark chocolate, her lips full and dark pink, begging to be put to use.
“What do you think?” Denise asks me, as though she’s showing off a new outfit.
Think? I feel a throb of yearning between my legs at the prospect of having this luscious nude woman’s naked flesh under my touch.
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