This is the second instalment of my adventures with Sarah. The first was called "Towels", written a little while ago. Thank you to all those who gave me such positive feedback and encouragement. It seems I let out my sexual frustration in between relationships by writing. Thanks to Jim for help editing. I hope you all enjoy my story. It would turn me on some more to know if you got hard or wet while reading it. I have an idea for a finale.
*****
"You know," said Sarah munching muesli, "you make weird noises having sex."
I might have said we all do, but I was half asleep with my head to the pillow. An image flashed in my mind of her mouth, busy, sunk between my shiny, bald and aroused pussy lips. She wagged her spoon and then corrected herself.
"No! Not having sex, when you're fucking." Sarah was sitting with her knees hunched up at the top of my bed having her breakfast. Another image flashed of a fat hard cock inches from my eyes, a long strand of spunk, saliva and juice dangling toward me. I would have liked at least another thirty minutes sleep - and a little 'me time', maybe.
"What time is it?"
"When I go down on your pussy you make lovely smoochie moans and sighs. When you're getting fucked you sound like a...a grunty steam train." She paused to poke some muesli; "kinda," and here she grunted, apparently like I do, tapping the air with her spoon to the rhythm of each one of my peculiar grunts.
"Sarah," I began to plead.
She wrinkled up her cute little nose and paused her chewing, to once more waggle her spoon. "I love it when you come!" She smiled.
I sighed and remembered my promise. A large Mickey Mouse went across the chest of Sarah's pajamas. Any innocence was lost by the firm, erect nipples clearly visible either side of her chest. She was chatting merrily to herself like she had slept well and this was the morning after an innocent sleepover. I realized she had not even finished breakfast and a whole sexual encounter had already gone through her head in just my first few moments of semi-consciousness. Really she was as slutty and as sexy as they come. And she came a lot.
Sarah had short blonde hair, dreamy blue eyes and a lean pert figure with perfect round breasts. Her legs, hugged to her chest, propped her muesli on her knees, but when she unraveled them, they unraveled forever. It could take most of an hour for me to lick from toe to cunt.
"He is a slime ball." Sarah hopped to her next thought, and as ever it immediately came out of her mouth.
"Who?"
"Sam Crabb."
"Who?"
"The man with our money!"
"Oh... right." I turned away from her and gathered my own thoughts. Mr. Crab; he was the spymaster too pervy for the CIA; or maybe he just made more money his way. When I covered Sarah's shift as a hotel maid I did not expect bundling towels from room to room would end in a fancy suite, in a threesome with her and a hunk with a monster cock. Before I knew it, I was caught and fucked in Mr. Crabb's honey trap.
-
A while later, it was that same Mr. Crabb who looked me up and down, approvingly I thought, but then did a peculiar nod of his head as if bidding me to turn and show my ass, including I imagined, bending over. I ignored him. I realized this was his habit for women standing at his desk, the majority of whom, I imagined, most likely stood in their underwear or less. But I was not a piece of meat and he seemed only a little perturbed.
"You know if you wanted to make this a career you've all the right equipment." Mr. Crabb, or Sam, as he wanted me to call him, was a caricature of himself. He spoke as if he had kept the same half chewed cigar in his mouth since he was five years old. He shifted side to side on his seat, stretching his pants with a permanent, uncomfortable erection. From time to time he tried to rearrange his underwear as inconspicuously as he could, but his middle aged paunch prevented even that relief. His skin was greasy and pock marked and looked, I imagined, like many of his customers, a result of too few fresh vegetables and too much late night internet. He had bad breath and dandruff and touched me too much when shaking hands, showing me where to sign. He came too close, too long at any and every opportunity. He was, in short, exactly the kind of person you might imagine made a living from secretly filming strangers having sex.
Mr. Crabb obviously adored Sarah and was delighted with how she had snared me. For her part, Sarah thought she had Sam in the palm of her hand to do with what she will. I counted the cash he gave me and found it less than half I hoped.
"Mr. Crabb I -"
"I know. You get the rest when I do. Like I always say: 'You gotta make it to sell it and then sell it to make it'." He tapped the papers on his desk, which now included my own signature. "Like it says here."
"Sarah! Did you know this?"
"No I did not," she began. "Sam, what are you up to?" Then she looked at me. "Honest, Jane!" And then shrugged her shoulders with a little grimace on her face.
I stared at Mr. Crabb's wall of sleazy DVD covers, trying to find some words, counting down the sex scenes he had acquired by false pretences.
Now I was to be a pornstar or, more like, put on display as a willing porn victim. The fancy threesome suite had cameras that filmed us from every angle. Cameras that were high quality, small, Wi-Fi and, as I remembered seeing the look on my face, also high definition. Watching myself from the rear had been disconcerting. I fell secretly in love with my own nice, round ass and gorgeous pussy. I never before then imagined my lips so swollen and so edible. The video would be branded as an "amateur threesome" apparently, at which I took some mild offence because, actually, I thought I was quite unwittingly professional throughout; possibly because I did not need to act when I had one of the biggest orgasms of my life.
I was, of course, absolutely furious with Sarah. Bloody furious! How dare she?
I would have liked to say that it was the beautiful way she seduced me that brought me round; the way for a whole night she devoted every part of her body to my own sexual pleasure; and the way she allowed me to abuse her. No, despite the pleasure, it was not that. It was, of course, the money. I had been promised a surprisingly good amount and I hoped it would go a long way to relieving my alarmingly large debt.
My piano playing, the lessons I gave, and waiting on tables were not enough to get ahead. I was getting desperate.
-
Walking together down the street, I said glumly to Sarah: "You got me out of bed for that...?" I sulked.
She came close, took me by my arm and looked into my eyes endearingly.
"You can have my money. I'll make it right babe," she gripped my arm tighter. "... You know I can... And I'll get the recording from that shit don't your worry!"
How? I wondered.
-
Sometimes I just do not know why I stick with Sarah. But then I remember. I remember her getting up from our lovemaking, returning, lubing the strapon proud between her legs, kneeling and smoothly and effortlessly sliding it deep into my pussy; so smooth, so easy and so perfect. I remember our mutual, huge deep sighs as she rests her weight on me, breasts crushed together, joined completely, her lithe body relaxed before commencing its work.
She has though let me down so many times. So many times I forgive her because of this feeling and, really, I thought I always would.
Until two nights ago that is, when she broke my one rule; the one rule I have in our flat; just one, and she broke it.
I came home late that night with a good share from my tips. The restaurant had been very busy, even for a Friday, but the customers had been friendly and enjoyable to be with. They had also been generous with their money. The streets in the small hours shone with the night's rainfall and were clean and ready for the dawn. It was beautifully quiet after the hectic steam of the kitchen. I could begin to breathe and relax knowing no one was following my ass weaving past their table, or salivating down my cleavage as I placed their meals before them. Most nights I was flattered by the attention. Sometimes I even encouraged it, with a wiggle or a button undone, but now I was tired, enjoying the cool air working its way through my clothes and soothing my hard worked body.
Outside, there was distant laughter from a woman who had engaged in some late night reveling, and was stumbling home drunk before being shepherded to bed.
Sarah no doubt would still be out clubbing, shaking her stuff: more of her skin visible than clothed. Her top that night was essentially a band of clinging stretched white cotton wrapped around her breasts. She had no bra. She had no need. Sarah had ample bosom enough to make this one length alluring, but was not so buxom as to offer full view of her tits to every roaming pair of eyes. Besides it was also a top she liked very much. You could see her erect nipples across a room. She often casually brushed the little dark nuggets, with her fingers, her arm, the hand or even face of those she chose to tease. Sometimes, wrecked by the beat, dancing crazily in a heave of tight packed sweaty bodies, she would flip it up and expose one round globe. She might then tug a stunned partner on to her tit, before pushing him or her away, covering herself and continuing as if nothing had happened. I had been pulled this way often enough to expect it and bite her nipple. It sent a shot of sex juice straight to her cunt, or so she said.
For my part I was just looking forward to winding down in a hot, relaxing bath by myself. I had been on my feet too long for much else. I now craved a long soothing soak to de-stress.
