The Concierge

Finally her pissing subsided and just a couple of little drips came out of her. With that cessation came the easing away of her orgasm, as well. Her whole body slumped against the toilet as I gazed down at her and saw how utterly erotic (in a very dirty, very raw way) she looked with my cum dripping down her flesh. If I could have managed it physically, just the look of her would have been enough to spur me on to do it over again, right then and there. I even had a quick mental flash of how another burst of my cream would look being launched across the already-wet features of her face, and over the puffy nipples of her sperm-smeared tits.

After watching her lap up a few drops from the sensitive tip of my prick as I fought for some sort of dignified recovery, I began the task of tidying myself up as best I could. I left Mrs. Harris sitting on that toilet, her eyes closed and her mouth slack. Neither of us spoke, as had become our custom at parting.

Since then I've been with her twice more, the latest time involving me lying flat on my back while she fellated me and in turn enjoyed the services of my tongue laving her rear. If anyone tells you a woman can't orgasm just from that, then you haven't met Mrs. Harris.

When next I write I'm thinking I'll tell you of the interesting young mother who has a thing for having her breasts pumped in an unorthodox manner. Or, perhaps, a little story about the lady who needs to have her bottom spanked when she's had a bit too much to drink. We'll see, it could be something else entirely.

Until then, remember that tipping is a sacred responsibility.