Other than a funhouse mirror-maze he couldn’t find his way out of as a kid, in a hair salon, it was impossible to escape your reflection. Not bad for forty-eight, Gabe assessed while he rubbed lotion on his still lean belly. Roberta loved to play with his dark brown, silver-shot hair . . . even though he was folically challenged. She liked to say he was tall, dark, and hands . . . all over her. Claimed women would kill for his long lashes and gorgeous blue eyes. Flattery would get her everywhere. Eh, at least he had nice year-long tan. . . even on his ass and cock. Complements of his sweet young head hunter.
Stretched out on the coffin-like bed, he was reminded of Dracula as he drew the lid down. Seconds later, a loud click jarred him, and bright ultra violet lights had him shutting his eyes. Toasty warmth began to loosen work-accumulated tension in his neck and shoulders like a half-drained snifter of Cognac before a blazing fireplace. In fact, these relaxing twenty-minute sessions were a much needed shot of sunshine in middle of an over-long, freezing cold winter. The pleasant fiery ‘tingle’ ingredient kicked-in and he flicked on the side fan. Like a gentle ocean breeze, it stirred up the coconut scent of the concoction and cooled his hot skin. Soft jazz wafted down from ceiling speakers and melted away surplus cares. Gabe’s mind drifted back to the last time he and Roberta had sex.
It all started with an early morning phone call at his office. He could hear blow dryers running and shrill female laughter in the background, although Roberta still managed to use her most seductive, and seductively effective voice. In short, she needed him naked in bed, ready, willing, and rock hard before she arrived at his apartment. And the second he heard his bedroom door open? He was to spread his legs wide. His breathing had kicked into high gear and she chose that particular tounge-tied moment to hang up. No doubt she was satisfied the remainder of his workday would be spent anticipating what every red-blooded male considered their favorite pastime. And she’d been right. The hands on the clock above his desk couldn’t have moved fast enough.
When Roberta finally did open his bedroom door that night, before he could blink, she ripped open the snaps to her baggy black hairstylist smock, revealing a sexy French maid’s uniform. A frilly white blouse exposed the half moon tops of her voluptuous breasts and, a ruffled loincloth of an apron barely covered garters to her smoky black thigh highs. Staring coyly at the ceiling, she pinned a white cap atop her long, raven black spiral curls, making her mouth-watering décolleté jiggle enticingly. She then reached under the lampshade, and the room went black. A long matchstick was struck, illuminating her lovely face. With a slow, sensual sashay about the room, she lighted musk-scented candles until her pleasing form was bathed in soft, flickering glows. On a deep, bosom-expanding inhalation, she blew out the taper with her hell red lips, and as if in answer to her fondest wish, his thighs fell wide open. Her sultry, dark gaze dropped from his expectant face to his proud prong.
When a pink feather duster appeared from behind her back, tickled testicles and a playfully dusted erection was not what he had in mind. He grabbed her torturous wrist, ready to haul the little prick tease into bed and show her the meaning of good head -- but she slipped from his grasp and scurried out of reach.
Lively olive eyes sparkled with the love of mischief while she waggled her finger and tisk-tisked him. The only thing that kept him from bounding off the bed after her was the site of those dainty French manicured fingernails unbuttoning her skimpy blouse, and then each ruffled cuff. He could almost hear a blowsy burlesque tune while she tugged out of one sleeve. . . and then the other. White scrap of materiel flew and fluttered to the floor. Dramatic fingers swooped to the center cups of her gold satin demi bra, and with one deft flick of her wrist, her bountiful breasts sprang free. Her large, oval-shaped, rosy brown aureole shrank and peaked into twin buds under the heat of his gaze.
Roberta quickly spun on her black high-heeled pumps, deliberately depriving him of that delectable view. His lil’ maid was now bent over, busy fussing with something on the dresser. Black stocking seams ran straight up her shapely legs; arrows aiming at a barely-there derrière and, damp, soft brown tail feathers. Both wiggled sassily below a big black bow.
She turned to him, hoisting a silver service tray of napkin shrouded items. Her tits jounced and her hips swayed suasily as she made her to him. Tray placed at the foot of the bed, she climbed up between his legs, fully ready to service him. His nostrils flared at the scent of Fendi perfume. Hell-yes red lips descended and she submissively kissed the head of his all-too-ready cock. And then suddenly, a wicked-looking knife swooshed out of nowhere -- the sharp blade-edge placed dangerously agianst his erection. Jesus Christ! Was she possessed by Loraina Bobbit! He nearly went into cardiac arrest, scrambled back against the brass headboard, shielding his shriveled manhood and family jewels with both hands.
Completely undaunted, the evil minx made a slow show of side-slicing, cutting out a quarter sections, almost coring a rather large, Sunkist orange. She fed him a section, and squeezed another over her chest until the juice ran down and coated her tits. Salaciously, she licked each of her dripping fingers clean with a bowed mouth born to blow. “Are you going to be a good boy while I suck you dry?” she purred.
