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. and he was devouring me.He reached a hand beneath my skirt and palmed my pussy, groaning at the wetness there through my panties as if he were in pain. He sucked and sucked at my neck, trailing his kisses down my chest. Frantically he ripped open my shirt, latching his mouth back to my body before I could make a sound of protest. His mouth hungrily opened around my nipple through my flimsy bra, soaking the material and moaning into the wet patch. I thought I was going to die. His hips frantically pushed against mine, the bulge hitting me in the most perfect place. In my alcohol-addled mind, all I wanted was him to rip down my panties and fuck me until I didn't know my name.And then I spotted it.My sister had proudly bought a cookie jar at some point during their marriage, thinking it was cute and homey and that when they had kids she could put cookies in it. I don't think Patrick had given it much thought, and I don't think it was there for any sentimental value or anything. I think. At first, it is light and barely noticeable, like a butterfly landing on one’s shoulder, but as I increase pressure, he begins to tense dangerously, arching his hips towards my talented mouth, but again I back away, disengaging my lips but still lightly cupping his balls in my right hand.My lips curl into a devilish grin, the circled fingers coating themselves in saliva from the head and continuing to glide up and down at an unpredictable pace. “Talk to me, Michael,” I murmur hypnotically, just loud enough so he can hear me, my tone matching my fingers' rhythm. “Tell me what you want me to do.” He grunts in response, thrusting his hips in an attempt to speed me along. I calmly shake my head and reply, “No, no, no. That won’t do Michael. Tell me what you want.” To punctuate my point ---or just to tease him ---my tongue darts out and caresses the large vein on the underside of his cock from base to tip, making sure he watches my agonizingly slow progress.Something deep within him must.
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