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"He was an easy one to fool. You don't look like such a pushover, though," she told him."I am not." He prodded her with his riding crop. The way he ran it up and down the side of her dress was almost obscene in its familiarity. When he began pushing the tip into her left nipple, she took an involuntary step backward."You do not like me. That is fine. I do not like the French. Even more to the point, I do not like the French aristocracy, which you represent in all your decadent splendor. Look at that disgusting dress. I hate it!"His boot heels clicked harshly on the wood floor as he took two swift steps toward her. His hand lashed out and he gripped the neckline in his hand. A quick jerk and he had ripped the fabric and left it dangling about her waist.She was naked from the waist up now. Only the jewel necklace remained."What are you doing? My lovely dress is ruined!" The outburst on her part was entirely spontaneous. She was mad at him for ruining her clothing in such a brutal. The kissing was frantic, wet, saliva mixing as we let our instincts dictate the moment. I felt her pussy tighten, grib me vice like, her nails dig into my back, as she cried out in ecstasy and came. I didn’t want to stop, even if I could have, and let my own orgasm explode deep inside her, shooting my seed into her, as our tongues again writhed with sensuous excitement. We lay there, kissing more gently, upon a soaked and stained bedspread, before I pulled my softening cock out, releasing our mixed juices onto the bedspread. We stood shakily up, and she looked at me. ‘I suppose you are married’ she said. I found this a strange thing to say, but could not lie to her. Tears formed in her eyes, slowly running down her face. I held her close, kissing the salty tears away. I felt guilty, but not for cheating on my wife, but for having just given myself to a passionate girl for but a few fleeting moments, knowing it never to be permanent. We kissed again, lay back down on the bed, and.
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