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My short skirt isn't black leather; it is copper suede to match my hair. But, everything else is black – sweater, opaque tights and leather boots. I think I look pretty hot in my new ensemble, and so, apparently, does the pinstripe suite behind me. His thick, dark wavy hair stands a head taller than my 5'4” carrot-top.
I smile at him as our eyes meet in the shine of the elevator doors. His light eyes – I can't tell their exact color in the polished bronze reflection – register surprise, then pleasure at my attention. Then, the doors open and erase our mirrored images.
As the elevator gets more crowded, I find myself backed firmly into Mr. Pinstripe's front. Meanwhile, the buttons for every single floor have been activated by the press of impatient people eager to get to their apartments after a long day. It is going to be a long ride to the 50th floor.
The scent of is aftershave curls around me with an irresistible force, drawing my head backwards to rest on his collar bone. (Good grief, did I actually lay my head on him?!) He doesn't seem to mind, however. As contact occurs, he breathes a small, low sound of pleasure into my ear.. or was the me?
Everyone else faces forward, masked in urban anxiety. At the first floor, two get off, but there is still too much humanity squeezed into the packed space. I don't mind. The added pressure pushes my bottom into something very hard, very hot – like steel – and my breath catches in my throat.
Second floor. Subtly, I begin to rub my backside into the huge mass of arousal behind me. His hands, screened by the bodies which surround us, clutch my hips, pulling me tighter to him.
Fifth floor. My bra begins t abrade my now erect nipples. Surreptitiously, he unfastens it through my sweater, releasing me. I sigh audibly.
Eighth floor. Cool fingers snake under my sweater, moving forward to cup both my breasts, with only a hint of movement. He pinches one taut nipple, then the other, then both. It feels so good, I think I'll die.
10th floor. I am still plastered to his body, though the elevator keeps losing people. Fingers thrum up the backs of my thighs, teasing the crack of my derriere. Two firm hands separate my bottom cheeks, fingers pinching an area so rich in nerve endings, I have to struggle to not grind myself into them.
15th floor. I tap my ass in tiny, repetitive movements into his lap, as my cunt gets wetter. One of his hands slides around my belly, holding me snug, toying with my navel. The other hand slithers under my skirt, to trace the creases where my legs and body meet. I know he can feel my wet heat, because he whispers a sibilant “yes” into my ear.
20th floor. Only Mr. Pinstripe and me against the rear now. Everyone else has moved anxiously forward. We're practically invisible.
25th floor. His fingers seek the waistband of my tights. I'm burning now. He yanks them abruptly against my clit, and I start to tremble. I have to bite my lip to silence the moan.
35th floor. Three other people still in the car. He pulls his hands free, releasing my clothes. I step forward reluctantly. I want more. A quick glance over my shoulder connects with the huge erection straining against his slacks.
40th floor. One passenger left, and she exits.
42nd floor. He strides to the control panel and pushes the buttons.
43rd-and-a-half floor. The car stops. He turns to face me, eyes ablaze with passion. “C'mere,” he growls. His gruff baritone reverberates through me like ice and fire.
“No,” I answer with a lusty whisper, “you come here.” I lean back against the wall, one leg bent. He falls to his knees at my feet, reaches up under my suede skirt, slithers down my tights, and rips off my black lace G-string.
“Take the skirt off,” he commands. “I want to watch.” his words writhe like fingers in my groin. This time, I obey. I drop he skirt and kick it off into the corner. With his thumbs, he parts my pouty nether lips, then he proceeds to lick me – sucking and nipping, while I'm going crazy with radiations of heat. “Oh, God... please...” He shoves one, two, three fingers up inside of me, stroking the
G-spot, while holding my clit between his lips, worrying it with his tongue. I explode, the waves of orgasm washing over me like the hot tides of some tropical hurricane.
A moment later, I snap back to reality in time to watch him unzip those perfectly tailored slacks, and drop them to the floor along with his briefs. He's unbuttoning his shirt now, but I can't take my eyes away from his beautiful cock, its round, full tip so red it could be a ripe plumb. I drop to my knees, bat his hands away and wrap all 10 of my fingers around it, guiding it to my mouth. It's his turn to squirm, to moan, to beg as I suck and lick and manipulate him towards ecstasy.
The silky heat of him against my tongue and lips is heaven, tasting of musk and man. I suck harder. He holds my head, helping me move forward and back, as his sex moves in and out. Delicious!
He pulls back from my mouth before he erupts. Pushing me onto the floor, he runs his iron rod into my restless body. We watch together as it swallows him up. He retreats, then slams back home again. I can feel him stretching me, stroking against every wall of my insides. Like Christmas lights switching on in concentric circles, my body convulses in expanding rings.
I don't wan to stop bucking up against him, but I can't get any higher without dying – and neither can he. The explosion is the Hindenberg all over again, except we crash and burn somewhere in the city between the 42nd and 43rd floors...
It takes only a few moments to restore ourselves and get our clothing back on. He releases the elevator from its frozen status as he straightens his tie. At the 50th floor, we nod at each other and head into the hallway.
Unlocking the door of our apartment, he turns and with a charming grin says, “I love it when we get home at the same time.”
I wink at him. “Yeah, me, too.”
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