Three little words. No Strings Attached. To Ashlee that is. Even the name screams do me and forget you did. What a great fucking opportunity. The way she dresses you can tell she pretends not to like it but she does. Pearls, little sweaters, those faux professional black pants, and I bet she takes it up the ass. But not tonight.
How long would it take to close that office door after your earnest request for her help with your Own Private Idaho? You hate the thought of being discovered, so you'd have to work things for a late night in the building. You do seem to have a thing for drama teachers though, so you'd be right up her alley. And what an alley.
She's not up for anything romantic tonight. She's leaning back at that slight angle in the metal folding chair, her legs crossed, reading that little section of the scene with you, the one where you just...can't...get...mad....but the more Stanley Kowalski you go, the more the hair stands back on her neck and those nipples harden under the summer equivalent of the sweater, the twinset shell. Oh yeah, the visceral power of the raging man. Your body in stride. I wish I were a fly on the wall when you nail her. No, wait, I wish I was there. I could provide oral support.
Now she's deep in thought, pondering the solution to the acting problem. "Yes", she says...no, she purrs.."you just have to release all that...anger. " She uncrosses those legs, stands up. Strides over to you, and slaps you across the face. Her nails graze you a little, getting you hot. Now her hand is in your hair, her mouth inches from your mouth. "Get down on your knees." she hisses, and there you go. "Don't sit crosslegged, you're gonna be here a while." She rakes those nails down your neck and holds your face with both hands, looking into your eyes for a second. Then she spits, spits in your face, the bitch. "I want to make sure you're ready for what comes next," she says, her voice all silk, barely a trace of the tighness that used to inform her comments in class. Pussy inches from your mouth underneath those layers. Bet you can smell it, the musk of the workday, two sections of theatre one and three private students and some driving from san rafael and you're wondering if she has a Brazilian when she just grinds her pussy up against your face. Hot, the outside of her pants, a firm hold on your neck, yes. Ashlee is a pornstar name.
She's not going to let you grab her arms and turn her around and kiss her on the neck until she speaks in tongues. She doesn't give a shit about your charm or ability to take control. She would hate hate hate it if you bent her over her desk and had your pleasure in her slick, sweet asshole. She doesn't want sweet seventies lay lady lay across the big brass bed, no Kauaian waterfalls or Tuscan hilltops for this one. She's gonna MAKE you give it to her. She's going to grind your beautiful smile up against those practical panties until you beg her to undo the ubiquitous side zipper and let you have your sweet sweet revenge on her clit. Your frustration is her fervor, and she will keep herself just on the edge of coming right now, bump and grind, bump and grind while your legs are going numb and all your tricks and little licks and bites and behaves are going to waste.
Oh baby she has strong legs, yoga, pilates, something, and and an uncompromising mound. She doesn't care about your sparkling eyes, just the leglock and the tease, and finally you can't take it any more, and you try to turn on the charm but she's not even looking at you, her eyes clear on herself in the mirror across from the desk as you do what she wants like a machine and wait for her to give in to you, your hotness, your shoulders, the potential of your mouth between a pair of lips, the delicious thrill of your slow breath where it counts. And finally she pulls back and pulls that side zipper and those pants drop and there's that brazilian underneath the silky champagne panties from Nordie rack. Dripping your favorite flavor, baby, but she only lets you stay for a second, and only outside the panties before she commands you to fuck her in that nice little chair across from the desk in that office.
Yeah, she sits back and spreads wide after unceremoniously shucking those workday panties on the floor on the persian rug, her twat with just the barest glance of hair across the top like a little bowl cut, and by the dim light of the desk you go into her, so hard from that screwed up tease, still on your knees while she braces her hands on the edge of that chaise and doesn't let you kiss her mouth. Who's the fucking whore now? You can see her nipples through her little offseason ribbed shell from talbots that's only slightly askew, even get your hand on one tit and work it a bit, but she's immune to your personality, just wants the stud farm fuck hard inside that precise and tight academic pussy, those trained lungs moaning low like there's no tomorrow, confident the corridor's mostly empty, and there you go, tiger, there you go, too soon, always on the hop, even now, did you get what you needed, did you find what you were looking for?
How long would it take to close that office door after your earnest request for her help with your Own Private Idaho? You hate the thought of being discovered, so you'd have to work things for a late night in the building. You do seem to have a thing for drama teachers though, so you'd be right up her alley. And what an alley.
She's not up for anything romantic tonight. She's leaning back at that slight angle in the metal folding chair, her legs crossed, reading that little section of the scene with you, the one where you just...can't...get...mad....but the more Stanley Kowalski you go, the more the hair stands back on her neck and those nipples harden under the summer equivalent of the sweater, the twinset shell. Oh yeah, the visceral power of the raging man. Your body in stride. I wish I were a fly on the wall when you nail her. No, wait, I wish I was there. I could provide oral support.
Now she's deep in thought, pondering the solution to the acting problem. "Yes", she says...no, she purrs.."you just have to release all that...anger. " She uncrosses those legs, stands up. Strides over to you, and slaps you across the face. Her nails graze you a little, getting you hot. Now her hand is in your hair, her mouth inches from your mouth. "Get down on your knees." she hisses, and there you go. "Don't sit crosslegged, you're gonna be here a while." She rakes those nails down your neck and holds your face with both hands, looking into your eyes for a second. Then she spits, spits in your face, the bitch. "I want to make sure you're ready for what comes next," she says, her voice all silk, barely a trace of the tighness that used to inform her comments in class. Pussy inches from your mouth underneath those layers. Bet you can smell it, the musk of the workday, two sections of theatre one and three private students and some driving from san rafael and you're wondering if she has a Brazilian when she just grinds her pussy up against your face. Hot, the outside of her pants, a firm hold on your neck, yes. Ashlee is a pornstar name.
She's not going to let you grab her arms and turn her around and kiss her on the neck until she speaks in tongues. She doesn't give a shit about your charm or ability to take control. She would hate hate hate it if you bent her over her desk and had your pleasure in her slick, sweet asshole. She doesn't want sweet seventies lay lady lay across the big brass bed, no Kauaian waterfalls or Tuscan hilltops for this one. She's gonna MAKE you give it to her. She's going to grind your beautiful smile up against those practical panties until you beg her to undo the ubiquitous side zipper and let you have your sweet sweet revenge on her clit. Your frustration is her fervor, and she will keep herself just on the edge of coming right now, bump and grind, bump and grind while your legs are going numb and all your tricks and little licks and bites and behaves are going to waste.
Oh baby she has strong legs, yoga, pilates, something, and and an uncompromising mound. She doesn't care about your sparkling eyes, just the leglock and the tease, and finally you can't take it any more, and you try to turn on the charm but she's not even looking at you, her eyes clear on herself in the mirror across from the desk as you do what she wants like a machine and wait for her to give in to you, your hotness, your shoulders, the potential of your mouth between a pair of lips, the delicious thrill of your slow breath where it counts. And finally she pulls back and pulls that side zipper and those pants drop and there's that brazilian underneath the silky champagne panties from Nordie rack. Dripping your favorite flavor, baby, but she only lets you stay for a second, and only outside the panties before she commands you to fuck her in that nice little chair across from the desk in that office.
Yeah, she sits back and spreads wide after unceremoniously shucking those workday panties on the floor on the persian rug, her twat with just the barest glance of hair across the top like a little bowl cut, and by the dim light of the desk you go into her, so hard from that screwed up tease, still on your knees while she braces her hands on the edge of that chaise and doesn't let you kiss her mouth. Who's the fucking whore now? You can see her nipples through her little offseason ribbed shell from talbots that's only slightly askew, even get your hand on one tit and work it a bit, but she's immune to your personality, just wants the stud farm fuck hard inside that precise and tight academic pussy, those trained lungs moaning low like there's no tomorrow, confident the corridor's mostly empty, and there you go, tiger, there you go, too soon, always on the hop, even now, did you get what you needed, did you find what you were looking for?
posted by The Barista at 8:22 PM
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