About Sappho's Interim Affair: The Sappho Trilogy, Book Two

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Inside Jackson’s Penthouse

These were powerful players; both were conscious of their social standing so there was no overt ‘conquest’ stuff; no hand-holding, no arm-around-the-waist nor any cuddling and, certainly, no kissing.

Instead, Jackson offered Sappho his arm; she took it, they left the Restaurant, walked through the Lobby, out of the door, strolled a few blocks along the street, collected her grip from the Vogue and then onto the Tower that held his apartment.

Once inside there was no mad, lust-crazed dash for the bedroom. They just faced one another before Jackson took Sappho in his arms and kissed her; it was a gentle kiss that held a tenderness to which she responded by pressing her body against his.

“Take off your clothes,” murmured Sappho and, when Jackson obeyed, she led him to the Master Suite, hitched-up her dress, lay back on the bed, opened her legs into a wide-V and said, “go down on me!”

Jackson knelt at the foot of the bed and, ever-so-gently, leaned forward to taste her nectar; he started at her c**t then ran his tongue around the circle until he caught her juices at the bottom and, from there, he opened his mouth, covered Sappho’s p***y, and sucked.

Sappho has perfected a way to ‘respond-without-responding’, but she never disengages with her lover and, this time, she cupped her breasts, tweaked her n*****s, ran her hands down to her hips, took hold of Jackson’s head, clamped him between her thighs and came in a flood that left his face glistening.

“Jackson, just follow my lead and lie on the bed!”

Taking orders were a first for the Regional President but he complied and Sappho spread his thighs; then she raised his regal-sized prong and licked the underside; then his balls; then the perineum between his sac and his asshole and, ultimately, his asshole, itself.

Jackson was responding in the way men do and his kidney-wiper was already reaching for the sky but Sappho continued her arousal; nibbling, licking, sucking and probing.

He started to moan, even before she got to his d**k, but he had his work cut-out to contain himself when Sappho inserted first, one finger, and then another, into his butt and started to frig his backside. At about this time she took his bell-end into her mouth; closed her lips around the red tip and, as her tongue found the eye, her hands took hold on the length and began a slow rhythm: up-and-down; up-and-down.

Jackson was wet from his own pre-c*m and from Sappho’s saliva but he could feel her swallowing him deeper and deeper into her throat until her lips were flush with his belly. Then Sappho adjusted her neck, hunched her shoulders and Jackson experienced the ultimate when his scrotum exploded and he blew his load into her gut.

Still she kept going and, instead of softening, Jackson felt himself recovering: hard, once more, Sappho moved swiftly, climbed onto the bed, mounted him and sank herself onto his poker; still unfinished, she held his hands, looked into his eyes and clamped her walls around his c**k.

“Urgh, Ga’ad! Sappho, you’re something else! I’ve said it before, and imagined it every day since we met, but you’ve just confirmed it: baby, you’re special! Please take off your dress; I’m going to serve you.”

As she stripped, Jackson watched her; seeing her unclothed for the first time left him muted and in awe: their activity had spun-off more fragrance and, as Sappho hung her dress over a chair, Jackson turned-down the bed before his muscular black body took hold of and entwined her smaller, but equally virile, white body and an orgy of passion began that was neither wild nor lusty: but neither was it gentle.

He felt her n*****s against his chest, her lips against his, her hands on his back and the cleft between her thighs eager to be filled; so he hooked his glans into her folds and let it run its course. Meanwhile, he kissed her and Sappho’s addiction to c**k was sated.

When she was comfortable, Jackson rolled on top and started to pound her body; her legs came over his shoulders as he squeezed himself all the way in, coming out and going in, again and again until the sweat broke and another rush of man-juice flooded Sappho’s womb. Even so, he kept on and, without waiting, flipped her over when, still impaled on his d**k and with her legs splayed wide into a doggy-style, her t**s started to jiggle.

Then she felt his athletic power smashing into her cervix; gripping her hips, driving himself into her body and changing his position so he could crouch behind her to lunge-on between her thighs.

Again, there was a grunt, a sigh and another splash into Sappho’s baby-making chamber but no relief: Jackson was a cross between a railway train and a record player; he just kept going on-and-on and round-and-round but, always, his mate took it.

Another ejaculation and another flip onto her back; Jackson was now lying on top of her, his hands under her backside, his lips pressing onto her mouth, his c**k sawing its way into her belly and Sappho stretching her legs to lock around his waist: no relief; then came the coup-de-grace.

Jackson stopped moving, leaned back, withdrew himself from Sappho’s loins and sprayed his load onto her t**s and throat: great globules of semen plopped onto her n*****s, welled in her jugular notch and, otherwise, made a mess of her face. Where he got all this stuff was anybody’s guess but the evidence was indisputable; Jackson was a ‘cummer’.

As it happened, Sappho was able to take it and she had no grumbles when she saw him lick up and swallow his own jism. Then he kissed her and, although his mouth was empty, she could taste the delicate mixture of saltiness and sweetness on his tongue.

They’d been going for a few of hours, the sun was beginning to set over the lake so their thoughts turned to calories and some fresh air but, first, a shower: so, they moved ass, headed for the bathroom, washed off and changed into casual gear for a walk along the promenade.

Sappho suggested a beer and something fast, like a burger, but she wanted to eat outside and Jackson was game.

“You drink beer?” he asked.

“Well, I prefer ale; Jonathan introduced me to English Ale and we’ve got Steam Breweries ‘round here: so, something along those lines and, after this afternoon, Buster, plenty of it!”