She played close, but kept her fingertips tantalisingly distanced, while I turned and took her mouth to mine, our tongues danced beyond cagey, far from flirtatious.
Then she pulled away and urged me back on my face, my hands led behind. She tied them, bound the wrists with a piece of dressing gown cord. Her hand slipped the length of my bottom, fingers curling between my legs, tracing the vaginal slit, before dipping abrupt and rapidly thrusting between those wanton labia.
“The slug is out my fine Eengleesh,” she told me, her accent deliberately intensified. And as she finger f****d me, she explained. “We have no worries. We can do as we please. Just keep the ear for her return.”
“Where’s she gone?” I asked not caring, but still unsure, fearing she might catch us again.
“A gentleman in
