Samantha From The UK

In fact, they both looked like they knew what they were doing from my perspective. Touching, caressing, fingers exploring between legs, my quarters permeated with heavy, erotic breathing, mine mingling with theirs as I jerked myself off. I knew it was wrong, but I found myself unable to stop. And then, yes, the ultimate male fantasy! The mythical position number sixty-nine! I could just see both girls’ tongue zealously delving into hot, creamy, barely legal quaveringly moist pussy. Two pairs of legs spread wide, then wrapped around each other’s torso, hands pushing thighs apart, backs arching as they simultaneously exploded into orgasmic screams, my caveman-like coming mere moments after they’d spent themselves in ecstasy… Guilt gnawed at the edges of my brain as I sheepishly cleaned the sticky white globs of cum from the darkened security camera screen. Yes, I’d turned it off, a feat for which I am proud of (although I’d have been prouder if I’d managed it before Bridget had driven. I have all the power and she has none. How far will she go, now that she has been enslaved? I believe, as far as I ask her to. Mrs. Wilkins,” she said to me, this time a little softer, “we could stop now and let this be nothing but an incredibly shameful experience, but then I will never touch you again.” Her index finger flicked my clit and drew shaking gasps. “Or we could keep playing a little longer, with irreversible consequences. Which will it be?” My heart beat so fast I couldn’t make out individual pulses. Heat and cold raced up and down my body. Her expectant eyes bore deeply into mine, seeing behind all the layers of self-delusion I had built up, and the corners of her mouth quirked upwards long before realization set in and the truth settled over me like a heavy blanket. “Keep playing,” I croaked, unable to resist her wishes and caving to the soft, skilled fingers playing between my thighs and keeping me right on the edge, “please!” For a moment, everything was silent save.
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