I would keep having glanced at her. After a while, she started kneading the dough.I was finished with my chores and just stood in front of her at the ...itchen counter, watching and talking to her. Her eyes were fixated on the dough, and mine was fixed on her bra-free breasts.Never have I enjoyed watching a pair of breasts sway so much. She was getting sweaty. I could see tiny drops of sweat forming on her forehead and neck.A few hair strands would keep coming onto her face. She’d try to shift it. ‘The woman takes the man into her mouth, caresses it with her tongue. She actually *tastes* him. She subjugates herself to his manhood and to him. He should stand before her, male and in control and powerful.’ His cock hardened at the words. He loved the way she thought and his mind raced from one image to the next, ‘And she should be on her knees like the submissive nothing she is. Any hole he demands, when he demands. The cunt is property.’ Her lips nearly met his, ‘Paid for, my prince.’. It wasn't necessary, she'd told him. She trusted him with her life she swore. He said it was, for her peace of mind, and she had to admit when she'd gotten scared on the cab ride over, and again when she'd tried the door to the apartment and found it unlocked, the thought of that note on her desk had quieted her fears.On a small table just inside the door was an envelope with her name on it in a firm masculine hand. She'd opened it, finding a black silk blindfold and a note. Her hand trembled. Mr. Domon's studied indifference had been a welcome change. That he was not quite so indifferent as first appeared was reassuring. Not so reassuring was their current destination. The restaurants were on the ground floor, and they were going up!It was the first time she had been alone with an African man. Her husband would be on his way back to the office.She glanced across at Mr. Domon. He was older than her father. Distinguished and a gentleman, even if he was an African. Quite different to.
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