The bathroom's marble tiles gleamed under the soft glow of Lorette's crystal sconces, their light dancing across the gilded mirror above the sink. The air was thick with the floral musk of her dew, its wildflower-and-honey scent clinging to my skin, amplified by the seven shots I'd downed during that reckless spin-the-bottle game.
My head swam, not just from the alcohol but from the dew's supernatural heat, a primal pulse that made every nerve sing with heightened sensitivity. Natasha's dare—five shots each, her motherly bravado no match for my stubborn pride, egged on by Yulia's whispered challenge to "win"—had pushed me past reason.
Seven shots, a reckless bid to outlast her, now weighed heavily, my body a live wire of desire and disorientation. Even just holding back from jerking off was hard.
I slumped against the toilet, the porcelain cool beneath my thighs, my belt unbuckled from a hazy trip to relieve myself. I'd forgotten to lock the door—a careless mistake in my drunken stupor—and Natasha's unannounced and unhesitating entrance had spiraled into this.
"Just relaaax, okay?" she murmured, her voice a slurred melody, gentle yet commanding as she eased me back with a push, her hands warm and sure. Kneeling before me, her blonde hair catching the light like spun gold, she hooked her fingers into my belt loops, tugging my pants and boxers to my ankles in one fluid motion. The experience of a middle-aged woman shows how swiftly she disrobed me.
My erection springs free, veiny and throbbing, a "popsicle" she'd tease about earlier, now greeting her with unabashed intensity. Her eyes popped open in pleasant surprise follow a curious smile. She'd switch her gaze from my length up to my face as she neared it with sweltering expectation.
"All you gotta do is siiiit and help me cool doooown…" Natasha's words dripped with a drunken drawl, her face inching toward my sack, drawn as if magnetized. Her smooth cheek, milky and springy, pressed against my rigid length, her breath warm as she nuzzled closer, her nose and lips grazing my balls with small, moist kisses.
Each touch was a spark, sending ripples of pleasure through my skin, mind-numbing in its tenderness. "Mmmm…" she hummed, her baby blue eyes half-lidded. She inhaled my scent with a reverence that made my pulse race.
Her peppering kisses trailed across every inch of my jewels, each contact a soft, warm explosion, drawing grunts and sighs from deep within me. "Hnnnh… ngh…!" The dew's effect was undeniable—every sensation amplified, my body hypersensitive, as if the world had narrowed to her lips and my skin.
Seven shots had been a mistake, their weight now a molten tide, drowning my restraint. Natasha's siren-like drawl scratched an itch in my brain, awakening a primal recognition of her allure. "You like iiiit?" she purred, her voice a velvet lure, coaxing my surrender. She even gave my sack a playful lick, coaxing a moan out of me as my reply.
Her lips wrapped around one of my balls, handling it with a delicate care that felt like love, though I knew better. "Ih'll… dooo mhore, mmkayyy?" she mumbled, her tongue swirling with instinctive precision, sloppy yet devastating. The sensation was heart-shattering, a caress so intimate it could fool any man into believing it was more than service.
"Y-your tongue…!" I gasped, my voice ragged, the dew's heat making every flick a jolt to my core. Lorette's wild passion and Yulia's tender precision had been stellar, but Natasha's attention to my balls—gentle, thorough, motherly—was unmatched, a caress that redefined pleasure.
My toes curled, the onslaught threatening to unravel me. I leaned back, propping one arm against the sink's marble edge for leverage, my other hand gripping the toilet's sturdy cover to keep from slipping.
Lorette's mansion screamed quality; I trusted the porcelain to hold me through this storm. Natasha, fueled by my stifled moans, pressed her cheeks against the other ball, her suction gentle yet insistent, like a soft plea to hurry.
"Is iiiit? That makes me reeaaaal happy!" she slurred, her doe-like features radiant with drunken delight, her baby blue eyes crossing in a trance as she worked.
Her suckling—mnnn… chllp! slrrrrrp!—drew my gaze, my eyes snapping open after being clenched shut in pleasure's grip. She was a vision, her blonde curls framing a face lost in devotion, her lips glistening with saliva. A curious hand wrapped around my shaft's midsection, stroking with a motherly tenderness that teased more than it satisfied.
"Grip it… harder…" I managed, my breath labored, each word a struggle against the dew's haze. Her other hand slipped under my polo, fingers tracing my stomach's taut lines, sating her curiosity with a touch both gentle and bold.
"Lhiiike hiiish??" she asked, switching to the other ball, her mouth leaving my sack slick and gleaming. My grunts spurred her on, her strokes tightening, moving from tip to base with a thorough, deliberate rhythm, as if coaxing fresh milk from a sacred spring.
"Y-yes… I love it…!" I groaned, the words spilling out, inadequate for the cushy ecstasy of her service. Her experienced fingers, soft yet firm, brushed my tip, sending shivers that raised every hair on my body.
The pressure built, unstoppable, my dick throbbing in her grip like a ceremonial drum. Natasha sensed it, her eyes flickering with intent as she tugged my shaft downward, guiding the tip to her lips. Her slow movements grinded against my inhibitions. My skin trembled at every iota her lips traveled.
"Mnnnn… so thick, thish popshicleeee…" she murmured, her voice a heated whisper. Her lips, suctioned tight, formed a perfect ring, a tantalizing octopus grip that enveloped my tip in a moist, tender hold.
Inch by inch, she descended, gagging halfway, her throat a bumpy ride of gasps and gurgles—ghhk! khhhhlp…—each collision a thrill I craved. Spittle coated my length, a lewd sheen catching the sconces' glow, her undulating tunnel begging me deeper.
The sight of her—blonde bangs bobbing, baby blue eyes locked on mine, struggling yet eager—pushed me to the brink. The dew's fire surged through me, Natasha's tender service stoking it higher, my control fraying as I gripped the sink tighter, fighting to hold on in this storm of sensation and surrender.
The bathroom shimmered with opulence, its marble walls reflecting the golden flicker of crystal sconces, the air heavy with the dew's intoxicating perfume—wildflowers laced with honey, now undercut by the raw musk of our shared heat. My body trembled, caught in the throes of the dew's relentless pull, every nerve alight as I fought to hold on.
"Ngh…!" I clenched my teeth, abs tightening like steel cords, desperate to prolong the moment, to let her pleasure coil tighter around me. But it was a losing battle. Natasha's throat enveloped me—seven inches deep, a wet, pulsing embrace that shattered my resolve. "C-Cumming…!" The cry ripped from me as the floodgates burst, thick, white syrup surging into her mouth in relentless waves.
Her cheeks puffed out, chipmunk-like, straining against the deluge as she gulped with frantic determination. Wide baby blue eyes locked on mine, flaring with surprise at the sheer volume, yet glistening with a dazed, joyful shine.
Her tongue danced along my length, circling with greedy delight as she eased back inch by inch, savoring the subsiding pulses. "Pwah!" she gasped, a cute, triumphant burst of sound, her lips still glistening as she swallowed the last of me.
Breathless, she climbed onto my lap, her firm, meaty frame settling against me—heavier than Lorette, her curves spilling over my thighs, breasts pressing lush and full against my chest.
Natasha licked her lips, her gaze hungry yet unfocused, clouded by the dew's lingering spell. "That's greaaaat feed you have there, Jona…" Her voice slurred, the drawl slipping back unfiltered, rough and rural, like a farm animal bleating through the haze. Feed? The word struck me as odd, but her presence—solid, warm, a bountiful weight—drowned out the thought.
"Can you feed me more? More?" she cooed, her tone dipping into a childlike plea, starkly at odds with the poised, dignified woman I'd known hours before. The shift—the calm mother undone into this babyish need—sent a jolt through me, primal and disarming, chipping away at my fraying restraint.
"Pleaaaase?" Her brows knit tight, a silent beg etched across her face as she leaned in, nose brushing mine, arms looping around my shoulders. Her extreme eye contact pinned me, unyielding, her baby blues shimmering with want.
The dew's floral tang clung to her breath, undimmed even after my release, her drunken lilt weaving through the words like a siren's call. She pressed closer, her weight a delicious burden, making it harder—impossible—to push her away. My body ached, the dew stoking a reckless fire in my blood, while a fragile thread of reason dangled, strained beneath her gaze.
Staring into those pleading eyes, I swallowed hard, the sound loud in the steamy silence, teetering on the brink as pressure—her touch, her stare, the risk of the others nearby—threatened to pull me under.