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It's so difficult to tell the difference sometimes! I intensify my assault, bringing my hand crashing down on his bottom with all the force I could muster. The nature of his moans became more apparent when, during a particularly prolonged wriggle against my thighs, I felt something distinctive, pointy and stiff, pressed against my thighs. I was appalled! "Get up this minute, you revolting little beast!" I shout, hauling him off me and slapping him round the face for good measure. "Take off those trousers! Come on! That's it, right now, this minute!" His hands were trembling, I noted: his own feverish excitement helped to calm me, and I assisted him with his buckle, yanking the wretched fabric down to his ankles; followed - despite his gasps of protest - by his pants. As I feared, his wicked little penis stuck out at me, hard and throbbing, a fleshly embodiment of insult. "And what, Martin - " I tugged on it gently, watching him squirm and fight back tears - "do yo call this?" "I'm -. I have my towel in a death grip instead. You then take my elbow and drag me to the dressing table. I can see to my knees in the mirror. You stand behind me, in a white shirt. Collar open, and sleeves rolled up twice to your forearm. Dark blue pants. You look crisp for someone who worked all day long. Save for your hair, and your face. It's tired. But your eyes are still sharp, not moving and so are your lips. I watch you, torn with where exactly to focus. I want not to look away from your face, because I wish to catch you give away something, anything. But then, your left hand drop to my side, and my eyes follow that. You touch the side of my mid thigh and trace it up, I half expect you to slip your hands into the towel but yours glide over to the curve of my hip. You hold my love handles, palm them, squeeze a little before your hand wind across my torso pulling me flush to your front. I gasp at the pull. And I feel ass first that you are hard. I look at your face in the mirror, it.
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