Repercussions : Part Nine  (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)The sudden glare of th

Repercussions : Part Nine  (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)The sudden glare of the high-beams slicing by brought her out of her daydream. She had been sitting there behind the wheel of her borrowed Fiat for hours now waiting. Just waiting. Her hands gripped the wheel, her fingers trembling if not for the white-knuckled grip she had on it. For no reason she checked her face once again in the rear-view mirror. Feathery blonde hair cascaded across her shoulders, framing a face that might have graced the cover of Vogue with her bright green eyes and glowing complexion. She ran the tip of her tongue over her pink lips, feeling their velvet softness, closing her eyes as she lost herself with thoughts of his eager, lustful mouth pressing down upon them. It had been so long. Oh God, so very long.Pamela fondly remembering the last time she had felt a man waking beside her, slowly sliding his arms around her waist, pulling her in close. To wake up with a man’s breath at her neck, his rough hands gently cupping her breasts, quivering as his deep baritone voice broke the morning silence, his hard body sliding up along her own, the tickle of his chest hair on her back, the erotic scratching of his beard along her cheek, his thick strong cock easing between her spreading thighs… fuck!She turned her head again to the street. Night had fallen early and the road was quiet except for the passing of a speeding car heading towards the highway or the slow shuffling of someone tiredly making their way home after work. Pools of pale light lit the street under the glaring streetlamps that led off into the center of town. The clock softly glowing on the dashboard read eleven now. She had been sitting here for two hours now dressed to kill in her sexiest clothes feeling utterly ridiculous, feeling like a fucking stalker, feeling desperate and terrified. Feeling like a complete and utter bitch. Eleanora was long gone. She had watched the woman get into a cab an hour ago, speeding off to find and fuck her latest in a long line of goddamned boy-toys. The woman had been talking about it all damned week. Her strong, tall, powerful black bull and his tree-trunk thick cock. The man she just had to have pounding his way into her guts if it took everything that she had… including her marriage. Unbelievably ignoring Pamela’s not-so-gentle comments that her dear husband Franco might not actually share her apparent love of getting her stupid cunt stuffed with strange black dicks each week. She had seen Franco. She had seen his tired, strained face as he watched Ellie at play. As Eleonora flit about vainly seducing the young men around her, flaunting her irrepressible sex for the benefit of some stranger’s eyes while her own husband sat right there so clearly suffering. Seething. Gnashing his teeth around countless stinking cigarettes, his strong hands gripping the table they sat at as if ready to tear it to bits. Pamela remembered watching him as he drove her home from the club that night. His face a dark silhouette against the night, his hands steady on the wheel, his warm body pressed along her own in the tiny car. The way he addressed her, opened the door for her, offering his hand. His sweet yet manly scent as he sat beside her hiding his obvious pain behind meaningless conversation. The way the man moved. The way he spoke. The way he tipped the waiter. Held out her chair. Slid her sweater over her shivering shoulders as he escorted her from the club and out into the cold night air. All those tiny, little things that men did not ever realize were so erotically moving to a woman. At least to her.The woman in the mirror gazed back at her accusingly. ‘Yes, damn you!’, she thought. The idea of spending another evening with Franco turned her on. She imagined his sure strong hands cupping her face, then tracing slowly down her curves to grab her ass, pulling her slowly into his kiss. Waking next to him in the morning with his arms pulling her towards him, his voice at her ear making her tremble. He was her friend’s husband… yes, fucking yes. Society would probably expect her to feel shameful at least, but instead she felt only her own yearning needs. Franco was a handsome man, his needs completely abandoned, and betrayed by a wife that knew only her own enjoyment thinking nothing of his obvious misery. Men like Franco were not easily found. Sure. Steady. Caring. Gentle. Just the type of man that Pamela herself had always wanted and could never find. Hell, Eleonora was fucking around all she wanted, offering herself wantonly to whichever young stud showed her the slightest interest. Leaving Franco to pick up the pieces. All Pamela wanted was one man. One particular man. Throughout Eleonora’s rattling praise of this young man or that, not once did she ever complain that Franco was less than amorous or less than able to perform in their bed. Actually, quite the opposite. How many times had her friend sat there complaining that her husband could not wait to have her, that he would not take his hands or his lips off of her, that his nearly constant sexual advances actually annoyed her as she was seeking out the rude sex of a stranger? Fuck it all, the woman had a loving, dependable man in the house who was consistently hard for her and she actually left the fucking house? Fuck, seriously, fuck! Pamela began to fantasize about what it might be like feeling his hands and his lips each day, each night. His amorous thoughts only for her. Would Franco be gentle at first? Would he vent every ounce of his pent-up hate and frustration on her willing body? Call her his angel… or his slut, perhaps his hot fucking bitch? Shit, maybe all three at once! Maybe all those nights watching his wife fuck cock after cock had introduced him to the kinky side? Hell, if Eleonora didn’t want it, didn’t appreciate what she had at home…  Well, why the fuck shouldn’t they? Suddenly, Pamela realized her hand was between her legs, slowly circling her warm mound through the thin protection of her lace panties. Shit, she had not even realized that her hand had moved there. When she did, though…she lifted a leg onto the armrest and leaned her head back against the seat lilting her head to one side to maintain her view of the street. With her tender, smooth pussy-lips pressed firmly between her two fingers, she began softly pleasuring herself with thoughts of what just might happen if her terrible plan came to fruition. Pamela became quickly aroused as she thought of those first moments. As she thought of his hand sliding under her lace bra, cupping her breast as his mouth found that heavenly spot along her neck that inevitably had her panties hit the ground in seconds. As she lay back, continuing her gentle attentions, more than a few ideas of what she was going to do with Franco passed through her fevered imagination. Soon the side window of the Fiat was blurred with her breathing.Her fingers jerked away as her hazy vision spotted a car coming slowly up the road, coming to a stop in front of Franco’s building. Yes, it was him. There could be no mistake. The same squared shoulders and proud eyes scanning the street as he locked the car door. At the sight of him, Pamela shifted in her seat, her eyes popping open with a sudden sense of fear. She watched as he slid out of the car, slamming the door solidly behind him. The man’s cream-colored suit looked haggard and dirty and he moved as if each step brought him new agony. Quickly, Pamela dived down biting her lip hard, praying he did not see her.Franco tossed the keys in his hand on the way to the front door of the apartment building, the slight ‘ching’ echoing along the street. Pamela watched, her eyes barely over the car door like some thief as he walked through the door, checking the mailbox out of habit, and then opened the foyer’s inner door with a handful of envelopes before disappearing from her view. ‘Well. It’s now or never, bitch’, she thought. She checked her face in the mirror again and then once more, cursing under her breath at a stray strand of blonde hair that staunchly refused to obey orders. Finally defeated she stepped out of the car, her heels ‘clacking’ loudly on the empty midnight road. Her hands shook as she smoothed her skirt out along her legs and she forced herself to take a few moments before daring to cross the street. Halfway there she realized she had forgotten to lock the car door, and to grab her purse. She ran back across the street feeling ridiculous, nearly catching the strap of her purse in the car door as it slammed behind her. She was forced to take another moment to compose herself and check her breathing. The last thing Franco needed to see was a flustered, red-faced, insane fucking wreck of a woman standing at his door at twelve in the morning. No, she thought. Instead he was going to find a sexy, confident, and composed… insane fucking wreck. Without any other excuses left to make, she shoved herself across the street and into her destiny. The keys fumbled in her hands as she opened the front doors. Another thing to feel guilty about, she mused. She had quietly stolen the keys from Eleonora’s purse nearly a week ago. Poor Ellie was going crazy looking for the; fretting, wondering if she had lost them at the market or on the way to work. She was finally forced to have another set made while Pamela shamefully secreted her stolen set at the bottom of her purse wrapped in a sad wad of old tissues. She passed through the front doors, her hands still shivering as she reached out to press the elevator button for the fourth floor. In her fevered mind she thought of her favorites. Sophia Loren. Ludivine Sagnier. Meryl Streep. She pictured herself as all three. Poised. Sexy. Never shaking at the simple thought of a man nor at a loss for words. She pictured them in her mind as she walked towards the door. As she raised her hand to knock. Courageous. Poised. Terrified.His surprised glance scanned her up and down, only stopping for a brief moment as they lit along her bared cleavage before focusing on her eyes. Her heart was in her throat, and the butterflies in her stomach were storming about madly. She froze, unable to move or to talk as Franco stood in the doorway.Franco had just gotten home barely fifteen minutes ago. He had stood in the doorway of the apartment, his tired eyes adjusting to the darkness beyond the threshold. Adjusting to the terrible emptiness. No one was home. Eleanora, his wife and his love, was not home. He knew where she was, of course, and his soul shriveled with the thought of it. Staggering forward he slid his jacket off his shoulders, hanging the worn and sweat-stained coat neatly by the door as was his habit. He turned on the light, not truly needing to as he moved towards the lonely kitchen, eyes tight with pain. More than anything he needed a shower. He needed sleep. But his aching body could think of neither right now. Going slowly through the motions, he set the espresso pot on the stove inhaling its life-giving aroma as it simmered on the fire. A slow groan of pain escaped him as he slid his hopelessly wrinkled shirt from his shoulders, tossing it carelessly across the bed as he headed towards the bathroom to brush the stench of whiskey and cheap cafe coffee from his breath.The face that stared back at him in the mirror frightened him. It was tired and haggard with two days’ worth of scraggly beard shadowing his jaw. His eyes drooped with a puffiness that drew even more attention to his dull and lifeless gaze. Displaying plainly to the world the terrible anguish that was devouring his soul. He reached towards his toothpaste with a trembling hand, the silence of the empty apartment crushing down on him. Eleonora was not home. She was out. She was there. His voice-mail was filled with her calls, her desperate and insistent pleas for him to come home. No, not because she wanted him home. Not because she loved him or was concerned about him, or - heaven-forbid - missed him. This was an important night for her they each repeated. Didn’t he know what an important night it was for her? Her night to find and fuck her latest bull. Her powerful big, black bull with his inhuman cock and deep loveless laugh. Her night to find with him something that Franco’s own love and devotion could never give her. He spat out the paste, washing it out of the sink as he splashed handfuls of ice-cold water across his face hoping to break his thoughts. Then he buried his face in a towel, hiding within its quiet darkness for a long moment as he took in deep, long breaths to steady his nerves. He began to laugh.It was all done in an angry moment of blind passion. Suddenly Franco had found himself walking down that street, standing before that apartment building and… something inside of him just snapped. Without even thinking about what he was doing he was banging on the door, smashing it open, his mind a fog of tear-filled rage. The look on Simone’s face had been priceless. His shock and fear almost comical as the pathetic slug of a man fell to the floor and curled up into a sad, pathetic ball begging for his mercy through broken teeth. It could not have been himself, Franco thought. He had always been averse to violence. Rather settling things in conversation over a cup of espresso than with kicks and punches. He had known men who always went to their fists first and he had always despised them. But, he had to admit finally to himself, the feeling of tossing that fucking bastard down one staircase then another, seeing him crawling away with blood pouring from his broken nose, begging, screaming, wailing for help… Heaven help him, it had felt so fucking good after all he had been through. The smell of burning coffee shook him out of his reverie and he dashed towards the kitchen nearly tripping over his own feet as he dived for the dials. The pot of espresso was already overflowing as he got there, boiling out its rich darkness across the white stove-top. Franco muttered a whispered curse as he reached for a towel to clean the mess, the scent of the burnt espresso waking him.  The sudden knock at the apartment door startled him, causing him to nearly dump what was left of the coffee across the stove. Fearful visions ran through his head. It was after midnight. Who could be calling at his door so late, except  perhaps the police. Had Simone gone to them? Reported him for his attack? Had they come to drag him to jail? Worse yet, had something happened to his wife? Had they come to tell him of some horrible accident? An accident which his presence might well have avoided? Or was it just one of his some damned nosy neighbors come to find out what all the noise was about as he cursed and clattered in his kitchen at such a late hour? It couldn’t be the police he thought as he walked to the door. Though the knock was firm it was hardly forceful. He slid his hands through his hair as he reached for the doorknob, taking a last look at himself in the hallway mirror. Whoever it was knocking had hardly come at a good time. He looked like shit and he felt worse. Franco managed to share a dubious smirk with his reflection. He felt sorry for whoever was knocking.Franco stood there stunned as he beheld Pamela standing in the doorway, her fist raised high for another try at the door. The woman looked positively dazzling, her golden hair cascading across her bare shoulders as her eyes shone bright  above her full, petal-soft lips. She took in a gasp, startled and looking a bit afraid as he opened the door wide. Slowly he let his eyes drift down her long body. The woman was dressed like a movie star. Her deep cleavage pointing downwards towards a trim waist, the curve of her hips feminine and inviting. Long, tanned legs stretched down from her skirt, which barely covered her smooth, sensuous thighs. Her heels only accentuated her firmly muscled legs, which his tired eyes lingered on perhaps a bit too long for just a polite glance. More, as he took the occasion to release the breath that he had no idea he was holding, he took in her scent. Lavender and wildflowers, sweet and rich and exciting.Suddenly realizing that she still held her hand frozen in midair, Pamela quickly withdrew it to grab hold of the purse that she held at her side, gripping it like it was the last piece of driftwood saving her from a raging sea. Whatever she had planned to say, all those cool and elegant lines that she had run over endlessly in her head on the way up the elevator, had now drifted away in the breeze the moment Franco opened the door. She had forgotten how tall he was. Even in her best heels she was looking up at him, if only slightly. The man had obviously not slept in days. His hair was a tangle, brushed roughly over his scalp and his face bore lines of weariness that melted her heart with the pain that must have been their cause. Franco had stripped down to his undershirt in the time it took her to get to the door. Though not as well-defined as the young studs Eleonora was constantly chasing, Pamela could see the muscles lying barely disguised under soft, warm, and manly skin. Without thinking about it her eyes settled on his hands, strong and erotic, her mind drifting off to see them pinning her hips down to the bed or holding her face still as his lips took hers. A familiar warmth rose in her belly and she almost stumbled in place as her legs turned to so much jelly beneath her. She saved herself, snapping back to reality just in time before collapsing at his feet.“Pamela.” Franco began, his voice coming out with a silent rasp as he forced his eyes from her body to lose themselves in the brightness of her gaze, “What are you… I mean what brings you here? Its past midnight. Eleonora isn’t here so…”“Yes. Yes, I know but…. May I come in?”, she managed to reply, her own voice rising a shaky whisper as she tried not to feed the echo in the quiet hallway.Franco stood aside, watching her as she glided through the tiny foyer. As she passed, he stole a breath of her, letting the sweet scent fill his lungs. He let his eyes glide down her slim back in admiration of her perfectly rounded ass and long smooth legs. The sudden twitch in his trousers alarmed him, his hardness growing at the sight of her, at the feminine sound of her heels lightly clicking across the marble floor. He cursed himself silently, closing his eyes, shaking the thoughts from his head as he shut the door behind him. She had walked into the kitchen, the center of the mess, the small room filled with the heavy scent of his burned espresso. She stood there staring at the stove-top, looking like she was considering whether to grab the nearest sponge and start cleaning up before the coffee dried hopelessly in.“I’m sorry. I did not expect company at this hour. I’m afraid I let the coffee burn while I was… doing other things.” Franco explained while holding a chair out for her “Please sit. I’ll make another pot. I promise not to ruin it this time.”Pamela took the offered chair, tucking her legs under the seat and crossing her ankles demurely just as her mother had taught her, “Thank you. I think I might need one. I’m sorry for calling so late but I knew… I mean… “Franco noticed the redness in her cheeks as she looked down at the table, her voice flustered with embarrassment. He moved about from the sink to the stove, cleaning up and going through the familiar motions of putting on a second pot of espresso. The match flared brightly between his fingertips as he lit the stove, setting the coffeepot to simmer. All very sane, mechanical, familiar movements that made the silence between them somewhat less… awkward. He heard the clink of flatware behind him, turning to see Pamela setting out cups and saucers on the small table, checking the sugar bowl, placing the tiny spoons just so as she unapologetically raided the cupboard. She caught him staring, averting her eyes from her own as she dropped a spoonful of sugar into his cup.“I’m sorry. I can never sit still.” she said, “I never feel comfortable unless I am doing something, even setting a table. Please don’t think me rude. Its just that… it makes this fell less… well…”“Awkward.”“Yes. That.” She replied, suddenly able to look him in the eyes now that they had the table firmly between them. Her hands fidgeted and her nervousness grew, butterflies storming about in her stomach as she found herself helpless under his gaze once more, “Oh. Lemon. You take lemon, don’t you? Or do you want the Sambuca? I don’t know where that is but…”“Pamela. What are you doing here tonight?” Franco asked, “You know that Eleonora is out, don’t you?”“Yes. I know. I came for you not her. To talk with you I mean. About, well about Eleonora. About you.” Pamela whispered under her breath, easing herself slowly back into the kitchen chair to look up at Franco once more. “You are not happy, Franco.” She said, her voice quiet, her eyes wide with fearful anticipation of his reaction. Whether he would agree to talk or just throw her out on her ass.Franco turned away, bracing his hands on the kitchen counter, fixing his eyes on the blue and white mosaic tiles that lines the wall below the glass cabinets. His eyes searched for the tiny repairs he had made over the years. The replacement tile that was not of the perfect color. The small scratch in the counter-top he had managed to sand out into near invisibility, the panes of glass he had replaced due to one mishap or another. Little prideful things that had filled his life with such joy even as his wife had praised him and told him that she loved him. A marriage filled with small, imperceptive victories and large, well-hidden lies. The cabinet glass was dusty. Eleonora had once kept them pristine, priding herself on how the apartment shone with light and cleanliness. She had not cared for the house in weeks, leaving whatever household chores for him to take care of. To be honest with himself he was not very good at it. There was laundry to be done, things to clean and dust, a near empty refrigerator to fill. It was like he had lived here alone for months. Alone and lonely as his Eleonora flit about planning some new and wonderful way to pierce his heart. He caught himself staring back in the cabinet glass. His eyes were weary and, yes, sad. It was late and he was tired, his day filled with deep sorrow and glorious elation. Yet he could not argue with the woman. Happiness was a long-forgotten idea, driven from him at the point of a bayonet. The choice before him, a choice he had already decided on, promising to bring even more pain along with it.Pamela’s fingers slid along his shoulder, noting the terrible tension twisting his muscles beneath his tanned skin. She ran her hands down his arms, her senses thrilled by the manly layer of light hair that ran through her fingertips. His pain was palpable. His posture that of a man torn and defeated, yet somehow still bearing his pride. Gently she took him in. Noting each scar and imperfection. The way his ear curved slightly outward at the base of his earlobe. His dreadful need for a proper haircut. Without planning or thinking why, she leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his bare shoulder. “Eleonora wants whatever it is she wants, Franco. Many men. Young men. Brutal men. Something makes me believe she does not truly know what she wants. But I do. And I think so do you.”Franco turned; the kitchen counter pressed to the small of his back. An amused smirk had appeared on his face as he looked down on her. Pamela’s angelic face and sensuous pink lips were so close, so beautiful under the soft yellow light of the chandelier which shone above them. He could feel her lithe body along his own, perhaps a breath away, so soft and pliable. Her scent, her wide fretful eyes, her warmth attracting him on so many different levels. The answer to so many secret prayers.“Tell me what you want, Pamela.”, he sighed.The feeling of his hand warm along her thigh took her off guard. More than that, it made her heart jump out of her chest and into her throat. Just a little more, and it would have probably flown. She could feel the subtle mirth of Franco’s eyes as she searched her mind for an answer. She could feel her face flushing red, her lips trembling in silent murmurs as her swirling mind sparked into a confused maelstrom of useless words and fleeting bits of thought. This was her chance and she was blowing it, all her stupid rehearsals and reasonings disappearing  like frightened soldiers fleeing the battle when it might be so very easily won. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “About what?” she asked meekly.“About everything. Don’t think. Just talk.”Her skirt had ridden up a bit, leaving her knee and the lower part of her thigh bare. His hand was there, his tanned skin almost dark against her pale flesh. He didn’t stroke or squeeze; he just held it there. His palm was warm and dry, his fingers strong but gentle. Pamela could not even describe his touch as sexual. It was more like a gesture of affection and friendship but nothing else. And yet, it was enough to send a delightful shiver down her spine.“A husband. To be a wife. To do things for him. Cook. Clean. Care for him. Be his. His to love and find pride in. To make him happy. To fight by his side and bear his children. To make sure he lacks for nothing that I can give. To worship and adore him. Satisfy his every desire. Give him a home. All the things we both yearn for but cannot seem to find with anyone else.”“Pamela… I…”“These are things you can find with me, Franco. All the things you long for but cannot find. Things so easy to dream of but so hard to find. A life that cannot simply be wished for but must be reached out for and taken. That is why I am here, Franco. To reach out and take what I dream of.”She was looking straight into his eyes. Amazed. Bottomless. She felt his breath on her face. Then he leaned in even closer, and she closed her eyes.Her lips were already parted when he pressed against them. They met, soft and moist, and she felt herself being pressed against his body as he wrapped her in his arms. Her breasts squeezed against his chest, sending electrifying tingles coursing throughout her body. Franco’s tongue slipped between her lips, and she received it gratefully with her own. Her hands ran up his arms, feeling the muscles rise at her touch. Then upward, along his neck until her fingers locked around it. Her nails rasped through his unruly hair. His musky scent – of sweat and deodorant and something so much more – filled her senses.Their bodies pressed together tighter as he pulled her closer along his own. Her back arched backwards as his kiss grew more passionate and for second, she thought that she would lose her balance. But Franco’s right hand shifted from her waist and settled between her shoulder blades, giving her support as she returned his passion with her own. Her hair had fallen across her eyes again, as annoying as ever. Pamela took his breath into her lungs as their lips sealed and their bodies writhed, legs and arms and hands sliding up and down, desperately needing to touch and feel every part of each other. She pulled her lips from his, reluctantly taking a breath. In that tiny pause between kisses she looked up at him, her heart pounding hard through her ribs. The look in his gaze was of pure, needful heat. She didn’t have a mirror, of course; but if there is an expression of pure, unadulterated lust, then in that moment, it must have been plastered all over her face."Yes?” she breathed.“You’re so beautiful.” He murmured, twisting her around and pressing her into the wall, odds and ends crashing to the floor around them unheard and unseen. They kissed for a long while. All of the long denial and frustration disappearing between thoughtless words and shared moans. Pamela was amazed at how well he knew her. Somehow, magically, Franco knew just how she liked to be kissed and he gave her what she liked with lustful enthusiasm as she slid her calves up along his thighs, returning his need with her own. His cock grew full and heavy between them yet he made no move to take them further. Granted, his kisses grew more intense, but his hips stayed still. Panting, reeling from the touch of his kisses trailing along her neck, Pamela felt her body responding to his."Can I touch you?” she asked finally, not sure what she actually meant.”yesss…” he breathed.  She reached between them and grasped his erection. It pulsed in response to her touch and she smiled. Franco gave her a deep kiss as she started stroking and squeezing his shaft.“Do you want me, Franco?” she asked breathlessly.In answer he slipped his fingers down between her legs, pressing along her moist pussy mound, rubbing her slit through the thin material of her now soaked panties. He moaned at the feeling of her warmth sliding along his fingertips. She must have felt it too as she jumped in his arms, a sudden and brief intake of breath marking her pleasure. Franco slid his fingers lower, gripping the bottom of her ass-cheeks and squeezing tight, forcing yet another groan from her as she lifted herself in his grasp. He continued caressing her ass cheeks, occasionally slipping his fingers into her softness, stroking along her darkly swollen slit.“So, what should we do about this?” Franco asked as he continued exploring her folds. She moaned in reply, placing her head along his shoulder as she stroked his hard cock firmly in her hand. Franco slid a finger gently into her pussy. The woman was soaked, and his finger found the way slick and easy with barely no resistance at all aside from her incredible tightness pressing along his fingers. So much different than his wife’s as it responded with leaping shudders to his gentlest touch.“Ughhhhmmm…” was all she seemed to be able to reply. He inserted a second finger into her pussy, continuing the pressure with his thumb brushing back and forth across her budding clit. She braced herself, wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders and locking one leg around his hip. Her voice was a series of quick grunts and moans as she panted out her vocal approval of whatever the fuck he was doing between her quivering thighs. Matching his movements, Pamela raised and lowered herself on his thrusting fingers, her legs shuddering madly as her eyes were forced deeper and deeper back into her skull."Perhaps I should take you to bed right now,” he grunted out, “fuck you bent over the bed, pounding my cock into that tight fucking cunt!”He could feel her pussy tensing more frequently. She was approaching the edge and quickly, burying her face in his neck as her body thrust harder and harder down onto his cunt-soaked fingers.”Better yet, maybe I should just fuck you right here.” Franco roared,” Against the wall. On the table. On the fucking floor. Fuck the hell out of you. Cum deep in your tight fucking pussy! What do you think of that?“ "Fuuuuuck! You’re making me Cuummm!!” she screamed, gushing all over his thrusting hand. Her body stiffened, her cunt walls squeezing down hard as he ground his fingers in deep. “Fuuuuckkk!” she repeated as her body jerked and spasmed, gushing wetness along his fingers, eventually after long moments calming down and releasing his fingers. Her panting slowed as he caressed her trembling ass cheeks holding her close to her chest to help steady her breathing. Franco lay his head down across her shoulder and rested, closing his eyes for just a moment. Groaning, still groggy from her orgasm, Pamela started to move in his arms once again. Franco opened his eyes to meet her glazed eyes, her quivering lips. It took him a few moments to realize that they had actually drifted off. Smiling, he set her down on her feet, wrapping her in his arms as she steadied herself on her heels. Without a word spoken between them, he led her to the bedroom. -- source link

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