Beefy Buns

Mona drew her head back, separating her face from mine, and I saw the sparkle of her bright blue eyes, agleam with mischief. Her soft, smooth lips still wet with my saliva and her own, she smiled at me. Taking my hand in hers, she said, in a throaty whisper, "Let's go into the bedroom."

She led the way, and I saw that her boudoir was no better furnished than her living room had been. She had a dresser that had seen better days; a cheap bedside table and lamp, the latter of which was topped with a torn shade; and a double bed that, spread with a comforter that was worn, if not exactly threadbare, sagged a bit in the middle. When we sat down on the mattress, the springs creaked and the bedstead groaned. If she was embarrassed by her Spartan furnishings, she kept her chagrin to herself.

Despite several salary increases, she couldn't afford much in the way of furniture and décor, I supposed, when she worked as a shift manager for a fast food restaurant and had to devote a sizeable amount of her paltry pay to buying outfits, makeup, and jewelry; to paying to have her nails and her hair done; and to purchasing the many other accessories and accoutrements of femininity of which men have only the faintest inkling.

"Lie back," she suggested, "and let me enjoy you."

I didn't need a second invitation. I stretched out on my back, my head upon her downy-soft pillow, and my legs spread. My cock stood upright, stiff and swollen, looking both comical and absurd. She rose, knelt at the side of the bed, as if she were a little girl about to say her prayers, and bowed low, bending forward at the waist, to let her open mouth descend around my erect penis. Her lips closed upon my stiff-standing member, and her head bobbed up and down, in a slow, steady rhythm, as if in time to some soft, slow piano concerto that only she could hear.

Her hair spilled over my groin, a shower of blonde fire, obscuring the sight of her face--of her furrowed brow, her intense gaze, her flaring nostrils, her rounded lips--but only for a moment. She brushed her tresses aside, knowing, either from experience, intuition, or reason, that a man likes to watch a woman as she performs this intimate act, accepting his manhood as completely as she would nectar and ambrosia offered to her by a divinity of Mount Olympus.