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Saturday, February 21, 2009

Five Cocktails and a Blow Job

By Eve Summers

“I would love to give you a blow job.”
It’s the cocktail speaking, the fifth cocktail of the afternoon. I never would have mustered the courage otherwise, even though Andy’s open shirt reveals every mouth-watering muscle on his abdomen.

Andy lowers his own glass. He shifts in his seat and crosses his legs, ankle on knee.

“You don’t mean the cocktail?”

I keep his gaze. “I don’t mean the cocktail.”

“It’s a bad idea on so many levels.” It comes out croaky and he clears his throat.

I’m hoping it’s not just the whisky that’s making his voice hoarse.

“You’re a fine woman and I don’t want to risk our friendship. Fuck, I don’t want to risk the championships, either.”

His pants are baggy (not the usual spray-on black jeans that make my hormones sigh) and his thigh is obscuring my view, but I know he’s growing a huge hard-on while fighting the image of my mouth on him.

I smile to myself. Where were we? Oh, yes.

“I agree about the championships. “ And I do... to some extent.

He says nothing.

“Believe me, it’s easier to find a good cock than a good bridge partner.” It is: most men would happily sell their souls for a chance to get head, but I’ve never met a guy who’s as refined a bridge player as Andy.

Still nothing.

“I don’t want to risk the bridge, either.” Ok, that last one’s a fib.

I can’t read his face, but when I fold my arms behind my head and my boobs thrust forward, Andy swallows hard.

Keep going, girl.

“Which is exactly why I’m here. You’re one hell of a sexy bloke, Andy, and I can’t get your body out of my mind.” Truth. “I can’t even concentrate on bridge anymore.” Truth. “If I go down on you now, we won’t go down in the finals tomorrow.” Sheer speculation.

My logic is resonating with him. Time to appeal to his other decision-making mechanism.

Leaning forward to deepen my cleavage, I grip my cocktail’s maraschino cherry by the stem, tease it with my tongue, glide it in and out my mouth, taunt it with my lips.

Andy watches my mouth, mesmerised.

Now for the big one. “Let me give you a blowjob, Andy. I’ll even pay you.”

He chokes on his drink. “You are offering me money to shine my knob? That’s, like, so fucked-up.”

Translation: that’s irresistible.

To be sure, my nipples are hard and I’m creamy with anticipation. I place a greenback on the table. “A hundred dollars will do you?”

His smile is pure bliss. “I guess I’d better take one for the team.”


About the Author: Eve Summers is the pen name under which Yvonne Eve Walus writes romance and erotica. Eve believes that words are the greatest aphrodisiac, and the best lover is the one who will set your mind on fire (though, of course, it's ok if he looks like Josh Holloway, too). Eve's first experience at writing erotica was a monthly members' only newsletter distributed among subscribers of a porn site. It was a guaranteed conversation-stopper. You can find out more information about her and her work at http://yewalus.kiwiwebhost.net.nz/Eve-Summers.htm or http://eve-summers.blogspot.com/

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