The cold was getting to him – he put on his running jacket and zipped it up. Then he pulled out his phone and typed something into it.I was hugging myself against the cold, when my phone buzzed. I reached into my Fendi handbag for it, and tapped it open. I saw a text with an identifier picture of the man and his name – ‘Jack Grierson’.Jack: Hi Gretchen, I’m Jack. When did you run Boston?When I saw the text, I looked at Jack in surprise, growing even more embarrassed as his eyes ranged over me. Again and again you rain the flogger down on my bottom, I’m panting.“How many?” you pause to ask me.I have no idea. "Twenty?" I guess.“Wrong. We’ll go again. This time count,” I brace myself expecting another assault from the flogger to fall. My bottom is already hot and tingling, it won’t be so pleasurable this time.The first blow is unbelievable. I realise now that you’ve discarded your flogger and are raining down hard smacks with your hand. The pain takes my breath away. Count, I remind. ”“Doesn’t it bother you? Him being away?”“No, not really. I knew what I was getting into when I married him,” she paused, taking another rather large gulp of wine, “He’s driven. He’ll be Prime Minister one day, mark my words. He ticks all the establishment’s boxes. Schooled at Eton. University at Queens in Cambridge. His father was a name in politics as well, served in Margaret Thatcher’s cabinet; it’s in the genes, Joseph.”She trailed off into her own world, staring into space. There was a. I lifted my weight so he could take them off and once they were Orlando devoured my pussy. Sucking my clit and licking my slit like it was his last meal. It was an electrical storm coursed through my body and I felt like I was going to die. And that was enough for me to take it all the way. I pulled him up to me kissed him for a moment and rolled him over on his back. Then I took his length into my mouth sucking him off like a lollipop tasting his sweet precum and soaking his cock with my spit..
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