BLOWJOB WITH SWALLOW (italian amateur)
The sultry, Italian sun beat down on the cobblestone streets of an ancient Roman town, as storms brewed between her walls, pent up cravings and lurking desires threatened to explode. It was a simmering afternoon, sticky with anticipation. Bianca, a petite but curvy maid, was cleaning the grand foyer of her employer’s palatial villa. She hummed a little folk song as the polish on the marble floor shone under her ministrations. Unbeknownst to her, the lady of the house had company – a distinguished guest from a neighboring estate who was feeling a certain…appetite.
The nobleman sauntered into the foyer, wine in hand, eyes lazily drinking in the sight of the maid’s ripe contours through her smock. “Care to join me for a drink, my dear?” His bassy rumble cut through her humming, causing her to start and bend down suddenly, her ruffled behind jutting out in Gravesian invitation.
“Oh, goodness! I didn’t know you were there, Signore!” She sat back on her heels, cheeks flushed and petticoats askew. He watched her with a hooded gaze, tucking one hand under his sporran. She went to rise and curtsy properly, but he moved quickly for such a hefty man, placing his booted foot atop the mop handle and holding her in place.
“Ah ah, stay just like that for me…” His Italian accent was rich with sensual promise. “I find myself suddenly thirsty, and I think you’ll do nicely…” He nudged the mop out of the way and stepped closer, his kilt brushing her face. “Drink from me, little one. Take what your mistress keeps from me…”
Bianca’s breath quickened. She had heard the rumors of his insatiable carnal appetite, of his able hands and eager mouth on anything – or anyone – that caught his roaming eye. A sensation unfamiliar to her yet somehow welcoming bloomed between her legs. She turned her gaze up to him with a curious mix of nervousness and reverence, like an acolyte to a proud god.
The nobleman manhandled her petticoats up over her plump, rounded cheeks, exposing the glistening evidence of how this was affecting her. “You want this as much as I do, don’t you pet?” He flicked her slit, bringing a surprised squeal to her lips. “Go on then, wrap your sweet lips round my Italian salami and suck…ahhh…” He sighed luxuriously as her hesitant little mouth closed around the head of his manhood through his trousers. He sank his fingers into her flossy curls as she took more of him into her hot mouth with shaky eagerness. The nobleman grunted as she began to suck the hard bulge in his pants.
He unfastened himself and stood proud and purposeful, aiming the heavy pulsing cylinder at Bianca’s face. Her round eyes widened but she did not pull away. She wanted to please him. With unsteady hands, she.` gripped the base as he’d shown her, opening wide to take in as much as she could.
“Tsk tsk, slippery slut, you’ve got my seed all over your face!” He wiped his length across her gasping face and dipped the tip into her hot wet mouth. Bianca moaned as he coated her lips and tongue, silently begging for more. He obliged,ramming his magnificent mast into her throat as she gagged and slurped, accepting the privilege of worshipping his engorged scepter. She hummed her eager devotion around him, so impressed by his power and dedication to pleasuring himself at her expense.
Her small hands roamed his heavy thighs, savoring the dense muscle under fine fabric. She caressed his ample cheeks below his kilt and pushed her face up to take more and more of him as he used her mouth, face and throat for his satisfaction. Eyeing his sporran copiously jostling, she gave it an experimental squeeze, feeling the weight of his wealth beneath. He grunted, punishing her throat harder.
Soon he sank into his climax, his load spilling copiously down her gulp- ing throat and onto her tongue for her to smile around his pulsing tip. Bianca savored every drop, sucking long and properly until he was spent. She licked her lips, her lashes sweeping down in shy humility, her whole body his living tribute.
The nobleman , ever poetry in motion, cupped her chin as she knelt there, flushed and panting, his tribute painted on her face.
“Milk me dry, Sweet Honeycup…” He thrust and spilled again. And again. The gift of his completion painted her, marked her, claimed her as his indulgence. His redundancy begged for her unending gratitude and repositioning.
Bianca drank him dry to the dregs. His pleasure was her nutrition. She was a born worshipper, drinking his praise and becoming drunk on it.
The storm of his carnal thirst had broken, but Bianca still knelt in adoration, aching for a second course of his attentions. Little did she know his voracity was yet unsated. With a roll of his eyes and a deep chuckle that spoke to great experience, he guided her head forward again.
“I fear your services will be needed many more times for me to be sated, sweet dear…” He gazed at her gravely. “Your mistress’s table is set for one, but I have a ravenous appetite…you will feed me for a month…” His eyes danced wickedly and she shivered with anticipation. It was going to be a long and lovely time, with her sweet mouth their sole source of sustenance.
