Backstage with Zafira

Zafira melts in the heat. Her pale thighs stick to the chaise, her silk slip clinging to each soft contour, dark patches of sweat spreading along the fabric. I lie beside her, our mouths brushing in slow, heavy kisses. Her lips taste salt and breath mints. When I push two fingers into her cunt she drags her teeth across my shoulder to keep from making too much noise. The silk slips down. One bare breast meets open air, her nipple tight and flushed pink from the sticky warmth. I lick her breast and she arches, a little moan escaping through her nose. Her fingers clutch my cock through my shorts; she squeezes, wet palm sliding over cotton, then hooks the band lower until my length rests hot against her belly. Her other hand guides me lower, lines me up, parts her thighs until the swollen head of my cock slips inside. She gasps, hips rolling up to take me deeper, the muscles of her core fluttering around every inch. With each shallow thrust the sweat between our bellies smacks quietly and the scent of her grows sweeter. Outside, a black cat wearing a tiny witch’s hat watches us from the windowsill, eyes half-lidded like it already knows what will happen next.