failed her because of men’s predictability.
Having been stamped by Dior’s wickedness, he reacted in the manner to which she was accustomed. She had actually anticipated his every reaction to this point. His next question was no exception. “What are you going to do to me?” slipped out of his lips in one helpless groan.
“Honestly, I haven’t figured that out yet. Thought I’d just let it ride,” she answered, shielding the truth with a lie. “Come on, sugar. It’s time to get wet.” Dior started up the carpeted stairs with Richard in tow. Following closely in her steps, he marveled at the curve of her behind and the rich cinnamon hue in her skin. There wasn’t a scratch on it, no stretch marks or blemishes. Dior was a crafty chameleon who carried all of her scars beneath the surface, hidden from plain view. She’d learned to disguise the pain and reinvent herself at a moment’s notice. Had Richard caught a single glimpse of her past, he’d have reconsidered her suggestion to ride it, much less stumbling over himself to do it.
At the top of the stairs, Dior waited until Richard was within striking distance. She pulled his arms around her waist then leaned back against his chest. “Hmmm, I’ve wanted to do this since you rang my doorbell today. I knew it would feel so good.” She looked over her shoulder to survey his reaction. He was falling, off balance, and rapidly losing the slight grip he had on his mind. “Let’s get in there before it spills over.”
Richard hadn’t noticed the sound of running water before Dior mentioned it. Two doors on the second level of her modest home were closed. The entire floor was covered in a light colored carpet. He couldn’t tell how long she’d lived there, only that she’d taken good care of the house. Her bedroom furniture was a chestnut shade of oak, more subtle than the downstairs furnishings. Except for the fancy royal blue comforter fashioned with gold trim and flat-panel screen television, it reminded him of his oldest daughter’s room.
Tasteful
is the word that came to mind. “I like your style,” he whispered, as she gestured toward the bathroom.
“Thank you. It’s not much, but it’s home.” She shut off the water then opened a slender closet door. Dior passed two thick bath towels to Richard then smirked at him oddly. “Unless you like to air dry, you’ll need these.”
Richard’s grin evaporated when he caught her meaning. Candles surrounded the bathtub, flames flickering slowly. He gawked at the satiny bubbles floating atop the bath she’d drawn while arousing him downstairs. “That’s supposed to be for me?”
“For us,” she informed him. “I thought we’d spend some quality time getting to know the ins and outs, so to speak.” Richard didn’t have a clue what that meant but it sure did sound good when she said it. He went to unfasten the second button on his golf-style polo shirt until Dior stopped him. “Uh-uh, I’d like to do that if you wouldn’t mind.” She grabbed the tail of his shirt and pulled it over his head in the same manner she’d removed her own. She ran her fingers through a thick nest of hair on his chest. “I like this; it’s very manly.” Dior didn’t mention how she also liked Giorgio’s as well. Richard watched as she fluffed his shirt before placing it on a hanger. He enjoyed it even more when she unfastened his belt and zipper. “Step out of your pants, sugar, so I can put them away too.” He gladly did what he was told then looked away as she knelt down to relieve him of his red silk boxers. Richard dropped his eyes with a grimace that made Dior giggle. “This is not the time to be modest. Let’s see what all the fuss is about,” she jested sensually. Dior, eye-level to the pastor’s penis, inspected it closely like she’d always done after hearing too many horror stories about men who let their equipment get out of whack. Richard didn’t appreciate being examined. The broad frown
Having been stamped by Dior’s wickedness, he reacted in the manner to which she was accustomed. She had actually anticipated his every reaction to this point. His next question was no exception. “What are you going to do to me?” slipped out of his lips in one helpless groan.
“Honestly, I haven’t figured that out yet. Thought I’d just let it ride,” she answered, shielding the truth with a lie. “Come on, sugar. It’s time to get wet.” Dior started up the carpeted stairs with Richard in tow. Following closely in her steps, he marveled at the curve of her behind and the rich cinnamon hue in her skin. There wasn’t a scratch on it, no stretch marks or blemishes. Dior was a crafty chameleon who carried all of her scars beneath the surface, hidden from plain view. She’d learned to disguise the pain and reinvent herself at a moment’s notice. Had Richard caught a single glimpse of her past, he’d have reconsidered her suggestion to ride it, much less stumbling over himself to do it.
At the top of the stairs, Dior waited until Richard was within striking distance. She pulled his arms around her waist then leaned back against his chest. “Hmmm, I’ve wanted to do this since you rang my doorbell today. I knew it would feel so good.” She looked over her shoulder to survey his reaction. He was falling, off balance, and rapidly losing the slight grip he had on his mind. “Let’s get in there before it spills over.”
Richard hadn’t noticed the sound of running water before Dior mentioned it. Two doors on the second level of her modest home were closed. The entire floor was covered in a light colored carpet. He couldn’t tell how long she’d lived there, only that she’d taken good care of the house. Her bedroom furniture was a chestnut shade of oak, more subtle than the downstairs furnishings. Except for the fancy royal blue comforter fashioned with gold trim and flat-panel screen television, it reminded him of his oldest daughter’s room.
Tasteful
is the word that came to mind. “I like your style,” he whispered, as she gestured toward the bathroom.
“Thank you. It’s not much, but it’s home.” She shut off the water then opened a slender closet door. Dior passed two thick bath towels to Richard then smirked at him oddly. “Unless you like to air dry, you’ll need these.”
Richard’s grin evaporated when he caught her meaning. Candles surrounded the bathtub, flames flickering slowly. He gawked at the satiny bubbles floating atop the bath she’d drawn while arousing him downstairs. “That’s supposed to be for me?”
“For us,” she informed him. “I thought we’d spend some quality time getting to know the ins and outs, so to speak.” Richard didn’t have a clue what that meant but it sure did sound good when she said it. He went to unfasten the second button on his golf-style polo shirt until Dior stopped him. “Uh-uh, I’d like to do that if you wouldn’t mind.” She grabbed the tail of his shirt and pulled it over his head in the same manner she’d removed her own. She ran her fingers through a thick nest of hair on his chest. “I like this; it’s very manly.” Dior didn’t mention how she also liked Giorgio’s as well. Richard watched as she fluffed his shirt before placing it on a hanger. He enjoyed it even more when she unfastened his belt and zipper. “Step out of your pants, sugar, so I can put them away too.” He gladly did what he was told then looked away as she knelt down to relieve him of his red silk boxers. Richard dropped his eyes with a grimace that made Dior giggle. “This is not the time to be modest. Let’s see what all the fuss is about,” she jested sensually. Dior, eye-level to the pastor’s penis, inspected it closely like she’d always done after hearing too many horror stories about men who let their equipment get out of whack. Richard didn’t appreciate being examined. The broad frown
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