Dirty Martini

Dirty Martini Dirty Martini

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Two old lovers meet in a dark hotel bar half a lifetime later, and pick up as adults where they left off in their twenties. Then she liked her martinis dirty, with a special ingredient that only he provided. Have things changed? [This story won an erotic stories competition, for which the theme was simply "Fetish."]


Two old lovers meet in a dark hotel bar half a lifetime later, and pick up as adults where they left off in their twenties. Then she liked her martinis dirty, with a special ingredient that only he provided. Have things changed? [This story won an erotic stories competition, for which the theme was simply "Fetish."]


Submitted: January 03, 2018

A A A | A A A


Submitted: January 03, 2018



The booze softened the surprise, but seeing her was still a punch to the gut. For a moment I couldn’t breathe; all the air in the plush bar felt sucked away. Pam slid onto the stool beside me as comfortably as if the intervening years had been nothing more than a barfly’s hiccough.

“Mike Ross, you’re a welcome sight,” she said casually, the way you’d comment about the weather. Her smile, however, reached her eyes; she was happy to see me. My chest was tight with disbelief and excitement. I couldn’t speak. She dropped her clutch on the bar and signaled minutely to the bartender, who materialized with considerably more alacrity than he had for me.

“Martini, please. Hendricks, two olives.” He nodded approval as he began mixing the drink. Still stunned at seeing my first real girlfriend out of the blue after more than twenty years, I caught his eye to have him put it on my tab.

“Pamela Martin,” I said in wonder, as much to myself as to her. She’d matured into her angular face, and in some ways she looked better than in college, when an uncharitable friend had nicknamed her “Picasso’s Muse,” a play on her initials. She was leaner, her legs slim and elegant in black stockings. She allowed one pump to dangle from her toes, a habit I remembered.

“Powers,” she answered, holding up her left hand, where a chickpea-sized diamond glittered in the dim light. I was three double-Macallens into the night; the solitaire left a lazy trail of slow-dissolving sparks. The deadly-dull conference was finally over; I was enjoying adding a few incidentals to my firm’s hotel bill.

“Oh,” I said, feeling equal parts perfect comfort and dreamlike impossibility. We’d dated for three years, but I hadn’t seen her for twenty-three, exactly half a lifetime. I tipped my glass at her, “Congratulations.”

“Thirteen years too late; I’m just waiting for the final decree. I wear the rings to keep away unwanted company. You?” she asked, nodding at my ring finger, where the indented groove still made me look like a married guy on the prowl for the night.

“I’m a few weeks ahead of you, I guess,” I replied as her drink appeared.

We clinked glasses in mutual commiseration. As she brought hers to her lips, I asked, “You don’t take them dirty anymore?”

“You remember!” she glowed, her hand going to my thigh, sending electricity through me, as the memory of what we’d done to make her martini dirty that night flooded my mind.

“How could I forget?” I replied. “It was quite a night.”

“I don’t think they make them like that here,” she told me, squeezing my leg. The gesture was easy, natural. It sent a tingle up and down my body.

“You never know,” I replied, feeling the traces of an old flame fanning back into life. “You might find someone who knows the recipe.”

She only raised an eyebrow as she took another sip of her decidedly clean martini.


Impossible, always, to forget her delicate tongue licking the stray drop of my cum from the rim of her martini glass. We’d been in the pool room of the my law-school dean’s mansion; his party every year for the first-years after spring exams was legendary. Both of us a few drinks into the night, she’d pulled me into the empty room with tipsy eagerness, closing the door behind us.

With a careful, “I’m not drunk” walk, she’d led me to the back of the room. There, she set her martini glass on the end of the antique pool table and knelt before me. I was too drunk and horny to want to stop her, or to care how disastrous getting caught might be.

“Cum fast, baby. I want to taste you,” she breathed, her eyes shining with eagerness as she looked up at me.

She sucked and stroked with desperate need, until I unloaded in her mouth, prompting the happy “mmm” noise she always made whenever she saw, felt, or tasted me cumming. She’d swallowed, as she always did, with gusto. But she surprised me by popping her mouth off my member before I was done and reaching for the martini glass. The last drops of my semen had gone into the glass, turning the clear drink cloudy.

As I tucked myself back into my pants, she brought the glass to her lips and drank, licking the errant drop from the rim of the glass. “Now that,” she’d announced, “is a dirty martini!”

At that moment, we’d heard the door close quietly, and we looked at each other in panic. “I know I closed it!” she’d said, her eyes wide.

“Fuck!” I answered, zipping up. Still, I was too drunk to really consider how much trouble I might be in, how much someone might have seen, and more importantly, who. Somehow, leaving the scene quickly made sense; we’d rejoined the party.

Once our panic had faded, Pam smirked at me as she schmoozed, raising the glass to her lips, drinking my cum at a black-tie party. A few minutes later, the dean’s wife had commented, “A dirty martini! I haven’t had one of those in years. Perhaps I’ll have Jeffrey... prepare one for me later, when the party is over.” Amazingly, when she finished her statement, the proper Wellesley alumna winked at Pam.

“Would you like a sip?” Pam had asked, her tone all studied innocence as she offered the glass to our hostess.

The dean’s wife had smiled, swaying slightly. She started to hold out her hand for the drink, directing a knowing smile at me, before she thought better of it and answered Pam with, “No, my dear. I think every girl should have her own. Jeffrey will provide me with mine.”

And from then on, “Jeffrey will provide,” had become one of our private jokes, the kind every couple has.


“Do you think Jeffrey provided?” she asked more than two decades later in the dim hotel bar, sipping slowly, now confident I’d remember the reference. Her face had some lines. I could see, mostly around the eyes, a combination of laughter and worry etched into her proud, angular face. However, her eyes themselves, like her voice, were as young and eager as ever, it seemed to me. Then again, I was on the road to drunk.

It was a question we’d once debated endlessly, usually before agreeing that he had. “I always liked to think so,” I answered. “Didn’t you?”

“I suppose so. But a part of me didn’t want to think that prissy Wellesley bitch was anywhere near as wild as me.” She sipped again, licking her lips. She was wearing bright red lipstick, a shade that would have been too gaudy for most women,but which looked right on her.

“I don’t know,” I said, “You’ve got to figure that a Wellesley girl had to be used to pearl necklaces, at least.”

Her laugh in response was genuine, momentarily making the dark room glow brighter. Once upon a time, we had made each other laugh until we cried or our sides hurt. There hadn’t been much laughter in my life lately.

“Besides,” I continued, “It doesn’t seem that crazy to think that a couple that’d been married that long could have been into some intense, kinky stuff.”

She raised her eyebrows at my statement as she took another sip of her drink. She licked her lips, distracting me again, before she asked, “Was that your experience of married sex? That it got wilder?” She fixed me with a cool, measured look, awaiting my answer but confident that she already knew it.

And she was right. Sex with my wife Amy had fizzled, becoming formulaic at best. At worst, I’d had the increasing sense of always having my guard up, of not being able to do or say everything I wanted, except within a narrow range of desire.

I shrugged. “No, but we didn’t get it right. After all, I’m not married anymore.”

She clinked her glass to mine, recrossing her legs, which drew my glance down to the sleek expanse of her thighs. The sound of her stockings whispering against each other was just audible in the quiet room. “No,” she said thoughtfully, “You’re not.”


At the time, I didn’t know how good I had it with Pam, who’d been my first girlfriend, only the third girl I’d ever slept with. She’d had more experience than me, but barely; we’d learned together.

My guy friends zeroed in on specific acts when it came to discussing sex. What did she do? Did she shave? Did she swallow? Did she take it in the ass? After a while, it sounded like the category menu of a porn site. Anal, facials, threesomes, titty fucking, bondage, creampies, spanking, and schoolgirl outfits. Sex reduced to a list of component parts.

I never contributed to those discussions. Not that Pam and I didn’t check off a lot of the boxes ourselves, but it was always more about lusty, sweaty enthusiasm than anything else. And we certainly experimented with a few things that we never tried again.

“If I ever ask you to do that again, slap me!” she’d told me, brushing her teeth with frantic zeal, reapplying toothpaste. Her breasts swayed pleasantly as she brushed and spat and brushed and spat.

“Well, usually when you say that something tastes like piss, it’s not a good thing,” I said mildly from the shower, making sure that the water washed away the last traces of my urine from the bottom of the tub.

“Gaah!” she’d replied, brushing even more furiously before hopping back into the shower to finish cleaning off.

Stupidly, I’d eventually gotten fixated on the one or two things she wouldn’t do, none of them all that “big” (whatever that meant). As much as I’d hoped she’d wear sexy underwear, she’d always refused. “I don’t want my fat ass hanging out of a thong.”

“It’s not fat, it’s sexy,” I’d assured her, honestly, as I’d always loved her toned, “too big” ass.

“I also don’t see the appeal of dressing up so that you can rip it off me a minute later. That shit ain’t cheap, buddy.”

Not an argument I’d won, even though I was smart enough not to push the issue. I was, however, immature enough for it to bother me, and too much, especially considering how completely Pam had given herself to me. The biggest external sign of that had come a few months into our relationship, well before the incident with the dirty martini, or, for that matter, the golden shower.

We’d been watching a movie on the couch on a hot day in September. We’d both peeled down to our underwear to beat the heat, my overmatched box fan not helping much. A still, sticky day, which made the idea of getting even hotter by having skin-on-skin sex not all that appealing.

She’d jerked me off lazily, watching my foreskin slide over my cockhead with every stroke. Her hand worked inside her panties as she played with me. Soon, she coaxed out a surprisingly powerful orgasm. As she watched me spurt, coating my body from stomach to chest, the last drops dribbling onto her hand, I heard her murmur, “God, yes!”

She’d sucked the cum from her fingers, not making eye contact. Lowering her head, she’d then licked each glob and pearl of cum from my stomach and chest, her hand never pausing between her legs. As she got to the last drop, I felt her shudder next to me as she came quietly, licking me clean.

“You like how it tastes?” I’d asked after she’d lapped up the last drop of semen from my chest. We both knew I was asking less about the taste itself than what she had actually done. Red in the face with embarrassment, she finally met my eyes. She’d always been happy to swallow at the end of a blowjob, but I had always thought it was about finishing the job, rather than craving my cum.

“It makes me feel like I’m all yours, and you’re all mine,” she’d answered, the furious redness starting to fade from her cheeks. “It’s another way for you to be inside me, for me to carry you with me. And yes, I like how you taste,” she told me, flushing a little once more.

From then on, she lost any remaining shyness about wanting my cum in every possible way. She would ask me to cum on her face and would kneel before me, her face tilted up with her tongue out, looking for all the world like a porn star rather than a nerdy law student.

Both of us paranoid about pregnancy, we used condoms in addition to the pill. Most of the time, when we had sex, she’d whisper in my ear, “Cum in my mouth and not in the condom. I want to taste it spurting on my tongue, feel it hit the back of my mouth and slide down my throat.”

Occasionally, I finished inside her, or rather, the condom. Those times, she’d pull it from my shrinking cock and empty its contents into her mouth, making happy noises as she swallowed. We learned quickly to buy the unlubricated kind, for reasons of taste. “God, I’m filthy,” she often said, at first in surprise, later on with a kind of fierce pride, after she had tongued the inside of the rubber for the last trace of my semen.

She also loved feeling it hit her skin. One of our favorite things was to masturbate together, with her waiting for me to cum while I stroked, happy in my knowledge that I was turning her on, a virtuous cycle of arousal. She’d keep herself on the edge until the first jet landed on her overheated skin. Then, she’d cry out and shake from the orgasm that my own orgasm had inspired.

While I recovered, she’d bring her fingers to her cum-covered skin and get them gooey and sticky, licking and slurping at each digit until it was clean, repeating the process until there was almost nothing left on her body. Then, and only then, would she gently milk the last drops from my cock, sending acute aftershocks of pleasure through me with her fluttering tongue.

As for me, I felt perfectly desired, perfectly wanted. Happy, in ways that I wanted to be able to shout from the rooftops, but knew I couldn’t, even though I often felt I would burst with joy. I was in lust and I was in love. When the guys shared their locker room talk about what their various conquests would and wouldn’t do, I stayed out of it, even though for the most part my true stories could outdo any of their boasts.

“Nothing to share today, Mike?” I’d hear, often through the cigar haze of a weekly guys’ poker night. “We don’t get to hear about what filthy depravity you and Pam are into?”

I’d smile and shrug. One time, a friend named Matt Sedares bailed me out. “Mike doesn’t have to share. Pam isn’t one of your nasty made-up stories anyway. Besides, they’re in loove.” He drew out the last word enough to deflect any follow-up mocking. His expression, however, was serious, and quietly, so only I could hear, he added, “And what they’ve got is special.”

Special or not, the relationship wasn’t able to withstand the strain of law school. We were busy; we were stressed; we were young and stupid. Eventually, in perfect sync, fueled by alcohol, anxiety, and a stupid argument, we each cheated on the other. It was one of those things that I knew was a mistake even while I was doing it, despite the tequila clouding my brain. The next morning the sick feeling in my stomach was guilt, not hangover.

I had the class, if you can call it that, of coming clean and confessing that afternoon. She looked in turns stunned, heartbroken, and, finally, relieved. “Well, it’ll make what I have to say less of a shock...” she’d said before admitting her own drunken fling the night before.

And that was it. Too proud to forgive or ask for forgiveness, we went our separate ways, our addresses briefly in each other’s Filofaxes before not making the cut to electronic format. I invited her to my wedding as a gesture I didn’t really understand, and her response card came back with the “regret” box checked off, but with a dot of ink in the middle of the other one, as if her pen had started there. She didn’t invite me to hers.


“Were you at the conference? I didn’t see you at any of the panels,” I said, not sure how to respond to her comment about my divorce.

“No,” she answered, taking another slow sip. “That’s not why I came.”

My chest tightened. I felt fuzzy, and not particularly intelligent.

“No?” I asked, wanting to get another drink just so I’d have something to do with my hands, but also aware that I’d had enough. I wanted it, though.

“No,” she said quietly.

I wanted to ask, to know, but I didn’t dare, not yet. “Do you see anyone from school?” I asked instead, feeling lame as I did.

“Not really, except for Matt S, every once in a while.”

Matt, my old poker game defender. “What’s he up to?” I asked, stalling. We caught up every couple of years, but I hadn’t heard from him in a few months

“House in the ‘burbs. Cute wife, two kids, black lab, picket fence. Everything he ever really wanted. Got fired a couple of weeks ago from his consulting firm.”

“Jesus! For what?” I hadn’t heard about this.

She smiled, her expression once more lightening our little area of the bar. “Are you ready for this?” She paused dramatically before continuing. “For stealing Splenda packets from the coffee lounge.”

“They shitcanned him for that? Fuck. Sounds like how you get fired from Staples.”

“There’s a little more to the story. He wanted to quit but needed to get fired for the severance. It was a game of chicken with his boss. I guess she was on a diet, and he emptied all the sweeteners except for the sugar packets into his briefcase as she was getting her morning coffee. Literally under her nose and took the last Splenda out of her hand.”

“Well played, Matt,” I said, raising my almost empty glass in salute to his gesture, a brave one for a married man with a family.

“Matt’s a good guy,” Pam said, taking the last swallow from her glass.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

“A really good guy,” she said. “I took him out for a few ‘sorry you got fired’ drinks a couple of weeks ago. I had a few too many and made a move on him. I should have known better. But I was lonely, and horny, and sad. He was drunk too, but he very sweetly turned me down. He also told me you might need the company more than he did. I think he took our break-up almost harder than we did, back in the day.”

“And now you’re here?” I asked, starting to understand.

“Now I’m here,” she agreed.

The bartender re-appeared; did we want another?

Pam shook her head, never breaking eye-contact with me. “Just the tab,” I told him, and he produced it instantly, knowing. Good hotels have almost psychic bartenders, and this was a very good hotel. I signed quickly.

We stood up together. In her heels she was as tall as I was. Unbidden, my hand went to the small of her back. Seeing her again was bringing back a flood of want. I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I’ve thought about fucking you again for so long.” Not my best line, but it had the advantage of being true, and apparently welcome.

But she frowned, and for a moment I thought I’d misjudged. Without lowering her voice overmuch, she answered, “Only on the condition that I get to taste your cum again.”

Matter of fact. To the point, and with an underlying timbre of uncontrolled lust thrumming under her casual tone. My heart leapt up at that old heady feeling, gone so long, of feeling desired, completely.

“Have a good evening, sir. Ma’am,” the bartender nodded as we walked towards the lobby and the elevators.

Somehow we kept our hands off each other on the interminable elevator ride to the thirteenth floor. Her lips were slightly parted, and her breathing was quick. My heart was pounding against my ribcage, sending throbs of current tingling to every extremity. Pam’s eyes dropped to my crotch; as she did, she rubbed her thighs together with impatience.

The elevator stopped at the eighth floor, and two very drunk conference attendees stumbled in loudly, smelling of bourbon and beer chasers. With ties at half-mast, they were still wearing their nametags. Junior associates, by the looks of them. Their voices were loud but trailed off when they entered the car; something about the atmosphere stifled conversation. Waves of desire shimmered off Pam, blurring her features. I saw both men look at her appreciatively, then take curious glances at me. They knew too.

“Damn,” one of them said when they both got off on twelve. I heard the other say, “Something about her just makes me want to go get laid, and well,” as they stumbled to their next suite party.

At my door, I fumbled with my key card. The light in the slot turned red instead of green the first time I tried. My heart sank at the thought of having to go to the front desk to get it sorted out, which I feared would break the spell. I’d turn around, and Pam would be gone, as if she had never been more than a figment of my tipsy, sentimental memory.

As I struggled, Pam deftly unzipped my fly and reached into my pants. Her hand found my cock already well on its way to erection; she stroked eagerly. Electricity coursed through my system, along with a healthy dose of “this can’t be happening.”

“Jesus, Pam!” I whispered, completely hard in her hand. My hand shook as I tried the card again; the light glowed red and the door stayed closed.

She pulled my cock out through my fly and stroked me in the open air. The feeling of exposure was acute; I hadn’t done anything this public since, well, since Pam. “You’re going to get us arrested!” I hissed, turning the card over, trying to find the arrows.

“If we’re going to get arrested, we might as well get our money’s worth,” she whispered in my ear before dropping down, almost to her knees, and taking my cock into her mouth. She felt warm and perfect. She swirled her tongue and sucked hard. I desperately tried to concentrate, and this time the light turned green with a click.

“Someone’s coming!” I protested, hearing the footsteps and voices of a couple coming down the hallway. I pushed the door open but Pam didn’t budge, bobbing her head up and down on me with vigor. Even in the muted light of the hallway I could see the red smudges her lipstick was leaving on my erection.

It was a couple in their late fifties, dressed to the nines for a night on the town. His eyes hardened when he saw what we were doing, while her friendly face glinted with approving mischief. In a panic, I pulled Pam up and into the room, trying to slam the door shut in embarrassment. The pneumatic closer, however, would only let it close painfully slowly.

“Good lord,” I heard him say, disdain in his voice as they passed by.

“Let’s go back to the room, dear. They have the right idea.” Her voice was carried with youthful energy.

“We’ll be late,” he protested, even as they reversed course.

“So what? I’ll suck you off quickly. You won’t even mess up my h--.”

With that, the door finally closed, cutting her off.

Pam attacked me with hunger. Before I knew it, she’d draped my suit jacket on the luggage rack in the entryway and had my pants around my ankles. Another thing I hadn’t realized I missed until I had it back. Amy had never taken any interest in undressing me, always expecting me to take care of it. A small thing, perhaps, but over the years it had sent a sort of “I can take you or leave you” message. There’d been scant urgency; she hadn’t needed me.

I reached around her back to unzip her, then leaned over to pull off my socks while she shimmied out of her dress, which landed on my jacket. I must have made a sound of surprise at what she revealed under her dress. Even after a half lifetime, I noticed that she was still able to blush. “Desperate times,” she murmured, “call for desperate measures.” For a moment she looked down and away in delicious embarrassment.

She was wearing lingerie, a matched set, which by itself would have been uncharacteristic for the Pam I’d known so long ago. And the matched set itself stunned me, even more than two decades later. A tiny black lace thong with matching lace demi-bra, her hard, dark nipples visible through the sheer fabric. Honest-to-goodness stockings, not hose, sheathed her long, slimmer legs, complete with garter belt. The spots of color on her cheeks made the outfit extra exciting; it was obvious that this was still new and uncharacteristic for her.

I’d been with women who liked wearing lingerie, and I’d always enjoyed their love for it. But seeing Pam in what amounted to pin-up wear was somehow more significant. My cock throbbed at the sight of her. “Turn around,” I instructed, my voice husky.

She seemed to want to demur, but she did as I said, her hands briefly covering her ass as she turned in place. Her rear was as generous as it had been in college, but clearly toned with hours of squats and cardio, possibly crossfit as well. She’d never win her war against her curves, for which I was glad. Her face blazed crimson.

“Can I take this off now?” she asked, delightfully embarrassed for a woman who’d talked about tasting my cum loud enough for the bartender to hear.

“Show me your pussy,” I answered, remembering how I’d enjoyed watching her masturbate in younger days. But when she hooked her thumbs under the side of her thong to pull it down, I told her, “But keep your panties on.”

Pam nodded, looking around the room for a moment. Settling on the glass-covered desk, she sat up on it, sweeping the phone and lamp to the side, a pad of stationery and some pens falling to the floor. Pushed aside, the tray of glasses and ice bucket teetered precariously at the edge of the desk. She faced me with a wicked smile, her embarrassment gone. Once she was sure I was looking, she pulled the front panel of her underwear to the side to expose the bare lips of her pussy, already parted in excitement.

Using her index and middle finger, she spread her inner lips, exposing her pretty pink interior to me. My cock throbbed at how she was displaying herself. Without realizing what I was doing, I found myself stroking my erection as she began rubbing her cunt. I paused for a moment to slide my boxers down and off before resuming.

“Twenty years later, I’d still think about doing this with you,” she whispered as she played, her eyes going back and forth between my cock and my eyes. “No one ever looked at me the way you did. I’d lie in bed and remember.”

“Me too,” I breathed, my hand moving slowly and surely on my erection, larger than I’d been in years. It was true. When my thoughts strayed to my most treasured, most intense sexual memories, they always involved Pam.

Her eyebrow arched at that. Without any words, her face asked, “Really?”

I nodded.

“Come here and fuck me, please.” Her eyes were fixed on mine, pleading and eager.

I took two steps closer; my cock pulsed a fraction of an inch from the glistening opening of her sex. She’d chosen well; the desk was at the perfect height. She slid her hips forward, meeting the tip of my erection as I pushed into her. She was dripping wet, as tight as I remembered. Her arms went around my neck as I slid all the way in. As much sex as we’d had in our twenties, we’d never fucked without a condom. Her pussy felt hot as well as tight.

We both moaned as I entered her. Our mouths then our tongues met eagerly, the kiss following the penetration. She tasted clean, of crisp gin and olives. My hands went to her ass and gripped tightly so that I could thrust into her without pushing her away. As I established a rhythm, she wrapped her legs around my back while her tongue danced in my mouth. She gripped me with impossible tightness. Something about fucking her again after so long made it feel like a first time, especially without a condom. A sense of wonder suffused my mind and body.

A flash of pain seared through me as she broke the kiss and nipped with savage force at my earlobe. “Fuck the hell out of me,” she whispered fiercely. I obliged, pounding into her, making her gasp as I plumbed her depths. This wasn’t a gentle reunion of two old lovers. This was fucking; this was savage. This was rutting.

Between gasps and moans and little mewls of pleasure, she whispered in my ear, “Harder!” and “Give me your cum!” and “Fuck me, oh God, fuck me!” All of it could have sounded artificial, the badly written dialogue to a low-budget adult movie. From Pam, it was pure sincerity.

Her dirty talk had the effect of speeding me on my way towards orgasm. Pam noticed me holding back and urged me on. “Just fuck me and cum! Don’t hold back! I want you to cum! Give it to me!”

Her hand slid down my back, between my asscheeks, finding my anus. She remembered my trigger from days gone by, and she rubbed my asshole urgently. When her long elegant finger pressed into me, I groaned into her neck and came violently. The orgasm felt endless, unspooling out of me in hot ribbons of semen. She kissed me hard, bucking her hips against me, urging me to keep fucking her through my orgasm.

With anyone else, I would have felt diminished, worried that she thought less of me for not being able to hold off until she’d cum too. With Pam, I knew that my orgasm only heightened her arousal. She’d been eager for it; in fact she’d made sure to hurry it along. I still said, “Sorry,” but for a different reason.

Panting as she caught her breath, she furrowed her brow, her rich brown eyes looking puzzled at my apology. “For what?” Her pussy squeezed down on my cock, prompting an aftershock that rippled through my body.

“You said the condition for fucking you was for you to get to taste my cum again.”

She tweaked my nipple with a playful expression, but hard enough, in combination with a firm shove, to make me back away. On my cock, the room’s air felt cold, after the warmth of her pussy. I was softer than I’d been a moment before, but not by much. An opalescent pearl of cum beaded at my cock head.

Pam reached down to her pussy and held herself open once more, making sure I was watching. Her body tensed as she clenched her interior muscles. A rush of thick cum flooded from her pink interior, onto the glass top of the desk. She pushed again; more came out.

Carefully, she boosted herself up and over the edge of the desk and onto the floor. “Watch,” she told me, after a quick kiss.

She turned and lowered her face to the pool of hot cum on the table. Catlike, her tongue darted out and touched my semen. When she brought her tongue back into her mouth, a string of cum ran from her mouth to the glass.

She smiled slyly at me, licking her lips. I brought my hand between her legs from behind as she leaned over again to lick at the cum on the desk. Her clit was hard under my fingers, and it didn’t take me long to remember how she liked being touched. Almost instantly, she was on the edge of orgasm. I traced circles around her nub, making her gasp as she lapped at my cum.

Carefully, slowly, completely, making sure not to miss a drop, she licked the glass table clean. When she was done, I stopped teasing her, bringing her to a quiet, powerful  orgasm. Her eyes gleamed as she stood up and faced me, her lips shut tight.

She opened her mouth, showing me that she hadn’t swallowed yet, my cum pooling on her tongue. She made an exaggerated swallowing sound, followed soon by the happy “mmm,” I remembered so well from our time together. She opened her mouth again, letting me see that it was all gone.

“As good as I remembered,” she murmured, “and maybe even better.” She smiled as she licked her lips.

How had I let her go? The feeling of being completely desired that I had never found since my early twenties rushed through me. My cock, despite my recent orgasm, twitched in arousal. I wanted her again already.

Pam, however, surprised me again, handing me the ice bucket from the tray on the desk, and taking one of the heavy glass tumblers. She held it just under my cock, shiny and red from her lipstick as well as our combined juices. Grasping me firmly at the base of my erection, she exerted strong pressure, squeezing her way up to the tip, milking out the last drops of cum and into the glass. I trembled as she coaxed several more aftershocks from me, along with the last liquid traces of my orgasm.

“Go get us some ice,” she said, her tone playful, an echo of the devilish girl who had once offered my dean’s wife a sip of my cum at a black-tie event. “I want you to make me a dirty martini.”

I’ve been making them like that for her ever since.

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