You bring your hand away from her delectable rear, before swatting her cheeks. She squeaks in surprise, before bending over slightly, pressing her ass out further into the open air. You answer her silent plea with more spanks, some gentle, others firm, her swaying cheeks growing darker with each clap. A patch of wetness steadily grows on her thong, as her yelps and moans fill the air, nipples trying to carve their way through the frills of the dress.
You bring your hand away, looking appreciatively over your handiwork. A mottled collection of bruises and handprints paint her bountiful behind red, her shaking legs barely able to hold her weight, and a thin trail of nectar dripping through her thong betraying her excitement. She peers at you through the dark curls of her hair, panting heavily, face nearly covered in her blush. You grow harder at the thought that anyone could have been watching you, hearing her moans, seeing her butt bounce.
"I wonder if my meal's almost done," You start, pulling the back of her thong just low enough to reveal her winking rosebud. "I wonder if it's the right temperature." You say as you circle a finger around her entrance, once, twice, three times before pressing in. A broken moan leaves her mouth as she watches a trail of spit drip down onto her quivering hole, making the press inside a little easier.
You work your way in slowly, pressing in and pulling out, working her open in view of your neighborhood. She lets out whimpers and moans as her panties grow drenched, and the thin trail of nectar becomes a steady drip of honeydew. You pull out quickly, leaving her pucker gaping slightly, before pressing in with two, then three fingers as she acclimates. Your length presses against your pants, a very noticeable bulge straining through the fabric. Finally, you start fingering her roughly, your fingers slamming into her depths, molding them to your design. Her eyes open wide in surprise, before a sudden orgasm overtakes her, fluids spraying through her thong and down her shaking legs. Had your hand not still been against her stomach, she would have fallen from the force of her pleasure.
As she tries to recover, you choose to . . .
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