What She Tasted in Boston

Summary:

Elizabeth, a 48-year-old married woman with a curvy, soft mom-body and a quiet hunger she's long buried, attends an international education convention in Boston -- alone. What begins as a professional retreat becomes a personal unraveling when she catches the attention of Taylor, a tall, stunning 22-year-old intern with dominant energy and a taste for older women.

What follows is a slow, relentless seduction -- rich with power play, worship, and raw, wet surrender. Elizabeth finds herself pushed far beyond what she thought she desired, licking pussy, tasting her own submission, and being humiliated, devoured, and cherished by a woman half her age.

A story of deep oral worship, age-gap lust, degradation, and erotic discovery -- told through a haze of guilt, dominance, and breathtaking pleasure.

The First Day at the Convention

The hotel room hummed with a polite silence that only solitude could grant. Elizabeth stood at the tall window of her suite on the 21st floor, gazing down at the muted sprawl of Boston. Even in June, the city felt brisk -- not in the air, but in the attitude. Sharp suits, brisk walks, latte-fueled intensity. She felt foreign and fascinating in it. Alone. Watching.

She adjusted the belt of her robe absently. It was early, too early, the morning sun still casting long slats of gold across the thick hotel carpet. The room smelled faintly of new linen, travel-sized citrus shampoo, and her own soft musk -- the scent that lingered beneath her blouse at the end of a long day, a scent Charles never seemed to notice anymore.

Twenty years married. Twenty years of quiet mornings and quiet dinners. Elizabeth had learned the shape of devotion -- and the boredom that crept in at its edges. Charles loved her. But he no longer looked at her like he used to.

And she wasn't blind to time's gentle cruelty.

At 48, Elizabeth was the sort of woman who turned heads -- but only from men who remembered how to see. Her chestnut hair was shot through with silver strands that gleamed like deliberate streaks of elegance. Her face carried lines -- but they were earned, softened with cream and pride. Her body... well, it had thickened. Motherhood, marriage, life. She had what the magazines might call a "mom body," but that didn't come close to the truth.

Her breasts, though sagging slightly with age and gravity, were full and generous -- the kind that cupped warm against a lover's cheek. Her belly was soft, not flat, with a gentle roundness that invited touch rather than scrutiny. But her ass... her ass had aged like sin. Full, firm, undeniably shaped by years of movement and care. It still strained the back of her jeans, still earned second glances -- from men and women alike -- when she leaned over the kitchen counter.

She dressed with understated elegance -- preferring structure to show, fabric that whispered against her skin instead of shouting. But here, at this international education convention, she was anonymous. A different version of herself. Not Charles's wife. Not anyone's mother. Just... Elizabeth.

She chose her first outfit carefully.

A tailored grey pencil skirt that hugged her hips with unapologetic smoothness, ending just below the knee. A silk blouse -- off-white, just sheer enough in certain light to show the lace trim of her supportive, soft-cup bra. Practical, but feminine. She wore low heels. Her legs, long and toned from years of walking and yoga, caught the light as she crossed the room to check her badge lanyard.

Elizabeth R. Hanley -- National Association for Continuing Education -- Presenter

She traced the lettering with her thumb.

The convention center buzzed like a well-oiled hive. Glass escalators rising through multi-story atriums, the air perfumed with over-roasted conference coffee and a thousand muted conversations in English, German, French. Laughter behind name badges. The rustle of canvas totes filled with booklets no one would read.

Elizabeth moved slowly through it all. She didn't rush. Her hips swayed subtly as she walked, the natural weight of her body creating a rhythm that wasn't performative, but instinctive. She was confident. Comfortable. Present.

Still, she noticed the glances.

The man at the name badge station who held her eye just a second too long when he handed her the schedule. The woman in the hotel elevator who complimented her perfume and let her gaze drift, for a moment, to the curve of Elizabeth's hips before she smiled too politely.

It wasn't flirtation, not yet. But it was attention. And it made Elizabeth's pulse throb in a place she hadn't felt in far too long.

Her presentation was tomorrow. Today was for panels. She took her seat in a symposium on "Innovative Adult Learning Strategies," barely hearing the introductions. The room was too warm. Her skirt had crept slightly higher on her thighs as she sat. She felt the silk of her blouse cling to her chest as she adjusted in her chair, the fabric catching against her bra.

Her nipples were just a little too hard. She didn't know why. Maybe the quiet thrill of being anonymous. Maybe the conference energy. Maybe just the way the young AV tech -- early thirties, maybe -- had looked up at her when adjusting the mic at her table and lingered, very briefly, on the soft, pillowed swell of her cleavage.

She'd worn a camisole beneath the blouse. But not one that completely concealed.

She hadn't planned to flirt. She hadn't even thought of desire when she booked the trip.

But now, sitting with her legs crossed tightly, listening to a voice drone on about asynchronous learning models, Elizabeth felt a slow ache bloom between her thighs -- the familiar heaviness of her sex awakening. Not from fantasy. Just... sensation.

A brush of silk on thigh.

A heat behind her breastbone.

A quiet knowing.

She was here.

And she was alive.

The panel had dissolved into polite applause, chairs scraping against carpet as people gathered their belongings. Elizabeth stood slowly, smoothing her skirt over the curve of her ass, acutely aware of the silk clinging between her thighs -- still damp from the warmth that had crept in during the talk. She let out a steadying breath, reaching for her conference tote.

That's when she noticed her again.

The blonde.

She was two rows ahead and slightly to the left -- lingering, not quite hurrying to leave like the others. Tall, striking. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, one foot tapping idly, deliberately. Long, toned calves, bare except for delicate nude heels. The skirt she wore was too short for a professional conference -- black, pleated, the hem teasing the smooth slope of her thighs when she leaned forward.

Her name badge swung gently between two round, firm breasts that strained the buttons of her tight ivory blouse.

Taylor Weston -- University of Michigan -- EdTech Intern

Twenty-two. An intern.

And watching her.

Not shyly. Not exactly bold, either. But with the curious, amused stare of someone tasting something with their eyes -- slowly. Elizabeth pretended to fuss with her tote, but her heartbeat had quickened.

That look.

It was not professional.

Elizabeth had lived too long, been looked at too often, to misread the tilt of that head, the way Taylor's mouth curled slightly at one corner, that lazy drag of her gaze -- from Elizabeth's face... down to her chest... and then her hips.

A flicker of something sharp and warm curled low in Elizabeth's belly.

She turned away -- only slightly -- but Taylor was already standing.

"Hi."

The voice was crisp, young, confident. She was close now -- closer than she needed to be. Elizabeth looked up.

Taylor was smiling. Wide, easy. Her lipstick was pink, her skin honeyed and glowing. Her breasts bounced subtly with each step, the movement drawing Elizabeth's eyes for just a second too long.

"Sorry," Taylor said, shrugging her slim shoulders. "You just looked... really focused during the talk. I was sitting behind you and I noticed."

Elizabeth raised a brow. She offered a small, practiced smile. "Was it that obvious?"

Taylor tilted her head. "No. I mean, you seemed interesting. The kind of person who actually wants to be here, not just here for the name badge."

Elizabeth hesitated, then extended her hand. "Elizabeth Hanley."

Taylor took it -- her fingers warm, her shake firm but not rushed. She held it just half a beat longer than needed.

"Taylor Weston. Intern. Overqualified coffee-fetcher."

Elizabeth laughed softly. "And how's the coffee game so far?"

"Over-brewed and underappreciated," Taylor said with a wink. "But I got to listen to that lecture and sit behind someone who smells like actual perfume and not nervous sweat. So, win-win."

Elizabeth blinked.

She flushed.

Taylor just smiled.

There was a moment -- an opening -- in which neither of them spoke. A gentle space between words, thickened by something unspoken. Taylor glanced again at Elizabeth's neckline, then back to her eyes.

"You presenting tomorrow?" Taylor asked, finally.

"Yes," Elizabeth said, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "Adult learning strategies."

Taylor bit her lip, just slightly. "I'll have to sneak in."

"You should."

The words slipped out more easily than Elizabeth meant them to.

Taylor's smile softened, eyes bright. "I'd like that."

Another beat.

"I'm heading to the networking mixer now," Taylor added, thumbing vaguely toward the hallway. "But I think you're headed...?"

"Back to the hotel," Elizabeth said. She tried to keep her voice even, calm. Her heart was making that difficult.

Taylor nodded. "Of course. Long day."

And then, lightly, teasingly: "Maybe I'll see you again. Unless you're too focused."

Elizabeth smiled -- slower now. "I'll try to be a little distracted next time."

Taylor laughed -- short, bright, satisfied. She turned with a flick of her golden hair and walked off into the crowd.

Elizabeth watched her go -- the firm sway of her hips beneath that scandalous skirt, the bare glint of thigh, the bounce of confidence in every step.

And then she was gone.

Elizabeth stood still for a moment, pulse thudding.

Her body hummed -- alive in a way she hadn't felt in years. No touch. No promise. Just a girl's gaze. A girl's voice. A scent of something younger and wilder brushing against her like a whisper in the dark.

She exhaled slowly and turned in the opposite direction.

The day was over.

But something inside her had only just begun to stir.

Hotel Bar, Dusk

The elevator doors closed behind her with a soft sigh, and Elizabeth took a moment in the gilded mirror of the hotel lobby to fix her hair. A curl had loosened and clung to her cheek -- she tucked it back behind one ear, smoothing her blouse at the collarbone, her fingertips brushing the soft upper swell of her breasts.

She looked... good.

No -- better than good. She looked composed. Sophisticated. A woman who had lived, tasted, weathered, and had not been broken by it.

The light in the hotel bar was low and amber-rich, like candlelight filtered through whiskey. Leather chairs, gleaming wood, small tables flickering with votives. A jazz trio played near the far end -- something smooth, slow, aching.

Elizabeth moved through it like smoke.

Her skirt hugged her hips, just a little tighter than usual -- a deliberate choice when she left her room. The silk blouse she'd worn earlier was now open by an extra button. The lace edge of her bra peeked at the right angles, subtle but intentional. Her heels gave her just enough height to carry herself with the kind of quiet poise that made heads turn -- and they did.

Not many. But enough.

She took a seat at the bar.

Crossed her legs slowly.

Her thigh slipped from the slit of her skirt, pale against the dark leather, firm and smooth.

The bartender -- mid-thirties, bearded, polite -- noticed her immediately.

"What can I get you?" he asked, smiling, not flirtatious exactly, but attentive.

"Red wine," she said. "Something dry. Something slow."

He nodded, pouring a glass from a deep-bodied Spanish bottle and setting it gently before her.

She sipped, savoring the richness. The way it burned softly down into her chest. The way it pooled in her belly.

The way it made her feel... just a little less alone.

"Evening, miss."

She turned.

Two men had appeared beside her, leaning lazily on the bar. Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Blazers and button-downs. One wore a conference badge that read Security Solutions. The other smelled faintly of old cologne and menthol.

"You here with the convention?" the first one asked, his voice too close to her ear.

She offered a polite smile. "Yes."

"Let me guess," said the second, grinning wide. "You're one of the smart ones. Professor? Consultant?"

"Presenter," she replied, sipping again.

"Well damn," the first man chuckled. "Guess we better watch our manners then."

She smiled again -- thinner this time. Not unkind, but cool. She turned slightly in her stool, just enough to signal it.

They didn't take the hint.

"You know," said the second man, "you don't look like most of the other speakers. No offense -- just, you've got a... presence."

His eyes dropped, almost imperceptibly, to the neckline of her blouse. Lingering.

She raised her chin. "I'm sure that was meant to be a compliment."

"Oh, it was," he said quickly. "You're gorgeous. Honestly. My wife would kill me for saying so, but it's true."

"I'm married too," Elizabeth said, flatly, setting her glass down.

He blinked.

The other one whistled under his breath. "Lucky man."

"I'm sure he thinks so."

They laughed. One of them muttered something about "can't blame a guy for trying."

She didn't laugh.

They lingered a moment longer, then moved down the bar.

Elizabeth sat back against the high-backed stool, exhaling slowly.

Her heart beat a little faster -- not from them, not really. But from the strange sharpness of it. The feel of being seen... wrong. The way their interest scraped at her, rather than warmed her.

She missed Charles.

God, she did.

His quiet way of touching her wrist when he wanted her attention. His dry jokes. The steadiness of him in a crowded room.

But also...

Something else stirred beneath that.

Something raw. Something aching.

She wanted -- had wanted -- to be seen tonight.

Really seen.

Not as a seasoned, elegant, well-preserved woman.

Not as a safe bet, a cougar, a MILF fantasy from a cheap movie.

But as something dangerous.

Desirable.

Desired.

She'd hoped, foolishly maybe, for a younger man to notice her. To look at her like she was new. Like his cock stirred just from the curve of her thighs, the lines around her eyes, the swell of her aging breasts beneath her blouse. To look at her with hunger, not nostalgia.

But none had.

She was still beautiful.

She knew that.

But sometimes beauty wasn't enough.

Sometimes it wasn't the thing they wanted.

She stared into her glass. The red wine caught the light like blood.

The jazz played on.

And Elizabeth -- Elizabeth sat alone, legs crossed, nipples still faintly hard under her silk, her thighs warm where they pressed together, and something deeper left unmet.

Elizabeth slid her hand around the stem of her wine glass, tipping the last of it into her mouth. Her lips stained faintly darker, the heat of the alcohol settling in her cheeks. She reached for her clutch, her fingers grazing the cool zipper, and slid off the high stool -- slow, careful, aware of the way her skirt tugged against her ass as she stood.

The low hum of the bar folded around her like a sigh. The jazz had softened, dipping into something slower, moodier. A saxophone breathed through the hush.

She reached for her shawl.

And that's when she heard it.

"Leaving already?"

Elizabeth turned.

Taylor stood not more than a few feet away, smiling -- lips glossy, cheeks flushed in the soft amber light. Her hair was loose now, a soft curtain of pale gold over her shoulders. She wore a short leather jacket over a pale blouse, half-tucked into a barely-there black skirt that clung high on her thighs. Her legs were bare. Her heels, strappy and tall, lifted her posture with effortless grace.

Her badge was gone.

She didn't look like an intern.

She looked like trouble.

"I was just about to head up," Elizabeth said, her voice steadier than she felt.

Taylor tilted her head, that sly curl at the corner of her mouth returning. "Would you mind if I sat with you for a minute?"

There was no pause.

"Yes," Elizabeth said -- too quickly, too eagerly. Then caught herself. "I mean--please. Sit."

She dropped back onto the stool as if her body had betrayed her before her mind caught up. Her skirt rode up just slightly again. She didn't adjust it.

Taylor slid into the seat beside her. Close. Their knees weren't touching, but they could have been -- one accidental shift and skin would meet.

"I didn't think I'd run into you again tonight," Taylor said, flagging the bartender with a gentle flick of her fingers.

"I didn't think anyone noticed me," Elizabeth said before she could stop herself.

Taylor turned her gaze toward her -- direct, warm, slow. "You're hard not to notice."

Elizabeth swallowed. Her pulse fluttered low in her belly.

The bartender arrived. Taylor ordered something with vodka and cucumber, her voice soft and practiced. She didn't look away from Elizabeth the entire time.

And Elizabeth -- 48, married, wine-warmed and half-lonely -- suddenly felt as though someone had dimmed the rest of the room.

There were no old men now. No panels. No husband. No name badge.

Just the deepening hush of evening.

And the heat, unspoken, sitting between them like a breath waiting to be drawn.

Elizabeth's wine glass was empty again, though she couldn't recall finishing it. Her fingers still rested on the slender stem, as if holding something kept her anchored. But it wasn't the glass that grounded her now.

It was Taylor.

The younger woman sat sideways on the stool beside her, one knee casually draped over the other, her skirt riding scandalously high on her thigh -- smooth, bare skin exposed in the low light, just inches from where Elizabeth's hand had come to rest. She twirled her straw slowly in her drink, watching the ice swirl. Her other hand rested lightly on the bar, close. Very close.

"You've got that look," Taylor murmured.

Elizabeth blinked. "What look?"

Taylor's lips parted in a half-smile, all heat and precision. "Like you're not sure whether to run... or ask me to keep talking."

Elizabeth laughed softly -- a small, breathy thing. "Is that what I look like?"

Taylor didn't answer. Instead, her fingers reached out -- gentle, deliberate -- and brushed the edge of Elizabeth's forearm. Just a touch. Feather-light.

Elizabeth's skin sparked. The contact was nothing. Barely there. But it landed like a whisper inside her.

Taylor saw it.

Saw the breath Elizabeth caught in her throat. The subtle shift of her shoulders. The way her thighs pressed a little closer together beneath the bar.

She leaned in.

"Are you married?"

The question came low, intimate -- not nosy, but laced with something heavier. Something indulgent. Something close to daring.

Elizabeth nodded slowly. "Yes."

Taylor's eyes didn't move from hers. "How long?"

"Twenty years," Elizabeth said.

Her voice came out softer than she meant it to.

Taylor let that sit between them. She took a sip of her cocktail -- cucumber and mint, the glass sweating lightly in her hand -- and then set it down with a quiet clink.

Her hand drifted again.

This time, it touched the edge of Elizabeth's thigh. Just a moment. Just a single fingertip grazing the fabric where her skirt stretched tight. She didn't press. She didn't push.

She waited.

Elizabeth didn't pull away.

"That's a long time," Taylor said finally. "You must know everything about him."

Elizabeth hesitated. "Yes."

Another pause.

"But I wonder," Taylor continued, her voice like velvet brushing against something raw, "does he know everything about you?"

Elizabeth met her gaze.

There it was.

That edge.

That slow, deliberate dominance beneath the sugar of her voice.

Taylor smiled -- gently, knowingly. Then looked away, fingers now lazily circling the rim of her glass.

"I've only been with my boyfriend for three years," she said casually, almost like a confession. "Long enough to learn him. Long enough to get a little bored, if I'm being honest."

Elizabeth swallowed. Her mouth was dry.

Taylor turned back to her, eyes glinting beneath the golden bar light. "I don't think three years is long enough to lose yourself. But twenty..." Her voice dropped. "That's time enough to forget you're still a woman."

Elizabeth flushed. The words struck low -- too close. Too true.

Taylor leaned in again, her mouth barely a whisper from Elizabeth's ear.

"I don't think you've forgotten, though."

And then, as if nothing had happened, Taylor pulled away -- calm, cool, taking another sip of her drink as if she hadn't just reached inside Elizabeth's chest and pressed her fingers around something hot and secret.

Elizabeth sat still.

Her skin buzzed where she'd been touched.

Her thighs tingled.

Her nipples had hardened beneath her blouse, the silk brushing them like a tease, every movement of her breath reminding her of the flesh she hadn't felt fully in years.

The jazz played on. Low. Slow. Filthy.

And Elizabeth realized she hadn't taken a full breath in minutes.

Taylor's fingers were bolder now.

Not hurried. Not crude.

Just... curious.

They traced small, absent-minded patterns against the inside of Elizabeth's forearm, moving in lazy, confident circles as the younger woman kept talking, as if her touch were simply part of the conversation.

Elizabeth's body, however, registered it as something else entirely.

The heat of Taylor's skin slid like silk over her own -- featherlight, maddening. The rhythm was hypnotic. Erotic. It coaxed her open without asking permission.

Elizabeth sat still, back straight, her hands folded carefully in her lap. But inside, she was trembling.

"You're very quiet all of a sudden," Taylor said, her voice low, intimate.

"I'm just..." Elizabeth hesitated. Her mouth was dry again. "It's been a long day."

Taylor smiled, tilting her head. "Is that why your pulse is racing?"

Elizabeth's eyes widened slightly.

Taylor's fingers -- the ones still tracing the soft skin below her elbow -- stilled.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she laid her hand over Elizabeth's wrist.

Her thumb pressed gently over the pulse point.

The beat was frantic.

Taylor leaned in, her voice a near-whisper against Elizabeth's cheek. "God. That's beautiful."

Elizabeth swallowed hard. Her thighs pressed together under the bar.

She shouldn't want this. Not like this. Not from her.

But Taylor smelled like citrus and heat. Her lips were close. Her fingers were so gentle, so sure. Elizabeth's skin tingled beneath every place they touched.

Taylor sat back slightly, studying her. "Can I ask you something... personal?"

Elizabeth nodded -- barely.

Taylor's eyes narrowed slightly. Her smile deepened.

"Have you ever kissed a woman?"

Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat.

Taylor saw it.

"That's a yes," she murmured.

Elizabeth glanced down, her voice quiet. "Not really. Once, maybe. When I was younger."

"Mm." Taylor's hand slid slowly up her forearm now, warm and purposeful.

Taylor's hand continued its ascent -- just above the bend of her elbow now -- her fingers brushing the soft inner flesh of her arm, delicate and erotic.

And then, softly, deliberately, she asked:

"Do you know what turns me on?"

Elizabeth didn't trust her voice.

Taylor didn't wait for an answer.

"Older women," she said, her voice husky now. "Soft curves. Intelligence in their eyes. Bodies that know how to be touched. Hips that were made to be held down."

Elizabeth's breath hitched.

Taylor leaned in closer, her thigh now just barely grazing hers.

"You," she whispered, her lips brushing the edge of Elizabeth's ear, "are exactly my type."

Elizabeth shivered.

Her nipples were tight against the silk of her bra. Her sex throbbed, gently, insistently, a warm, guilty ache that pulsed low in her belly.

This was wrong.

So wrong.

And yet...

She wanted her to keep going.

She wanted her to never stop.

Taylor pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

"You like this," she said simply.

Elizabeth opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Taylor didn't press.

She just smiled -- slow, knowing -- and let her hand fall to rest gently against Elizabeth's knee. Warm. Present. Waiting.

And Elizabeth sat still.

Afraid to move.

Afraid of what would happen if she did.

Taylor's hand moved lower.

It was slow. Lazy. As if she had all the time in the world.

Her fingers slid from Elizabeth's knee to the soft inside of her thigh -- not quite under the skirt, not yet, but close enough that Elizabeth's breath visibly caught. The pressure was featherlight, a teasing brush that seemed designed to awaken nerves that hadn't been touched in years.

Elizabeth sat frozen. Her knees pressed together automatically, but she didn't shift away. She didn't move at all. Her eyes were wide, glassy. Her skin flushed beneath the warm, dim light of the bar.

And Taylor smiled like she could feel it -- the bloom of arousal pushing up from between Elizabeth's thighs, hot and helpless and wet.

"Relax," Taylor murmured, her voice dipped in honey and sin.

Her face was closer now. Her lips just beside Elizabeth's cheek, the warmth of her breath rolling over her skin like a secret.

"I like how you react," she whispered, her hand now resting fully on Elizabeth's inner thigh, fingers splayed wide -- not groping, but claiming. "You're not saying no."

"I..." Elizabeth swallowed hard. "I'm not sure I should be saying yes."

Taylor chuckled. Low. Rich. Dangerous.

"I didn't ask for yes," she said softly. "I asked for honesty."

She leaned in closer, her lips brushing the shell of Elizabeth's ear.

Then she nipped.

A soft bite -- teeth grazing tender cartilage, tongue flicking the edge -- and Elizabeth gasped. Her thighs twitched. Her back arched ever so slightly, just enough to betray what her body couldn't hide anymore.

And Taylor felt it.

"You're wet," she whispered.

Elizabeth let out a choked moan -- barely audible, her hand gripping the edge of the stool, knuckles white.

"I can smell it," Taylor continued, dragging her tongue now -- hot, slow -- along the edge of Elizabeth's ear. "You're soaked through those pretty panties, aren't you?"

Elizabeth's eyes fluttered closed. Her lips parted.

"Yes," she breathed. A single word. A confession.

Taylor's hand pressed firmer against her thigh, her fingers creeping just slightly higher, just beneath the hem of the skirt now, stroking the heat radiating from her core.

And then, the words -- soft and devastating -- spilled into her ear like a spell:

"Have you ever licked a woman's pussy, Elizabeth?"

The question landed like a slap and a kiss at once.

Elizabeth's mouth fell open. Her legs tightened. Her pussy throbbed, visibly aching now, her clit a hard, pulsing knot under damp silk.

She moaned.

"No..." she whispered.

Taylor smiled against her skin, her lips brushing her again, her tongue tasting the corner of Elizabeth's jaw now.

"Mmm," she hummed. "You should."

Her fingers spread against Elizabeth's thigh -- warm, possessive -- while her lips hovered just above her neck, waiting.

And Elizabeth... just sat there.

Drenched.

Breathless.

Wanting.

So desperately wanting.

Taylor's hand lingered a moment longer on Elizabeth's thigh, fingers grazing the flushed edge where silk met skin. Then she pulled it back, slowly, with the same deliberate grace she'd shown all evening.

She stood.

Tall, poised, unapologetically confident.

Her skirt rode high up her toned legs as she adjusted it -- not pulling it down, but letting it stay crooked and short. Her blouse was slightly rumpled, the top button still undone, revealing a teasing shadow of cleavage and the faintest curve of a lacy black bra beneath.

She looked down at Elizabeth, who was still perched stiffly on the barstool, chest rising and falling too fast, her thighs pressed tightly together beneath her now-damp panties.

Taylor didn't smile.

Her expression was calm. Measured. In control.

"I'm going upstairs," she said, her voice low, even. "To my room."

Elizabeth blinked up at her, heat flooding her cheeks, her lips parted but unable to speak.

Taylor leaned in again, but this time didn't touch her. She didn't need to.

Her breath was enough.

"If you don't follow me," she said softly, "I won't talk to you again. Not at the conference. Not after. Not ever."

She straightened, cocked her head. "Your choice."

Then she turned and walked away.

No hesitation.

Her hips moved like rhythm itself -- slow, liquid, commanding. She didn't look back.

Elizabeth stared after her, frozen, heart pounding against her ribs. Every nerve in her body screamed indecision. Her skin tingled. Her breath caught. She shouldn't--

But her body moved.

Her legs unfolded, her heels clicking softly as she slipped from the stool, clutching her purse to her side like it could shield her from what she was doing. What she wanted.

Taylor had already reached the elevator.

She turned slightly, her eyes catching Elizabeth's from across the lobby as the doors opened with a soft chime.

Elizabeth crossed the room.

One slow step.

Then another.

And stepped inside the elevator with her.

The doors closed behind them with a whispering hush.

The elevator was softly lit, quiet, the kind of silence that hangs awkwardly between strangers. The middle-aged couple in front -- neatly dressed, both wearing lanyards from the convention -- stood side by side, murmuring in low voices about the next morning's itinerary. The man held a plastic hotel bag. The woman clutched a room keycard in one hand and a half-finished latte in the other.

Elizabeth stood behind them.

And Taylor stood behind her.

Close. Too close.

Elizabeth's back brushed against Taylor's chest with every breath she took. She could feel the younger woman's warmth, her presence radiating like heat through a silk blouse and a decade's worth of restraint.

The elevator hummed softly as it ascended.

Elizabeth stared at the glowing numbers.

Fourteen... Fifteen...

Taylor leaned in -- not obviously. Just close enough that her breath stirred the wisps of hair at Elizabeth's neck. No words. No warning.

Then she felt it.

Taylor's hand, sliding beneath the back of her skirt. Slow. Precise.

Elizabeth's breath hitched.

She couldn't move.

She should have moved.

But the hand was already there -- gliding up her thigh with unholy control, pausing at the damp heat of her silk panties.

And then...

Not pausing.

Taylor's fingers slipped beneath.

Found her.

Elizabeth gasped -- a quiet, sharp sound that caught in her throat.

She bit her lip.

Hard.

Taylor's fingers pressed against her wet folds, stroking gently, slowly -- just enough pressure to make her knees go weak. Her pussy was soaked. Slippery. Aching.

And Taylor felt it.

Elizabeth moaned.

Too loud.

The couple in front of them turned their heads -- startled, polite, curious.

Elizabeth's eyes went wide. Her hand shot to her mouth.

"Sorry," she whispered, voice trembling. "Just--sore feet."

The woman smiled awkwardly, then turned back.

Taylor's hand didn't move.

She was still touching her -- two fingers now sliding between the lips of her cunt, spreading her slick open, teasing the swollen throb of her clit.

Elizabeth's pulse hammered in her ears. Her face was flushed crimson. She wanted to die. She wanted to come. She wanted to cry and fall to her knees and beg.

Instead, she stood frozen, letting a 22-year-old girl finger her in a glass-walled elevator ten feet behind a married couple in matching orthopedic shoes.

She came dangerously close to moaning again.

And then--

Ding.

Floor eighteen.

The doors opened.

Taylor withdrew her hand like nothing had happened. She stepped forward, guiding Elizabeth gently with a hand at the small of her back.

Elizabeth's legs barely worked.

They turned the corner in silence, the carpeted hallway muffling their footsteps.

Taylor slid her keycard.

Green light.

The door clicked open.

She pushed it inward.

And Elizabeth stepped into her room.

Her panties still soaked.

Her breath still shaking.

Her pussy still pulsing from the touch she couldn't forget.

The door clicked shut behind them with a soft finality that echoed louder than it should have. The room was dim, city light filtering through sheer curtains, casting long silver streaks across the bed, the floor, the pale walls. The space smelled faintly of perfume and skin and something warmer now -- a current of sex already woven into the air like electricity.

Elizabeth stood in the center, her chest rising and falling too fast, her silk blouse clinging to her breasts, nipples hard beneath it -- sharp points beneath fabric, aching. Her panties were soaked, pressed against her pussy like a second skin, the wetness cooling slightly in the air-conditioned hush of the room.

Taylor dropped her purse on the desk without a word.

Then she turned.

Stepped forward.

And kissed her.

No hesitation.

No question.

Just heat.

Taylor's mouth claimed hers -- deep, deliberate, open. Her tongue slid past Elizabeth's lips without apology, tasting her, possessing her. One hand cupped the side of Elizabeth's face, the other gripped the back of her neck with subtle, anchoring force. The kiss wasn't gentle. It was slow. Hungry.

Elizabeth melted into it -- whimpering softly as her lips parted wider, her knees nearly buckling beneath the full weight of it. Her body trembled. She felt herself opening in every way a woman can open -- mouth, throat, breath, cunt.

And then Taylor pulled back.

Just far enough to speak.

Her lips brushed Elizabeth's cheek as she whispered:

"Lick my fingers."

Elizabeth blinked, eyes glassy.

"What...?"

Taylor lifted her hand -- the same hand that had touched her in the elevator, the same fingers that had slid up her skirt and into her soaked heat, the same skin now glistening with her slick.

"I want you to taste how much you want this," she said.

Her voice was calm. Not cruel. Not rushed.

Just certain.

Elizabeth's breath shook.

Her mouth opened.

She leaned in.

And obeyed.

Her tongue touched the tip of Taylor's middle finger first -- a slow, tentative flick that gathered the first taste. Salty. Wet. Hers. She moaned softly, eyes fluttering shut.

Taylor's fingers slipped between her lips.

Elizabeth sucked.

Deeper now, her cheeks hollowing as her tongue wrapped around her own scent, her own desire, licking and tasting the need that had been building inside her for years.

Taylor watched her closely.

"Good girl," she murmured, stroking a thumb along Elizabeth's cheek.

Then she pulled her hand away, slowly, slick with saliva.

She turned.

Walked across the room.

There was a velvet chair in the corner -- low, wide, inviting.

Taylor sat.

Legs spread slightly.

Her skirt rose high, exposing the smooth expanse of her thighs, the hint of black lace between them. She leaned back like a queen settling into her throne.

Then she pointed.

There was no smile.

No question.

"Stand in front of me," she said.

Elizabeth moved.

Barely aware of herself now -- heart pounding, cunt soaked, lips parted and trembling -- she crossed the room and came to a stop before her.

The light from the window cast shadows up her body -- across the swell of her hips, the curve of her breasts, the delicate lines around her mouth and eyes. She had never felt so bare in her life.

She stood there.

Waiting.

Shaking.

Wanting.

And Taylor just looked at her.

Slow.

Savoring.

Like a woman about to unwrap something she's waited far too long to taste.

Taylor leaned back in the velvet chair, legs parted just enough to suggest intent, her hands resting lightly on the arms like a queen on her throne. Her gaze was steady, unreadable. Hungry.

"Take off your clothes," she said softly. "Leave the bra and panties for now."

Elizabeth stiffened.

Her mouth opened -- then closed.

"I..." Her voice caught. "Taylor, I don't--"

Taylor didn't raise her voice. She didn't move. But the command in her tone tightened like silk drawn through a fist.

"You followed me. You licked your own cunt off my fingers." A pause. "You're going to undress for me now."

The room went still.

Elizabeth's cheeks flushed deep. Her heart was pounding loud enough to hear.

But her fingers lifted.

Slowly.

She reached up and began unbuttoning her blouse.

One.

Two.

Each button slipped free with a soft click, revealing more of the lacy bra underneath -- ivory with delicate scalloped trim, stretched tight over breasts that were soft, heavy, full. Her nipples were swollen, dark, clearly visible through the sheer fabric.

Her hands trembled slightly as she shrugged the blouse off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind her.

Then came the skirt.

She reached behind her, unhooked the clasp, and began to lower the zipper -- the sound a slow, tantalizing hum through the hush of the room.

She shimmied the skirt down her hips.

And there she was.

Standing in heels, bra, and panties -- nothing else.

Elizabeth's body was the kind that had lived.

A rich, curving silhouette: wide hips, the soft slope of a belly that spoke of children and decades, thick thighs that kissed when she moved, and a round, full ass that filled the thin fabric of her panties like it had been poured in. Her body didn't hide. It offered.

Taylor let her eyes roam.

She didn't blink.

"Spin for me."

Elizabeth hesitated, swallowing hard.

Then turned slowly.

Her arms hung awkwardly at her sides at first -- but as she moved, something softened. She tilted her chin slightly. Let her hips shift. Let her body speak.

She showed Taylor her back -- the way the bra clasp dug gently into the flesh above her waist, the soft rolls just beneath. Her ass was perfect -- plush, jiggling faintly with every slow step. The panties cut across the meat of her, the seam disappearing between the cheeks. And beneath, the fabric was dark with wetness. Visibly soaked.

She completed the slow turn and faced Taylor again -- flushed, nervous, but standing straighter now.

Taylor's voice dropped. "Now take the rest off."

Elizabeth's lips parted.

"Taylor..."

The younger woman raised an eyebrow. "Do you need help?"

The words dropped into the air like a spark in dry leaves.

Elizabeth inhaled -- sharp and shaky.

Then her hands rose again.

She reached behind her, unhooking the bra. The straps slid from her shoulders like liquid, the cups falling away to reveal her breasts -- large, soft, heavy with age and gravity. Her nipples were wide, full, darkened with arousal. They hung beautifully, swaying slightly with each breath.

Taylor exhaled softly -- a sound that made Elizabeth's whole body tingle.

Then came the final piece.

Elizabeth hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, hesitated just one last second...

And drew them down.

The fabric peeled away from the wet, swollen lips of her cunt with a quiet sound -- shameful, slick. Her thighs were damp. Her clit throbbed, exposed, hungry.

She stepped out of them slowly.

And stood naked.

Utterly.

Soft and wide and flushed and trembling -- not just with nerves, but with need. Her arms hovered near her belly, instinctively hiding.

Taylor sat silent.

Staring.

Not just at her breasts. Or her cunt.

At all of her.

She drank in the body of a woman who had spent decades being unseen.

And then she smiled.

Slow.

Dangerous.

"Good girl," she said, voice low and full of promise. "Now come closer."

The silence between them thrummed like a held breath.

Elizabeth stood bare, completely exposed -- her full, curvy form bathed in the dim glow of the hotel's city-filtered light. Her breasts rose and fell with each shaky breath, the skin flushed, nipples dark and aching. Her inner thighs glistened with need.

Taylor didn't move at first.

She just sat in the velvet chair, legs spread slightly, one hand resting on the armrest, fingers drumming slowly. Her blouse was still on, sheer and clinging, but now unbuttoned nearly to the navel. Her skirt had hiked high on her thighs when she sat, but now, with the same unhurried grace she had carried all night, she reached down and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties.

And then she pulled them off.

One smooth motion. Down over her hips. Past her knees. She lifted each long, toned leg, slow and elegant, and let the black lace fall to the floor.

Elizabeth's eyes locked there.

Taylor's pussy was bare.

Shaved completely. Smooth. Glowing with heat and youth. The lips were soft and plump, parted just slightly -- pink and glistening with arousal. Her clit sat swollen and proud, like it had been waiting for this moment. She was wet. Soaking wet.

Elizabeth swallowed. Her thighs clenched involuntarily.

Taylor saw it all.

"Get on your knees," she said softly.

Elizabeth didn't move right away.

Her body screamed for it, but something inside her -- some last thread of fear, of shame -- held on for one final heartbeat.

Then she lowered herself.

Slowly.

Her knees touched the plush carpet. Her full breasts shifted with the motion, hanging heavy beneath her as she moved between Taylor's legs. Her breath came in quiet, shaky bursts. She was trembling.

Taylor's voice deepened.

"Worship it."

Elizabeth's mouth parted -- unsure.

"Look at it," Taylor murmured, sliding forward slightly in the chair, her legs spreading wider now, one foot on either side of Elizabeth's thick thighs. "Smell how ready I am for you. That scent? That's what you did to me."

And then--

Her fingers fisted in Elizabeth's hair.

Not cruel.

But firm.

Undeniable.

Taylor guided her forward -- slowly, her palm pressing at the back of Elizabeth's head, fingers tangled in graying strands.

"You wanted this," she whispered, her voice now hovering just above a growl. "So lick. Now."

Elizabeth moaned -- soft, broken -- her mouth just inches from the heat of Taylor's pussy.

And she obeyed.

She leaned in.

Her breath bathed that soft, glistening flesh. Her lips opened. Her tongue extended.

And she tasted her.

Elizabeth's lips parted around the first trembling breath as her tongue met Taylor's heat.

She hadn't known what to expect.

The taste was immediate -- slick, salty-sweet, warm like honey spilled over skin. Taylor's pussy was smooth and soft, the lips parted perfectly for her, already wet, already dripping. Elizabeth moaned into it -- not meaning to, but unable to stop herself. The sound vibrated against the younger woman's clit.

Taylor exhaled sharply. "Mmm... that's it, baby. Don't you dare be gentle."

Elizabeth leaned closer, her mouth flush to Taylor's pussy now, her breath sticky between the younger woman's thighs. She licked -- broad, slow strokes at first, like she was trying to memorize the shape of her. Then she dragged her tongue flat from the base of Taylor's entrance up through the folds to the swollen nub at the top.

Taylor jerked slightly at the contact. "Fucking yes," she hissed, her hand tightening in Elizabeth's hair. "Right there."

Elizabeth moaned again -- louder this time -- and licked deeper, her tongue parting the slick folds, exploring with reverent hunger. She traced the rim of Taylor's opening, tasting her arousal directly from the source, then pressed her tongue inside -- just the tip at first, then deeper, pushing in, curling, fucking her with her mouth.

Taylor's thighs tensed around her head.

Elizabeth's whole body was shaking.

She was on her knees, her heavy tits swaying beneath her, her mouth buried in a wet, tight, young cunt, licking and sucking and moaning like she was starving for it.

And still -- some part of her screamed.

What are you doing?

This is wrong. You're a married woman. You have a husband. You're twice her age. You shouldn't be--

"I shouldn't be doing this," she gasped between strokes, pulling back for just a second, her chin slick with Taylor's arousal. Her voice cracked. "God, I--this is wrong..."

Taylor grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled her face right back in -- not hard, but decisively.

"Stop lying to yourself," she growled. "You're on your fucking knees licking a pussy that's half your age, Elizabeth. Half. You're already doing it."

Elizabeth whimpered.

The words hit her like a slap and a kiss all at once.

Her cheeks burned. Her pussy clenched. Her shame folded into need.

And she dived back in.

Her tongue lapped furiously now, greedily, pressing into Taylor's folds with messy, obscene abandon. She sucked her clit into her mouth, circling it with her tongue, flicking it, teasing it, worshiping it.

Taylor gasped, hips rolling against her mouth, her voice thick and sharp: "That's it. Don't stop. You belong right there."

Elizabeth moaned again, the sound swallowed into heat and wetness.

And she kept licking.

Like it was the only thing she'd ever wanted to do.

Taylor's breathing had changed.

Her thighs were damp with sweat and arousal, the muscles in her stomach twitching with each flick and suck of Elizabeth's desperate, worshipful mouth. She stood now -- suddenly, deliberately -- her hand still tight in Elizabeth's hair, her body towering over the older woman on her knees.

"Enough," she said, breath ragged. "You're not done, but I want more."

Elizabeth's face was slick with Taylor's wetness. Her lips were parted, gasping. Her chin glistened. She looked up, dazed, panting softly like she'd just surfaced from deep water.

Taylor stepped back.

Without a word, she turned around.

And then -- slowly, with the practiced confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing -- she bent forward.

One hand on the edge of the chair.

The other reaching back to spread herself.

Her ass -- smooth, tight, perfect -- tilted back toward Elizabeth like an offering. Her cheeks parted under her own hand, revealing the wet pink of her pussy below... and the small, puckered star above.

She looked over her shoulder.

Voice low. Cruel. Commanding.

"Get your tongue in my ass."

Elizabeth's breath hitched.

Her pussy clenched so hard it made her knees wobble.

"Taylor, I--"

Taylor didn't wait for the protest.

She looked her dead in the eyes. "You've already got my taste in your mouth. Don't act like you're too good to eat ass now."

She spread herself wider.

The light from the window caught the slick between her legs, the soft gleam of her bare skin. The view was obscene. Stunning. Inescapable.

Elizabeth moved forward.

She didn't even remember deciding to.

Her hands came up -- trembling -- resting on Taylor's hips. And then she leaned in, her face pressed between those perfect young cheeks, the scent of Taylor's arousal thick and hot and utterly intoxicating.

Her tongue flicked out.

Tentative at first.

A slow, shy lick over the tight ring of Taylor's asshole -- a breathless little kiss.

Taylor moaned.

"Deeper."

Elizabeth obeyed.

Her mouth opened fully now. Her tongue pushed harder, circling, wetting. The taste was musky, earthy, raw. And she didn't stop. She couldn't. Her face was buried in the younger woman's ass, her mouth working hungrily, lips kissing, tongue pressing, flicking, pushing into the tight heat again and again.

Taylor groaned -- low, primal.

"Fucking hell... look at you," she panted. "On your knees, licking my ass like it's your fucking job. You're never going to forget this."

Elizabeth whimpered -- her own pussy leaking uncontrollably down her thighs, her face flushed, degraded, completely consumed.

And still she licked.

Tongue deep.

Lips worshipful.

Obedient.

Undone.

Taylor stood tall above her, cheeks flushed, thighs glistening, her slick still shining on Elizabeth's lips and chin.

She didn't speak at first.

She just looked down -- at the kneeling, panting, middle-aged woman at her feet. Hair messy, mascara smudged, face wet with spit and pussy. Elizabeth's breasts hung heavy with every breath, her soft belly rising and falling, her thick thighs trembling beneath the weight of need.

Taylor stepped back and pointed to the bed.

"Lie down."

Her voice was sharp now -- not cruel, but absolute.

Elizabeth obeyed immediately, staggering slightly as she stood, the room tilting for a moment from how wet and weak her body had become. She crawled onto the bed -- nude, flushed, thick and exposed -- and sank into the cool sheets, lying back, her breasts spilling to either side, her arms limp at her sides.

Her legs stayed closed.

Until Taylor said:

"Open."

Elizabeth spread her thighs.

Her pussy was soaked, dark and glistening, the inner lips swollen and parted, her clit visibly pulsing above the mess of her arousal. She looked utterly wrecked.

Taylor moved to the foot of the bed.

But she didn't climb on.

Not yet.

She just stared.

Arms folded across her chest, one brow arched.

"Beg."

Elizabeth blinked. "What?"

Taylor stepped closer. "You heard me. Beg me to eat your pussy."

Elizabeth's face flushed deep crimson.

"I--Taylor, I don't--"

Taylor leaned in, her voice low, cutting.

"You want this? You beg for it."

Elizabeth trembled.

Her hands clenched the sheets. Her pussy throbbed -- visibly dripping now, need pouring from her like sweat.

"Please..." she whispered.

Taylor narrowed her eyes. "Louder."

Elizabeth swallowed.

She looked up at her -- wide-eyed, breathless -- and the last of her shame broke apart like ash in a storm.

"Please, Taylor," she moaned. "Lick me. God, please -- I'm so wet. I need it. I need your mouth on my pussy. I'll do anything, just--please, make me come. I'm aching. I'm fucking dying for it."

Taylor smiled.

Dark. Pleased. Inevitable.

She climbed up onto the bed -- graceful, slow -- and lowered herself between Elizabeth's shaking thighs.

She didn't tease.

She dove in.

Her tongue met the soaked, swollen lips with a groan of satisfaction, dragging through every inch of Elizabeth's arousal like she'd been starving for it. Her hands gripped soft thighs and spread them wider. Elizabeth cried out -- loud, needy, ragged.

Taylor licked with purpose.

Up and down.

Long, slow strokes that painted her tongue in cunt and slick, that pulled moans from Elizabeth's chest like songs. She sucked her clit -- hard. She tongued her opening -- deep, deep, wet -- then flicked upward again, tongue circling the hood with relentless focus.

Elizabeth's legs were shaking. Her belly tensed. Her breasts bounced with each arch of her spine.

She was unraveling.

And Taylor didn't stop.

She licked her like she owned her.

Because now... she did.

Elizabeth was a mess of trembling flesh and breathless moans, spread wide on the hotel bed like an offering no one had claimed in years.

She lay flat on her back, legs parted helplessly, her soft, curving body exposed to the city light leaking in through the windows. Her belly rose and fell with ragged breaths. Her breasts -- full, heavy, pulled slightly to the sides by gravity -- jiggled with each twitch of her hips. Her nipples were flushed dark, hard as pebbles, aching for touch she didn't dare ask for now.

And between her legs, her cunt was soaked.

Dripping.

Taylor had been licking her with focused, merciless intensity, her tongue relentless as it circled and sucked and plunged. Elizabeth had tried to hold still, but it was impossible -- her body writhed, hips bucking, her moans rising and cracking with every stroke of that younger, sharper mouth.

Then Taylor shifted.

Elizabeth felt the wet heat of her mouth leave -- just for a moment -- and then...

A single finger.

Pressed against her asshole.

Elizabeth gasped, her eyes flying open.

"Taylor--!"

"Shhh," came the command -- low, patient, hungry. "You're already spread. You're already filthy. Let me in."

Taylor's tongue returned to her clit at the same moment her finger pushed past the tight resistance, sliding into Elizabeth's ass with a slick, steady pressure.

Elizabeth cried out -- not in pain. In shock. In overwhelming sensation.

Her mouth fell open. Her back arched.

"Oh god... oh fuck--!"

Her thighs tried to close, but Taylor's shoulders were firm between them. Her hand held Elizabeth's thick thigh down while the other pumped her finger deeper -- slow and firm, fucking her ass while her tongue licked up the flood pouring from her cunt.

Taylor growled into her, her voice muffled against soaked skin. "You're such a needy old slut, aren't you?"

Elizabeth whimpered, her hands clutching the sheets. Her face burned. Her pussy clenched.

"You come to Boston for a conference," Taylor continued, now curling her finger inside her ass, "and you end up on your back, tits bouncing, legs spread, dripping all over a girl who could be your daughter."

Elizabeth moaned -- long and guttural.

"Say it," Taylor demanded. "Say what you are."

"I'm--" Elizabeth gasped, hips rising helplessly against her mouth and hand. "I'm a needy... slut--oh god, I'm--fuck--I'm a dirty, needy old slut!"

Taylor rewarded her.

Her tongue plunged in harder, rougher, licking in long, raw strokes. Her finger thrust deeper into the tight heat of her ass, curling inside her, filling her. The sounds were obscene -- wet, guttural, slick with surrender.

Elizabeth's whole body shook.

She was being devoured.

Fucked.

Owned.

And she never wanted it to stop.

Elizabeth's voice broke the rhythm in a shuddering gasp.

"I've--never--" she moaned, her eyes wide, chest heaving. "I've never been this horny in my life..."

Taylor paused only for a breath, her lips slick, her face glowing with sweat and sex. She looked up between Elizabeth's thighs -- her mouth already glistening with the older woman's arousal, her chin wet, eyes blazing.

"Good," she growled. "Then fucking come for me."

And she dove back in.

Her mouth sealed over Elizabeth's cunt -- wet, swollen, flushed deep red. Her tongue speared forward, raw and forceful, licking in heavy, filthy strokes. She flattened it and dragged it upward, flicked her clit, sucked it into her mouth with a greedy groan that vibrated right through Elizabeth's core.

At the same time, Taylor's finger was still buried in her ass -- deeper now, curling and thrusting, fucking her slowly, rhythmically, opening her completely.

Elizabeth's body convulsed.

Her hands shot to her breasts, squeezing them, gripping the heavy weight of them in both palms as if she needed to hold on to something, anything, as the wave hit.

And it hit.

Her whole body locked.

Her toes curled.

Her back arched off the bed, soft belly tight, thighs trembling violently on either side of Taylor's head.

Then the scream ripped from her throat -- high, desperate, animal.

She came.

Hard.

It wasn't elegant. It wasn't quiet.

It was brutal.

Her pussy clenched around nothing, pulsing wildly, juices pouring down her crack, soaking Taylor's face. Her ass gripped Taylor's finger tight, her entire body wracked by a climax that shattered something inside her -- something old, something hidden, something that hadn't been touched in decades.

Taylor didn't stop.

She held her there -- tongue swirling, lips sucking, finger thrusting -- forcing the orgasm to roll, and roll, and roll again.

Elizabeth cried out, sobbed, choked on her breath.

Her legs kicked once.

Then trembled.

Then went limp.

She collapsed into the mattress -- spread, spent, completely undone. Her breasts rose and fell like ocean waves, her nipples swollen, her body soaked in sweat and slick.

Taylor finally pulled back, licking her lips, her face drenched.

She looked down at Elizabeth's trembling, ruined body.

And smiled.

"You were made for this."

Elizabeth lay flat, her body wrecked.

Her chest still heaved, her skin slick with sweat, thighs twitching faintly from the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her pussy was swollen, lips spread, leaking down into the sheets. Her full breasts rose and fell with ragged breaths, nipples still painfully stiff.

And above her, Taylor stood like a vision of heat and command -- her thighs shimmering, her bare pussy glistening with arousal, lips parted, flushed with need.

"You're not done," she said, voice thick, feral. "Open your mouth."

Elizabeth's eyes fluttered open -- dazed, glassy, her mouth trembling. But she obeyed.

She parted her lips.

And Taylor climbed onto the bed.

She straddled her slowly, knees planting on either side of Elizabeth's flushed, round face, gripping the mattress. Her cunt hovered above her -- wet, bare, perfect. The scent was immediate, raw, delicious. Elizabeth's eyes rolled up as she felt it, as the heat of Taylor's arousal radiated down onto her lips.

"Stick out your tongue," Taylor growled.

Elizabeth did.

And Taylor lowered herself.

Her pussy pressed down against Elizabeth's open mouth, full and hot and slick. She rolled her hips forward, grinding, her clit dragging across the older woman's tongue.

"Lick," she snapped. "Make me come, slut. I want to soak your fucking face."

Elizabeth moaned beneath her, her hands weakly grasping at Taylor's thighs -- not to stop her, but to hold her, to steady her as she obeyed. Her tongue circled the pulsing clit above her, her mouth opening wider, lips sealing over the slick folds. She licked deep. Sucked hard. Tongue flat, greedy, reverent.

Taylor rocked against her face.

Her fingers tangled in Elizabeth's hair, gripping tight, using her like a seat, like a toy, like a thing to come on.

"That's it," she gasped. "Lick it--just like that. Fuck, your tongue--don't stop. Don't you dare stop until I come all over that mouth."

Elizabeth moaned into her -- the vibrations making Taylor shudder.

The rhythm grew faster.

Wilder.

Taylor's moans broke into curses. Her thighs trembled. Her back arched. Her pussy clenched.

And then--

She screamed.

Her orgasm crashed over her -- brutal, loud, unstoppable -- her cunt flooding Elizabeth's face with wet heat as her body shook above her.

She ground hard against her mouth, crying out, her voice raw.

Elizabeth held her.

Licked every drop.

Never once stopped.

Until Taylor finally collapsed forward -- breathless, soaked, completely spent -- her body draped over Elizabeth like victory.

The room had gone quiet.

Only the low hum of the city outside remained -- headlights casting slow arcs of light across the ceiling, the soft whoosh of distant traffic a gentle rhythm in the background.

Elizabeth lay curled against Taylor in the bed, her head resting on the younger woman's bare shoulder. Her body was still tingling -- warm and sore and completely spent. Her breasts pressed softly into Taylor's side, her thick thighs tangled with long, toned legs beneath the sheets. The smell of sex lingered thick in the room -- skin and sweat and cunt and everything they'd shared.

Taylor's hand stroked her hair, slow and comforting. Nothing dominant now. Just... closeness. After.

Elizabeth didn't speak. She didn't need to.

Her fingers brushed lightly along Taylor's waist, holding her. Not wanting to let go. Not wanting to think.

But then -- the sharp buzz.

Her phone lit up on the nightstand.

Elizabeth froze.

The screen glowed bright in the dark room, lighting the curves of her bare back.

Charles -- Calling.

Her husband.

Her heart seized.

"Oh--God." She sat up suddenly, the sheets falling down around her belly and breasts. Her skin flushed red with panic, mouth suddenly dry.

Taylor didn't move -- just watched her quietly from the pillow, expression unreadable.

Elizabeth grabbed the phone, fumbled it to her ear, swallowing hard as she forced her voice into something calm.

"H-hi... Charles?"

Her voice cracked slightly.

"Hey," came the warm, sleepy voice of her husband on the other end. "You okay? Just wanted to say goodnight."

Elizabeth closed her eyes. Her hand clutched the edge of the sheet over her chest like it might protect her from her own shame.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Just... just getting ready to sleep. Really tired. Long day. Lots of panels..."

She winced at how fast she was talking.

Taylor reached out beneath the sheets.

Elizabeth didn't notice at first -- until she felt the fingers slip between her thighs.

She gasped -- barely stifling it into the phone.

"You alright?" Charles asked, concerned.

Elizabeth bit her lip hard. "Yeah. Yeah, just--stretching."

Taylor smirked up at her from the bed, eyes locked on her face as her fingers slid up, found Elizabeth's soaked, still-swollen pussy and began to stroke.

Slow. Gentle. Cruel.

Elizabeth's mouth fell open.

Her husband kept talking.

She could barely hear him -- every nerve in her body was focused on Taylor's fingers, spreading her lips again, rubbing her sensitive clit, circling it just light enough to drive her mad. Her cunt was throbbing, aching. The wet sounds beneath the sheets were almost impossible to ignore.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

"I--really want to talk more in the morning," she whispered into the phone. "I'm just... totally wiped."

Charles yawned on the other end. "Okay. I miss you. Love you."

Taylor's fingers pressed deeper -- two now, curling slightly.

Elizabeth stifled a moan.

"Love you too," she breathed, barely able to say it.

The call ended.

She dropped the phone to the floor with a shaking hand.

Then turned, flushed, overwhelmed, trembling... straight into Taylor's kiss.

It was soft this time.

Sweet.

The kind of kiss that lingers after chaos.

Their arms wrapped around each other, bare skin pressed to bare skin, the sheets warm with heat and sex and something strange -- something tender.

They held each other in silence.

And slowly, breath by breath, they drifted to sleep.

Should it end here?

Elizabeth, breathless and undone, wrapped in the arms of the woman who pulled her apart so completely... her husband's voice still echoing in her ear, her cunt still wet from another's mouth.

Or is this just the beginning?

Should Taylor take her deeper?

Should the morning light bring shame, confession... or more surrender?

Would you like to watch Elizabeth fall again?