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My hand, the only tool available within my arm's reach, found its way to the seat of pleasure. Two fingers slid inside my wet vagina, my thumb idly flicking and caressing my aroused, anxious clitoris. I was still tired enough so that my hand moved slowly, while a series of pictures flashed through my imagination: my husband's penis buried inside me, moving, plunging, his sperm pouring into me to make our babies; that same penis stroking into an unknown woman thousands of miles away, then withdrawing to deliver its creamy gift onto her belly; the soft mouth lips of Fran's mother gently attacking my own lower lips, and then my own mouth reciprocating; Becky walking naked from the shower when we were alone at home, a hint of soft down beginning to appear in her pubic area, her breasts not quite yet developed enough to jiggle.That last picture induced my two fingers to escape from inside me and to join their sister thumb at my clitoris, the three of them working rapidly to bring me to. It seemed the doors were staying open, either because she was still in there or because he had somehow set them to do so. She looked out into his penthouse apartment. The walls were floor to ceiling windows and there was a full bar on one side, and what had to be an incredibly expensive European-made sectional facing the elevator. She watched as he made himself a drink, what looked like very expensive Scotch. He sat down on the couch, facing her, sipping his drink, and continuing to look at his phone. After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up at her. The smirk was back. "Well done, Lana." "Another rule. On this occasion, I am pleased by your outfit and want you to keep it on for now. But the normal rule is that when you get in that elevator, you will strip down to your panties and kneel in the corner while it goes up to my penthouse. Understood?" "When you enter this apartment, you will do so starting on your knees in the elevator, and then crawling into the apartment on all.
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