He had vanished. For a long time. Too long.

But that night, Victor Varenzo returned—under a fine, gentle, almost silent rain. I was on my terrace, sheltered under the awning, legs crossed, my hands resting calmly on my thighs. It was raining outside, and I don't know why, but the atmosphere was perfect: the scent of damp air, the droplets sliding down the tarp, that contrast between the soaked world and us, dry, inside our l*ttle bubble.

I was wearing bl*ck that afternoon—a low-cut top, glossy stiletto heels, and a freshly done khaki manicure. A subtle, almost military color, but terribly elegant. I knew every detail mattered to him, and I knew he would look me up and down—which he did, silently, with that tension in his eyes betraying his arousal.

He approached me, nervous, tense, as if just being in front of me again would make him explode. So, I welcomed him with my hands. Through his pants, I began to massage him slowly, savoring each increasingly irregular breath. I felt him tremble, twist, clinging to the last shred of control he had left.

I undressed him gradually, taking my time. Once his pants fell to the ground, I kept stroking him—dry, without saliva—letting the pressure build, over and over, until he was nothing but breath, a body trembling with pleasure.

I knew that if I wet my hand, he would come instantly. It was just a matter of seconds. He knew it too. And yet, he said nothing. He let it happen, surrendered to whatever I chose for him.

Then, in one fluid, unannounced motion, I brought my hand to my mouth, moistened it slowly, and wrapped it firmly around him. My rhythm was precise, efficient, my grip so tight that air slipped between my fingers and his skin with a wet, intimate sound that heightened the moment even more. His swollen c*ck throbbed beneath my hand. I had him—right on the edge.

And while I held him like that, I slid my free hand over my chest. I caressed my breasts through the fabric, played with my cleavage, touched myself for him—to intensify his pleasure, to push him over the edge.

And he broke.

He came hard on me—on my clothes, on my chest, on my hands. He poured out everything he'd been holding in during those long weeks without me. I felt his warm release dripping down my skin, soaking into the bl*ck fabric. And I kept going. I massaged my chest with it, slowly, carefully, as if applying a rare cream. I spread it over my hands, savoring every sensation, every drop he had given me.

He was there—breathless, spent, speechless.

And I... was full of him.

-You always come back to me, Victor. Even after all this time. Even in the rain.

Mlle Opheline

Große Brüste Abspritzen Handjob Victor Varenzo, soaked under my control - english version 4K mit C4s.com