Upon reaching his door, he fumbled around to try to get the key card to work, and I offered him a preview of our imminent activities by brushing the back of my hand over his crotch and triggering a twitch in his already firm member.

“I’m going to make you so happy,” I whispered in his ear as I massaged his readily-engorging cock with my knuckles. “I’ll make this the best night of your life.”

When we entered the palatial suite, I was initially distracted by the traditional opulence on display – all distressed leather and Harris tweed – before reminding myself that this occasion wasn’t about me… it was all about him. So, I stood in the middle of the huge lounge and presented myself like a model ready to be dressed. Or, in this case, hopefully undressed.

I look down at my feminine body. My chest feels so heavy – is this what it feels like to have breasts? It’s so… constant! The pull of gravity, the feeling of fabric grazing across the nipples. And now that I’m focusing on my rack, those nipples suddenly feel more sensitive. I think they’re stiffening.

My throat starts to get dry as my mind suddenly goes to the place I’m surprised it didn’t go to within 5 seconds of realising I had a female body to explore – even if I was currently occupying it.

I continue to look down at my chest as I begin to unbutton my pyjama top. As the tops of my breasts are revealed I feel a bizarre sense of excitement and guilt. It feels like I’m undressing a sleeping woman – like I’m taking advantage of someone. But I’m not. How can I be? This is my body. And I want to take a look at it...

I was incredibly deliberate in the way I fondled with my straps. My boobs are so heavy that I knew the minute they lost purchase I was going to give him an eyeful. So I was careful in the way I slid them around my shoulders as I spoke, the folding and unfolding of my arms accentuating my cleavage as I teased him.

​

“I’m not sure I should, Mr Henderson. You’re a married man, aren’t you? I’m not sure it’s right for me to show you my breasts… for you to wank off while you look at them. It’s not right, is it? Your poor wife…”

​

I don’t recall where all the wife stuff came from – and in hindsight it risked putting him off – but it was doing a superb job of turning me on even more. Especially when my concerns were being summarily dismissed.

​

“Can I really do anything? You’re not going to get me arrested or anything?”

“Do what you want to me,” Veronica’s reply.

It was supposed to be dispassionate but it was delivered with inadvertently breathy insinuation.

It clearly gave the interested party the permission he craved because not long after her reassuring response, she heard the curtain drawn around her followed by warm breath around her neck. She had no idea what he was going to do to her but the anticipation was electric and – as before – she felt a buzz of sexual energy through her.

She gasped as her bra was pulled down and her tits were exposed to the cool outside air. She was expecting his hands on them – an animalistic grope of some description. So it was a bit of a shock, albeit a welcome one, when she felt a mouth on her left breast instead.

The sensation of such a solid, fully-erect penis in my hand as I pulled the foreskin back and forth over the glistening tip – obscuring the swollen helmet with each pull before revealing it again with a gentle pump towards the sordid aperture… It was utterly thrilling.

And with each purposeful stroke, I seemed to be triggering more and more clear precum to collect at his meatus, until it started to drip onto the porcelain tiles below. It was like I was milking him! And the soft groans I could hear coming from the other side suggested it was as delightful for him as it was for me.

Eventually I got on my knees so that I could continue my masturbatory favour with a little more control and a much closer view of my recipient’s pride. What a splendid thing to hold in your hand: a rock-hard erection, so engorged that you can feel the owner’s pulse as you squeeze it.