She spread her legs and I knelt between them, lips still caressing her skin with small, damp kisses. I stroked her side and cupped her breast, pinchin... her nipple between my fingers and giving it a gentle tug. “Johnny, your fingers feel like fire on my skin.” “What about my lips?” I flicked my tongue across her nipple, gently blew on her moist skin, and then suckled her. Penny moaned and arched her back. She gripped a handful of my hair in her fist and spread the fingers of the other hand out. I bought her dinner, she rewarded my generosity with a conjugal visit to my frugal digs—an efficiency in a high-rise close to the office. It didn’t take me long to discover Chastity wasn’t chaste. Most of our buzz had faded from our drinks before dinner, so I broke out my bottle of Jameson, the Catholic Irish whiskey, hoping it would facilitate a religious experience. Half a bottle later, Chastity and I were abed engaged in several of what the church euphemistically calls “impure acts”. She. More

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