To be loved by Cyra Aveline is a privilege. But Aveline never loves men, she eats men.
She craves power, money and knowledge. She is unbothered and unimpressed, living in her dark, delicate world. Her glory is her passion, her ego is her pleasure.
B...
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♚
❝ I am not led, I lead. ❞
• I •
I quit smoking five years ago. The last time I smoked was when my neuroscience professor had his beautiful, 8/10 face smothered between my legs in my Harvard dorm.
Story time, folks.
Mr. Armani was a sheepish man, occasionally losing momentum in the flow of his words about the somatosensory cortex whenever he caught my sultry gaze from across the brain research lab. My professor was indiscreetly still a teenage boy in his heart, despite being in his early forties.
He was incredibly timid, his crude, unprincipled thoughts of me were discernible in the way his breathing would become shallow whenever I passed him in the hallways. Neesh Mehr had that effect on men. His fingers would tremble a little as he'd adjust his reading glasses upon seeing a peak my long legs from under my desk every time he took rounds in the classroom during a test.
This Armani sweetheart was definitely a leg man, synonymous to a Victorian man seeing a woman's ankles.
And I knew this because of the way his plump and moist lips hungrily trailed kisses up my legs, lingering on my Louboutin clad feet. My cigarette smoke coalesced with the scent of his favourite perfume on me as sweet, Italian profanities spilt past his mouth while he used his rough fingers to spread apart my wet folds.
Perhaps of all agonies coursing among the students of this prestigious university, my professor's agony was the most excruciating.
He let out hot, deep groans as he watched me touch myself. Mr. Martin's head was on my thigh and he had stared with a little boy's awe at how I pinched and rubbed my clit.
I knew the place of scorching heat between my legs was his temple and the way he roughly pushed my fingers aside with his wet, warm tongue to drink in all that my pussy could give him, keeping my thighs apart with his big and strong hands, was a confession of unconditional worship for me.
Mr. Armani's instinct for desire was conspicuous in the way he lost his timidness in the face of my princess slit, his devotion for me turning depraved as he sucked my sensitive bud. I remember having moaned, not loud but loud enough for him to unzip his pants and stroke himself as he remained on his knees lapping up the juices between my thighs.
It was surely a really cute sight as his facial expression contoured into that of honeyed torment while I languidly rubbed the base of my shiny black heels on his above average sized dick, my cigarette still in my fingers.
Nothing beats painting victory and the touch of death on a man like I am Giorgio Vasari while he was on his knees on the floor, uttering incoherent curses in his release as I watched him sitting on my couch, putting out my last cigarette.
