The private jet had barely touched down at Heathrow when his message pinged through – the American executive I’d been chatting with from California was finally in London. As requested, I made my way to his luxurious Hotel at Marble Arch, where his crew had already checked him into the presidential suite.
Two hours of anticipation built as I prepared in my room – the sheer stockings clipping to my suspenders, the crimson Louboutins clicking against the marble floors. When he opened the door, I wasn’t disappointed. Tall, fit, and exuding that American confidence that London seems to love, he welcomed me with a smile that promised exactly what we’d discussed during our weeks of private chats.
“I brought my camera,” he mentioned, patting the expensive equipment case. “For the next leg of my trip to Nigeria – need something to entertain myself on the Gulfstream.” I love the idea of being used for in flight entertainment!
His strong hands grabbed my hips as I straddled his face. He gripped me firmly and guided my ass in time with his tongue until he had me gridning my wet pussy on his face and cumming hard.
I leaned forward and started to return the favour.
A 68 (like a 69 but you lick my clit and I owe you one) soon became an actual 69.
He flipped me over, spanking me just enough to make me gasp.
The photoshoot became part of our play – his camera clicking away as he captured intimate moments: his cock sliding into my ass, my face flushed with pleasure.
The face fucking was intense – hanging my head back over the bed as he thrust deep, my Louboutins pointing toward the ceiling. We switched to doggy style, his powerful strokes making the headboard bang against the wall. When he finally came, it was with a deep groan into my shoulder, the condom filled as we collapsed in a tangle of limbs.
As we lay there catching our breath, we talked about America and his travels – a perfect blend of the intellectual and physical connection that makes these encounters so addictive. The photos were transferred to his phone before I left, knowing they’d accompany him to Nigeria and beyond.
A little souvenir to remember me by. Better than a fridge magnet.
