"You'd better sit down, I suppose," Severe drawled. "God, you're a pathetic-looking specimen. Coz told me you were a bit of a weed, but I didn't realise what a soppy worm he had to put up with. Luke! What sort of wormy name is that?" Luke flushed. His first reaction to her cruel words was to rise stiffly--in every sense--make a frigid excuse, and withdraw. Yet, settled in a lumpy leather armchair, with his risen cock grotesquely obvious, he reasoned that any attention was better than none. To his horror, his cock throbbed harder at her cutting remarks. To be touched by her verbal swordblade was better than not being touched at all. She was so blasted gorgeous in her icy, aristo way, as if, secure in the citadel of her own beauty, she despised not just him, but the whole world.
She lifted her leg, letting her short skirt slip high up her thighs, and propped her foot on the arm of his chair. He stared at her upper legs quite revealed: the stocking tops, clamped by lemon satin garter straps, the lacy lemon sussies and, nestling in its frame, the matching sliver of panties, covering a mound swelling to burst. His cock swelled, until he felt his trousers could scarcely contain the erection. What thrilled and maddened him was her utter disdain for his presence; she exposed her intimate flesh as though he wasn't there, or as if his gaze meant no more than a pet dog's.
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