"What? Aren't you done?"

The ****'s body was overwhelmed by ecstasy, but even so, it wasn't difficult to realize that 'Ella's' last exclamations hadn't been about being **** but instead about his quitting his pleasuring of her before she, too, had 'finished'.

He hesitated for a moment, reveling in the euphoria sweeping through him. He was conflicted about what to do next. His task -- the 'job' -- assigned to him by the Agency, was to simulate 'Ella's' **** and leave her wanting for more. He hadn't been assigned to push her to her own orgasm.

But then again, he hadn't specifically been told he COULDN'T drive her to ecstasy either.

After a moment, as his breathing and pulse slowed a bit, the **** laid his body hard down upon Sandra squashing her front to the still warm hood of the sedan. He couldn't tell her he wanted to make her cum: that would violate the spirit of the game for which she -- or Ella, that is -- paid. So he made an end run.

He grasped a handful of hair and pulled her head forcefully back, wanting it to look mean and vicious without causing any real hurt. He pressed his mouth close to her ear, his hot breath flooding over her cheek. "My god, Ella, you are one good fuck! I hope you don't mind, but..."

He released her hair, rose up again, grasped her hips forcefully, and began pounding hard into her as he finished, "...I think I want more of you, bitch."