Painting the pavements

The boys looked absolutely horrified as she sank down to her knees in front of them. They wordlessly shook their heads in wide-eyed denial, but still made no move to stop her as she pulled down their flies. It was the first time ever that they'd both greeted her flaccid. Yet neither could hold that state for long against her encouraging hands and tongue. She stared up only at them, innocent and dedicated, as she took one and then the other between parting lips. Her fingers moved in staggered rhythm, sliding along their lengths away and towards herself, away and towards herself. Their dearest friend rolled her tongue across them both, from balls to tip, all while some half-crazed old stranger watched her intently. She sucked down on them hard. She playfully nibbled. She drove herself forward and took in as much as she could. Soon great drips of her own saliva dribbled down from Stacy’s chin, mixed in with whatever fluids she drew from their swelling heads, tickling those weeping tips with the point of her tongue. Her hands cupped their balls gently massaging and stimulating, massaging and stimulating, asking for her reward for all this fine work.

This time it was Peter who came first, catching her in a giggle so that she spilled some of that precious whiteness. It dripped from her chin and down to the floor, their mark on this paving they had no right to enter. Mark was half convinced he wouldn't be able to, still all to conscious of their audience. But when those eyes were left gazing up at only him, and those deft attentions were so solidly focussed… he had no chance at all. He felt his own hands clench for purchase within her hair, felt his hips drive forwards against their resistance. He heard the gagging **** of her but quite simply could not stop… until his balls were resting against her lips and his seed was spurting straight into the heart of her.

He pulled out as soon as his muscles started working again, diving down to see if Stacy was alright. She seemed dizzy and spluttering, wheezing great gulps of air back into her lungs, but was otherwise unharmed. An offered shoulder for support was accepted, resulting in it absorbing quite a patch of drool and gargled semen, but she batted a hand feebly against his apologies. Behind them came the buzz of another fly being decisively shut and an awfully cheery call of thanks and goodbye. They heard the man begin to whistle as he walked past the wall, his day clearly brighter for the performance he’d just witnessed. A similar decision to be elsewhere was made by the teens, though the boys had to help guide a still head-rushing Stacy. She watched the ground sweep past as they escaped through gate, noting the third little puddle her growing talents had earned.