Begins to worship Richard cock

She did not wait for a cue. With a dancer's grace, Harry sank to her knees on the plush white carpet. The movement drew a few curious glances, but in this setting, it was just another form of performance art. Richard looked down, his expression is grim satisfaction.

Harry looked up at him, her emerald eyes wide with a feigned adoration that was so convincing it was almost terrifying. She slowly, deliberately, unzipped his tailored trousers. Her hands were reverent, her touch delicate as she freed him. She ran a single finger along his length, her gaze never leaving his, her entire being projecting a message of utter worship.

Then she began. She took him into her mouth, not with the practiced efficiency of a prostitute, but with the passionate abandon of a true believer. Her movements were slow, lavish, her tongue painting him as if he were a sacred artifact. She moaned softly, the sound a vibration of pure pleasure designed for an audience of one.

It worked. A hush began to fall over their immediate vicinity. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. And on the sofa, the queen's stroking hand stilled. She lifted her head, her eyes narrowing as they focused on the scene by the bar. She saw her ex-husband, his head thrown back in a mask of triumph. And she saw the girl with the brilliant black hair was worshipping her ex.

The ex-wife's composure cracked. Her jaw tightened, her perfectly painted lips thinning into a hard line. She pushed the young man's head from her lap, her focus entirely on the tableau of her husband's revenge. He hadn't just come to her party. He had come to her party and brought a goddess with him, a girl who looked at him as if he hung the moon.

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