Backstage with Jasmine Rouge

Jasmine strides in still sun-browned from her holiday, every curve warmed by the Turkish sun. I feel pale next to her golden skin. She has me recline on the velvet couch, whispering that my only task is to stay still and let her work. It is harder than it sounds. Her lace bra strains under the weight of her breasts, and she leans in so close that the soft swell brushes my cheek. With deliberate slowness she peels the straps from her shoulders, baring those heavy tits completely. She squeezes them together, offering the pink nipples to my lips. I open my mouth obediently. The moment her flesh fills it, she sighs and presses closer, guiding my tongue in slow circles. She keeps me pinned beneath her, feeding me more at her pace, never letting me reach or pull her in. Every lick makes her nipples tighten further. A smile plays across her lips while she watches me strain to behave. Then she slides one hand between my thighs, just resting it there, a promise. Her other hand cradles the back of my head, holding me steady against her breast while her fingers start a teasing trace along the edge of my lingerie. Heat pulses through me. I fight the urge to arch or beg. She rewards my restraint by slipping a finger beneath the fabric, stroking once, then withdrawing, making sure I feel the loss. The contrast of her bronzed hand against my lighter skin makes me ache to move, but she hushes me, rolls her nipple deeper into my mouth, and begins again.