Somewhat familiar

James saw it right away: she looked like someone from his past. He couldn't name her, but the shape of her mouth and the sway of her hips felt known. Then Anastasia pressed those big, heavy tits against his chest and the question slipped away. She dropped to her knees in the hotel light. Warm fingers freed him, slow and sure. Her lips slid over the head, tongue moving beneath the ridge, cheeks hollowing as she took him deeper. Spit glistened along his shaft, dripping onto her cleavage. He watched her breasts bounce with each bob of her head. When she stood, she turned without a word. Hands on the table, back arched, she offered herself. James spread her cheeks and pressed his tongue to the tight ring. She pushed back, opening for him, soft sounds slipping from her throat. Once slick, he stood and sank into her ass, inch by careful inch. Her muscles clenched, then gave. He held her hips and thrust, watching the flesh ripple with each stroke. She reached between her legs, fingers busy, urging him faster. He drove harder, deeper, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room. Tension built fast. At the last second he pulled free, stroking over her ass and up her spine until thick ropes landed across her open mouth and those heavy breasts. She smiled, tongue flicking out to taste him, and the resemblance didn't matter anymore.