The room is white with gray border and wallpaper. Drapes fall over the white headboard and are pinned up to the side. The big king-size bed has a white plush embroidered cover and about twenty pillows. The side tables look like they have a cloth on them. A white bench sits in front of the bed. But what makes this even more Vivienne is the crystal chandelier hanging over the bed. “This is so you,” I say. Going to the bed, I sit on it. She comes over, and I open my legs for her to step between them. Her hands go on my shoulders before she takes off my baseball hat and runs her hands through my damp hair. My hands rub her legs and then roam up the back of her legs, going under her shirt to cup her bare ass. “You aren’t wearing panties.”

“They keep getting in the way, and you keep ripping them off,” she says, leaning down and kissing me, my mouth opening for her tongue. She moves her knees to either side of me and straddles me, her bare pussy sitting right on my cock. My hands move up and find her not wearing a bra, and I pinch her nipples.

“How much time do we have before the food is ready?” I ask her.

“Enough time for me to ride you.” She moves her hips. “Then take you down my throat.” I groan.

“Fuck. I’m going to come,” I say, looking down at her as she tries to take me all the way down, my hips thrusting more into her mouth. I try to pull out of her, but she just sucks me harder as she swallows my cum. My eyes close as I come; she lets go of my cock, and the timer on the oven dings.

“Right on time,” she says, getting up, and I spot her pussy glistening. My hands come out and grab her hand, knowing she was playing with herself. I bring her fingers to my mouth, and I was right.

“After dinner, I’m having dessert,” I tell her, sucking her fingers. “Chocolate pussy.”

“In some cultures, they eat dessert before the main course,” she groans, and I laugh, and the beeping sounds again. She turns and walks out of the room naked, going to the kitchen. I walk to the bathroom and clean myself off. “We have about thirty minutes,” she tells me, walking to the closet and grabbing another shirt-like dress. She goes to put panties on, but then she looks over at me. “What are the chances these don’t get torn?”

“On a scale of one to ten?” I ask her, folding my arms over my chest. “Ten.”