a Rose in a fisted glove

" Il y a des gants et du gel sur le comptoir, si tu veux approfondir ..."

I had watched him work Liza's voluminous breasts, kneeding & squeezing them. As I watched, I projected myself into the scene, that he would do this to me. Erotic torture, going into a swoon.
He offered me a tit which I nibbled & sucked, biting it for intensity.

When he was finished, he told me to take care of her, just as he did when I offered the glasses of champagne for Roman's birthday.
Somehow I had a feeling of what he had in mind, what he wanted me to do.

She sits in the chair, legs spread apart, & I push away the many layers of her petticoat & bloomers, like Little Bo Peep — I gently stroke her clit & slide my finger down.

Two male admirers are on each side.

He decorates her tits with whipped cream & cherries from the cake, inviting one admirer to lick them off. Then he suggests the Latex glove.

I slip it on & slather it with gel, then begin to stroke & plunge into this unknown territory.
Feeling the ridge of her pubic bone, the strength of her muscles. Going deeper, probing, looking into her eyes to see her reaction... it seems to be pleasure. Reaching for the g-spot, plunging, probing... adding a finger until finally my fist goes inside.

I don't like to touch the inside of someone, happy for the black Latex barrier.

I hold my wrist with my other hand to support it & I suddenly feel an alignment of rigidity, from my elbow to the tips of my fingers. My arm seems separate like a machine or an instrument — and I imagine that this is about as close as I could get to feeling an erection.
My arm is like a cock. The pungent mingling smell of foufoune.
The alignment of rigidity.
Knowing that he wants me to experience this.

Intent on giving pleasure, not wanting to be touched at the same time.
Intent on giving pleasure, like when I do fellatio, the same.
Not feeling power or domination. Giving of myself.
Yet when I rise, my thighs are smeared with my excitement, they slide together as I walk.