Muriel watched as he dropped the pillow carelessly onto the floor and it didn't help with the irritation that still lingered in her. He was cocky, even arrogant. He hadn't asked her what she was angry about.
She wanted to hear him gasp. Wanted to hear him beg.
But when she moved across the room she felt strange, like she wasn't herself. Like she was wearing someone else's skin and it was moving in odd ways against her bones. When she lowered herself onto her knees she did it like this was a challenge, like there was something to be gained, and that wasn't... No, that wasn't what she wanted.
Muriel wasn't angry with George. She was angry with Letitia Greengrass for being rude to her, and she was disgusted by the way the woman flaunted her young lover like a trophy. She was disgusted by the way the woman used sex as a status symbol of sorts - if don't have a young lover to flaunt about, you're old, dried up, irrelevant.
Well, Muriel did have a young lover, but she had no interest in flaunting him about. She had no interest in engaging in petty competitions to prove that she was relevant and far from dried-up. She hadn't come here to compete with Letitia, she'd come to see George. She'd come to have a beautiful, filthy afternoon with him that no one else would know about.
So this was not a challenge. It was not a competition. She was not going to win anything. She did want to hear George whimper and beg, but only for more of what she was giving him, not for anything that she was taking.
She wrapped a hand around him gently, let his cock press against her cheek. Breathed in the smell of him, fresh and clean.
She looked up at him. Oh yes, she was going to enjoy dirtying him up.