by Serena Jones
His ragged breathing had reached a point where it was starting and stopping in an almost alarming way. “Elspeth,” he groaned, warning her.
She had suspected he was ready. Pulling her head back, she wrapped her fingers around his shaft and stroked him—up, down, up and over his head.
With a great outcry and an arch of his back, he climaxed, hot white cum—as Daisy called it—shooting out from the head of his manhood. It spouted across Elspeth’s hand as she continued to stroke him, pulling on him, almost milking it from him. Her womanhood was wet again, aroused by the sight and feel of his ejaculation. Slowly his penis grew softer in her hand, although the cum kept coming, weakly now. Every time she thought it was done, a little more dribbled out.
When it finally stopped and his penis was as limp as the rest of him, she let go. There was a towel on his bedside table, which Elspeth had had the foresight to leave there in advance. She used it to wipe her hands and then his penis and belly.
His cheeks grew a little red, and he took the towel from her and finished up himself.
Elspeth sat quietly on the edge of his bed. For a long awkward moment, neither of them said anything, nor looked at each other.
She broke the silence. “I could not bring myself to swallow it.”
“I did not expect you to.”
“Perhaps next time.”
“Next time?” he repeated.
“Next time,” she said firmly. Their eyes finally met. “Do you wish me to leave now?”
“No.” He extended an arm.
An invitation.
With a sigh of relief and contentment, she slid down beside him, the length of her body pressed against his, and laid her head on his chest. His arm curled around her, and he raised his other hand to stroke her hair again.
After a time, he said, “I am too old for you.”
“That is nonsense. My father was your precise age when he met my mother, and she was a year younger than I am now.”
“You do not know my precise age.”
“I was estimating.”
“You cannot estimate and also use the word precise. I expect better thinking from you than that, Miss Fortescue.”
She lifted her head and looked at his face to make sure he was joking. He smiled at her raised eyebrows, and she settled her head happily back where it had been. “Ivan Gregory, I estimate you to be forty-five years of age.”
“Forty-two.” He sounded wounded.
“My apologies for the error.”
A few moments later, he said, “I do not wish you to conduct any more tests with Mr. Brown. I shall hire another female employee.”
“I know of a suitable candidate.”
He sighed. “Does her name begin with the letter D?”
“Daisy is clever and amusing and a fount of knowledge on our subject matter. It would be an easier life for her and substantially safer. Ivan, some of her clients beat her!”
The hand that was stroking her hair stilled. “That is … not acceptable.”
“Agreed,” Elspeth said. “Besides, she has already contributed substantially to your research.”
“She has indeed.” He shifted her weight off his chest and rolled over so that they were clasped together, face to face. “I would like to run a second trial with your new device.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight,” he confirmed. “In perhaps an hour or so.”
“How shall we spend the intervening time?”
Ivan Gregory, her lover, kissed her. This time he put his tongue in her mouth.
Elspeth marveled at how many things there still were for her to learn.
Other Works by Serena Jones
Dr. Gregory’s Infernal Machine
Dr. Gregory’s Wanton Assistant
Games with Strangers
Games with Strangers 2
Games with Strangers 3
Educating the Vandertrasks
About the Author
By day, Serena Jones writes traditionally published books of another genre under a different name. At night, however, things take a naughtier turn. Serena originally wrote Dr. Gregory’s Infernal Machine as a Christmas present for her husband. But erotica is like potato chips—impossible to stop at just one.