Stamp of Approval
The shop door sticks when I push it, wood swollen against the frame like it hasn't been opened in years.
The bell overhead gives a tired jingle, and I step into air thick with dust and something else—old paper, dried glue, the particular mustiness of things kept too long in darkness.
I clutch the leather valise against my hip, feeling the weight of Aunt Edna's legacy through the soft, worn leather.
"Hello?"
My voice cracks slightly, too loud in the quiet.
I expected some bent-backed antiquarian with smudged spectacles and nicotine-stained fingers.
Instead, the door to the back-office swings open and—
Oh.
Blonde. Hot.
What frickin night club does he attend?
Wonder what he's packin in his pants.
I feel my nipples pebble.
Hair the colour of winter wheat, cut short enough to show the clean line of his jaw, the exposed skin of his neck where his collar hangs open one button too many.
He's younger than me by a year or two.
Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two, with the kind of face that belongs in an Abercrombie catalogue, not surrounded by philatelic catalogues and magnifying lamps.
"Victoria Stapleton?"
He extends his hand, and I notice the ink stain on his index finger, where a pen rests.
"I'm Julian Marsh. Your appointment was for two—it's quarter past."
His grip is firm, brief, impersonal.
I linger, the lustful touch.
Professional.
I feel suddenly ridiculous in my blazer and skirt, like I've overdressed for a first date that isn't happening.
Date! I want his frickin pants lowered, and I want to suck…
"Your aunt—Edna Stapleton—condolences. A sought-after collection."
I set the valise on his examination table, the leather making a soft ploosh against the wood.
Julian's expression changes—something flickers behind his blue eyes, a collector's recognition, a dealer's calculation.
He unlatches the case with fingers that know exactly what they're doing.
The first album he pulls out is bound in cracked red leather, the pages yellowed and speckled with foxing.
Julian makes a sound—not quite words, something between appreciation and professional restraint.
My heart is beating; look at me, not the stamps, you prick!
His thumb traces the perforated edge of a stamp.
"This is a fine collection. Not comprehensive, but—selective. Quality over quantity."
I'd take either.
Geez, I hope he's packin and knows how to use it.
Julian offers, "Some items will bring in six figures".
Six inches, yeah, I can work with that.
As she shuts the albums, fingers touch.
Fuck, the tingles, I nearly have an insta-gasm.
"Stamps," I say, "You like to lick?"
He gazes at me, male, nonplussed.
Christ, he's getting my pussy, and it hasn't even clicked.
Oh. He understands as I shuck my blazer, open my blouse and cradle his face in my cleavage.
Julian snaps into male overdrive.
My titties scooped above my scarlet bra cups.
His lips snogging on marshmallow-soft tissue.
His tongue lapping around my aureole.
His teeth nipping at pink fem-cherries.
This is going to be quick.
Let's hope quick is good.
"Orrgh! Fuck! Yes! Yes! Oohh!"
Yep, he knew where to put his fingers.
One cute digit pushing and pulling inside my slit.
He adds a partner.
This launches the exquisite stretch.
Fuck! I'm wet.
Oh, the oohh! He found my clit.
We hit the Persian rug in a tangle of limbs, seeking the mutual sixty-nine.
His cock in my mouth, his boxers still on.
My panties jacked to the side, his tongue inside my slash.
Speed spit.
My tongue quaffing boner, as deep as I could manage.
His tongue engaged in a private love affair with my cupid's bead.
Fuck, the dude knew the drill.
Dab, dab, circle, circle, dab, dab!
I was ready to cum, but he had me up.
My arse splayed over a work table.
I got one leg up on the table.
Julian yanked my panties across my arse and speared my coochie.
"Uh-Uhh! Oohh! Yes! Yes! Mmm! Mmm! Oohh!"
He knew the depth; he knew how far to pull out.
The cock retreat to the cusp that had me begging, begging for more.
"Hard, Fuckin Hard! Dog me hard!"
Yep, I got it flamin' good then.
Deep, indecent and decadent.
The decadent, he got one finger poking in my arse.
Wow!
Wild, wanton and wet.
I was panting.
My pussy was a tight, slurpy slurry like a flesh-melted slushie.
My fem-cum combined with his cream injection.
His fingers on both sides of my swollen clit, took me to fem-paradise.
"Hnnghh!"
Breathing in my ear, he said, "Well, that put my stamp on you."