Penny for your thoughts
I push through the heavy glass door of Whitmore & Associates Rare Collectibles, the brass handle cold against my palm. The bell above chimes in a minor key, and I adjust the weight of the leather satchel against my hip—Aunt Edna's coin collection, her pride and joy, now reduced to inventory I need to price and purge.
The showroom stretches before me with its hush of wealth: velvet-lined display cases, track lighting calibrated to make silver gleam like moonlight. I expected some septuagenarian with liver spots and a loupe permanently wedged in his eye socket. What I get is entirely different.
He's bent over a counter, examining something through a microscope, and the view from behind is criminal.
Broad shoulders strain against navy wool. Dark hair, cropped close on the sides, longer on top, begging for fingers to grip.
When he straightens and turns, I'm caught mid-adjustment of my grandmother's pearl earrings, my composure cracking like thin ice.
"Victoria Stapleton?" His voice carries the edge of someone who grew up working-class and educated himself into refinement.
"I'm Julian Whitmore. We spoke on the phone."
He extends a hand, and I take it.
His grip is firm, warm.
I know where I'd like warm fingers and a firm grip.
I squeeze my thighs.
His eyes are slate-grey, assessing, and they travel my silk blouse and high-waisted pants with obvious appreciation that he doesn't bother to disguise.
"I expected someone older," I say, immediately hating how transparent I sound.
"So did I."
His smile is crooked, devastating.
"You mentioned Australian pennies? Pre-decimal?"
I open the satchel on his counter, spreading Edna's collection across the felt surface.
Julian produces a loupe from his pocket—not the expected gesture of an old man, but something practised and intimate, like producing a butt plug.
The thought arrives unbidden, heat pooling low in my belly.
He works through the coins with methodical precision, but his attention keeps returning to me.
To my throat when I swallow.
"Your aunt had exceptional taste."
He holds up the 1930 penny, and even I can see it—uncirculated lustre, the kind of condition that makes collectors weep.
"This is extraordinary. Do you know what you have here?"
"Tell me."
He does, leaning close enough that I catch his scent—cedar, machine oil, something darker underneath.
Our fingers touch near the coin.
My pussy tingles.
I feel a wet smear.
"The appraisal room," he says.
I follow him through a door marked PRIVATE.
I like privates.
He closes the door behind us, and the lock clicks with deliberate weight.
He's behind me now, close enough that I feel his breath against my neck.
My silk blouse suddenly feels insufficient, my high-waisted pants too tight.
All I can do is hope his hands male wander.
Okay, I push my thigh back into his groin.
His hands have my hips.
His rising, firming nuzzles through his pants between my butt cheeks.
He undoes blouse buttons with the finesse of tossing coins.
He unclasps my bra like he's opening a catch on a treasure chest.
Well, my chest.
My boobs float free.
Yep, lush, snuggle puppies, youthful gravity defiers.
"Mmm, mmm," I moan.
He understands how to suck and pull out nipples with his lips.
He unfastens my pants, dragging them down my hips with my underwear, leaving me as his naked canvas.
His tongue is a brush over my skin.
Every sweet nook and crevice explored.
God, I love his tongue inside my navel.
His fingers roaming through my slick flapettes.
Then warm air he blows inside my exposed folds.
"Fuck," I breathe.
He licks me with the flat of his tongue, slow and thorough, from my clit to my lower entrance and back again.
I'm soaking, embarrassingly so, and he groans against my flesh, tasting my precious girly seepage.
His two-day stubble scrapes my inner thighs, the roughness perfect against my shaved softness.
When he sucks my clit between his lips, I cry out, fingers tightening in his hair.
"Oohh! Fuck! Yes! Yes! Oohh!"
Julian pulls back, breathing hard, eyes dark with intention.
"Turn around."
I do, bracing my hands on the oak table, presenting myself to him.
He spreads me with his palms, thumbs tracing my crease with deliberate possession.
Then his tongue finds my asshole, and I gasp, spine arching, the sensation shocking and enticing.
He rims me with lapping thoroughness, tongue circling, pressing, fucking into my tush with wet insistence.
I'm moaning now, unable to stop, the sound echoing in the small room.
Julian works me open with his mouth and fingers, one digit pressing inside alongside his tongue, stretching me with patient application.
He stands. His cock presses against my entrance, thick and insistent, and I push back against him, demanding.
Julian grips my hips hard and sinks into my asshole in one slow, sinking push.
He creates space where there should be none.
The stretch smarts perfectly.
"Oof! Uhh! Aahh! Yes! Ahh!"
I cry out, forehead dropping to the oak table, fingers scrambling for purchase.
He gives me a moment, breathing hard, hands stroking my flanks with surprising tenderness.
Then he moves, and thought dissolves.
He fucks my rear with a brutal rhythm, each thrust driving me against the table's edge, my clit grinding against the wood with textbook friction.
Julian's hands roam—my breasts, my throat, my hair, pulling my head back until I'm arching into him, taking him deeper.
His cock chocker-block fills me, the sensation overwhelming.
"Your aunt's penny," he gasps, thrusting harder, "worth thousands. This—" he grips my asshole, spreading me wider, "—your butt crack is fucking priceless."
I like tight.
I got tight.
Julian pounds into me with abandon, the slap of skin against butt cheeks filling the room, our breathing ragged.
He leans forward and bites my shoulder, I break, coming with a cry that sounds like his name, my mound pulsing around nothing while my asshole grips him tight.
"Oohh! Fuck! Orrghh!"
He follows seconds later, groaning long and low, his cock throbbing deep inside me.
"Arrghh!"
His weight presses me into oak and velvet, both of us shaking.
We redress like the professionals we are.
He makes me brewed coffee with a side of handmade chocolate mint.
The penny sits between us.
"Penny, for your thoughts," he says.
"Anything but nice," I say.
He stands and opens a private cabinet.
Whoa Girl!
My eyes bulge.
Racks of cuffs, binders and bloody big butt plugs.