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Looking forward
Game Angel has raised herself to a four-point stance, after I'd pulled her all the way down me, me all up her, then ground her bristly motte round my arched muscletensed holdingbreath belly: Now only my tip touches her twatlips. She puts her weight forward on her fingertips: squats: begins to reciprocate. She knows me so well. She's gauged the distance: Her downstroke is soundless—Nimbly, she stops her butt short from a thwack on my thighs: soundless except for faint squelching, her sighs. The one place our flesh touches: my juiced shiny piston, stainless: up down, in out, in out; disappearing, appearing. Peekaboo. I see you. {290}
4 Comments:
Oh so cute. Heh. By , at December 04, 2004 12:18 PM Your point? By John Psmyth, at December 04, 2004 12:29 PM
No point. Just an observation. A reflection upon the proceedings. By , at December 05, 2004 7:53 AM
Tweaked. I may return to it. All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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