As she bends down to plug into the powerstrip, her indigo sweater rides up, baring the skin of the moment: the pale swells where the flesh of her hips just begins, her vertabrae, the youthful folly of a tattoo that must scrawl its green way all down her unseen left cheek.
Typing away, I still harden.
In two hours, Angel will give me a table shower. Then I'll eat her. Then, inside her, I'll come. And again. And, if I'm lucky, again.
{NA}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 2/20/2005 11:01:00 AM
•
0 comments
0 Comments: