Viewing the local antiquities

She took the English name "Helen"; 
her lips were flesh wings, pulled wide like the wings of a shot bird: stretched by the head of the child she didn't tell me about: the child head and the cock of the husband she didn't tell me about: until she brought him, and him, over from China.


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On the last day, I ring up Pierre, and put in my order: 3:00, so she'll be fresh at the start of her shift. Not a dancer; a student.

She'll be petite, like all his "ladies": 5'1" or 5'2" or even 4'8".

She'll undress promptly, matter-of-factly, without provocation: stepping out of her panties: about to be taken: her pretty pink lips pursed: naked and lovely and young.

Doggie styling, she'll assume the position, and true her ass up to just the right angle, so my cock slides easily in; no hitch at the entrance; no cuntal speed bump; no awkwardness pushing her knees apart or scunching my knees closer together or hauling her ass up or hunkering my crotch down: There she'll be. The dancer was; Cathy was.

Soon, she'll reach up a hand up between her spread legs, brushing my balls with her fingertips while with both hands I put my full weight on her cheeks and bear down like a gymnast mounting a horse.

Cosi fan tutti.

No doubt Pierre has his currriculum.

"Next time," had Cathy said, "shall we try for three?"

A sure thing—and so reasonably priced.


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"Isn't it beautiful? Touch it!" 

"It looks like your ass!"

[Angel, of a peach from the farmer's market that I brought her.]


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All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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