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.
{NA}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 10/29/2005 10:54:00 AM
•
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Vacance 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.
{280}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 10/25/2005 07:20:00 PM
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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.]
{300}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 10/24/2005 07:46:00 PM
•
0 comments
