No such roses see I in her cheeks
"—but you have to pay more because it is my apartment."
Angel unchains her door, greets me: Grey just-like-silk nightie with cheesy black fringe round the hem and deep neckline; not the white cotton and lace that I gave her. She wears pom-pom slippers:
Bare feet: muscled calves: aging belly: creased neck: spotty complexion: She—
Smiles. I swell.
"I don't have a job."
"The other girls had to stay 24/7. But I came home to my apartment."
I kneel on her rented white shag carpet by her rented white bed: She lifts her knees all way to her shoulders, then opens her practiced legs wide, exposes her paired long swollen dark lips: her dainty pink puckered rim:
Bending my head, I inhale her bouquet: the perineum odor not shit narrow and sharp but rounded, warm, rich: like dung: the barnyard where I am the cock. She doesn't keep herself as quite clean here at home, as she would in her brothel.
Messy, noisy, I eat her: Smack my lips at her lips: Slither myself along, around, between, inside, down, up her furrowed sensorium: Liptug this channelled fold, that: Chin jammed to the mattress dig never-far-enough up her: twiddling:
She heats and swells. She drapes her legs over my shoulders, squeezes her thighs round my ears and heaves, heaves, heaves her cunt up against my mouth. My nose, in her sticky rough fur: my tongue, straining, probing, insinuating: my hands, clasping her cheeks, so she can move only up, or down, towards, or away: hot, or warm: full, or empty:
Angel moves her hand down to her motte: Because she's said she can't come unless her legs are together. Chin dripping, I rise and crawl up over her torso, suction and tongue-flip her big nipples erect, while she works her arm and hand, rubbing one out, heaving her pelvis up, concentrating:
How well I know the foregone conclusion: Her little "Erh!"
I lock my tongue's lash her final flurry, nip her nipple when her hand stops: Then snuffle her neck, no perfume, did she lose it?
"It's easier for me this way."
There's no room for me when she closes her legs.
Angel's Apartment: 1, 2, 3
Fellow Antiquarians: I hope I haven't lost my touch, and I apologize for the pauses that my life now makes inevitable; but I have not forgotten VLA, nor you.
It doesn't seem to me as though you've lost your touch. Nor to Angel, by the sound of things.
Glad you're back - you're one of the blogs that inspired me to both get into the business and blog about it.
Inspired? How, if I may ask?
You have not lost squat. It is we, I feared, who lost you as a result of some possible misguided sting operation aimed to protect the morality and bust non-contributing whores who have not provided donuts/freebies.
Thanks, Meerkat. No, just life changes (that should be evident from the posts...).
All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."