The Way It Is Now

I'm still groggy, but the things the oral fissure are doing to my tool are nothing to complain about.

I look down at the head in my lap. The lustrous blond ( I think she's blond at least ) ringlets of curls tickling my abdomen as her head moves up and down. And my fat knob compresses as she works it past her gag reflex response and into her throat. She occasionally fights off the urge to drop dead as she lets out noises that are almost lewd, but positively aphrodisiacal when she does.

Blasting deep into her mouth, I even surprise myself at the volume I produce. She takes every fall. Sucks out whatever may still be in the pipes with a slurp. Then quietly but quickly rolls off the bed before I can grapple to grab her for a kiss.

There isn't enough Inner Light for me to tell the coloring. But the lacy plunder short pants clinging to her ass get enough light to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. Thighs and calf toned to a gymnasts perfection. Still ineffective to process people of color in the dim illumination. The thinly strapped silk top cling to her torso so precisely to her retrousse breast ; it doesn't obliterate her hard mammilla as she exits the room and turns down the hall. No motivation for a bra ?

I'm frightened now, as I think that may not the same woman I went to bed with. I didn't get a chance to see her face.

The odour on vanilla filling my anterior naris as I manage to stand on form of shaky pegleg.

that snow job was AMAZING

The green glow of a clock that guides me to the sea captain tub, telling me its 9 something Sunday morning. I find it's laborious to focalise due to my dehydrated state. But the bra I managed to experience hook with my toe getting there, recalling a vague memory. I pick it up. A broken front law of closure hasp, I was too drunk to fancy it out. Sober decent to commend promising a new one. Telling me that was for for sure NOT the same adult female.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the sink. Finding a neatly printed box of newly towelettes, I dampen my face then my loins. Cleaning my tegument enough that it doesn't experience gluey from sex secretions. The not so fresh fragrance left on my backtalk from last night affair now off my brass. A memorable contrast to the fresh vanilla from this dayspring wake up call. Coffee now filling the nostrils, and Viscount St. Albans. Yes ! ! Bacon

I find my boxers closer to the door. One of my socks a few paces behind it. My denim still bear my earpiece, billfold, the wad of fives and ones ; could be, should be almost 50 here. I shrug and smile. I got laid hard, put away wet. Apparently my mornings visitant doesn't creative thinker sloppy seconds, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a good day.

I don't find oneself my shirt. The early drogue knotted up in the human knee cuff falls out of my pants as I pull them on in the mansion house. Where the ass is my shirt ? ?

"Breakfast"

comes the sing Song dynasty vocalization I now know for a fact Does Not go to the sultry, smoky vixen from last Night. What was her name ? Sarah ? Saundra ? Samantha ?

As I follow the coffee odor I stop. My brain pounding,

What is HER name ? ! ? ! ? ! I'm Spellbound. The char who's back is turned to me

is a blonde with hot pink streaks in her hair. Turned up into a messy bun on her head.

It looks like a aureate onion plant set on flack and blazes in the ignitor of the kitchen. Her body barely 5 foot tall. She may be 100 lbs. But I was never estimable with judging weightiness. She is buttering something that's come out of a toaster.

She wears a light bluing trunk hugging silk cami with a deeper blue lace strip about three inches wide of the mark that leaves her spine almost visible. She is an athlete. Not an ounce of fat. Her skin so perfectly taught that I can matter the lobes.

The lace prize shorts match the darker blue. The waste product band dipping to expose the top one-half inch of her cranny, creates a unadulterated heart conformation of lacing fabric to encase the bubbly half globes that are her ass. Her clothes are for sure a set. Not the stylise impression of escape matching women tend to do these day



I catch glance of her tit mounds under her outreaching arms as she sways to medicine playing in her own mind, while she slathers on the land-o-lakes from a tub. Her skin is a dearest kissed gilt brown from perfectly maintained tanning. The lace bits reveal no touch of a fabric patch. She suns herself in the nude. Obviously

She turns to face up me. She has the freshness of new Jubilant young about her. But her skills on my pipe organ throw off the theme she could be"too young"No constitution on her flawless skin. Her smiling is closed mouth but genuine enough to divert a stamped of buffalo.

Her eyes are Hazel. They set off stellar fusillade of gold fleck in the sea of alabaster white that surrounds them. She brings two crustal plate with a simple meal to the tabular array. My eyes dip to her segmentation. Her tit chassis spring with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a show

There is a twin lace strip on the front of her top. It is perfectly placed in the recondite V of her cleavage to depict the gap between her breast and her belly button piercing is playing peek-a-boo with the textile. I've held enough to know what I see is a splendid set of BB cup lady bumps. Her darker ring of color are about an column inch and a one-half all-encompassing. With ridgeline swelling so pronounced in behind the micro thin fabric it looks like brail. Her hard nipples are as blockheaded as her pinky tips, and roughly the duration of a new pencil's eraser.

One points straight out.. While the other is a little off center and pointed up. A tiny flaw that could never change the picture. My middle drop cloth to her bare tummy, then to her genital organ. The panties are almost entirely enlace, but for the diminutive gore that covers the most abbreviated arena of her pubic mound. She is barren of hair. Not one stray pilus to be seen on her body below her head, I can see the scheme of her split and a darker Tell of a wet spot where her clit should be behind the tripping blue opaque triangle

I am looking at the humanly evidence Goddess Athena

She sits, those foresightful tanned marble sculpted branch crossbreed well-nigh ma'am like as she swings them under her photographic plate. As she places my meal close to me. Fork tucked under my egg.

I look up to thank her.

It's at this point that I get a flavour at her side up close. She's been crying. Even now she's fighting back tears. This must be terribly difficult for her, but she shows a durability as my own heart starts to break for her.

She points at the note and nudges it in my counselling.

"That's for you. Mother is gone now. It's just me. US. If you'll have me ’