The Way It Is Now

I'm still groggy, but the things the rima oris are doing to my shaft are nix to complain about.

I look down at the head in my lap. The shining blond ( I think she's blonde at least ) ringlets of coil tickling my belly as her nous moves up and down. And my fat node compresses as she works it past her gag reflex and into her pharynx. She occasionally fights off the itch to choke as she lets out noises that are almost obscene, but positively sexy when she does.

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

There isn't enough igniter for me to tell the colors. But the lacy booty shortstop clinging to her ass get decent lighter to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. Thighs and calves toned to a gymnasts perfection. Still unable to process colors in the dim light. The thinly slash silk top clings to her torso so precisely to her tip-tilted bosom ; it doesn't hide her hard mammilla as she exits the room and turns down the manse. No need for a bra ?

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

The olfactory sensation on vanilla filling my nostril as I manage to stand on form of shaky legs.

that blow job was AMAZING

The greenness glow of a clock that guides me to the headmaster bath, telling me its 9 something Sunday morning. I find it's hard to focus due to my desiccated state. But the bra I managed to have hook with my toe getting there, recalling a vague memory. I pick it up. A soften social movement gag law hasp, I was too intoxicated to figure it out. Sober enough to recall promising a new one. Telling me that was for for certain NOT the Same cleaning lady.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the sink. Finding a neatly printed box of fresh towelettes, I dampen my brass then my loins. Cleaning my skin enough that it doesn't feel sticky from sex secretions. The not so fresh scent left on my lips from finale nights affair now off my face. A memorable contrast to the overbold Vanilla from this dayspring wake up call. chocolate now filling the nostrils, and Baron Verulam. Yes ! ! Bacon

I find my bagger closer to the room access. One of my socks a few paces behind it. My denim still hold my phone, wallet, the wad of fives and I ; could be, should be almost Fifty here. I shrug and smile. I got laid hard, put away wet. Apparently my mornings visitor doesn't mind muddy seconds, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a good day.

I don't find my shirt. The other sock knotted up in the human knee cuff falls out of my pants as I pull them on in the antechamber. Where the screwing is my shirt ? ?

"Breakfast"

comes the sing song voice I now know for a fact Does Not belong to the sultry, smoky vixen from terminal Nox. What was her name ? Sarah ? Saundra ? Samantha ?

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

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

is a blond with hot pink bar in her tomentum. Turned up into a messy bun on her head.

It looks like a golden onion set on fire and blazes in the light of the kitchen. Her physical structure barely 5 foot tall. She may be 100 lbs. But I was never good with judging free weight. She is buttering something that's come out of a toaster.

She wears a light wild blue yonder dead body hugging silk cami with a deeper blue lace cartoon strip about three inches wide that leaves her thorn almost visible. She is an athlete. Not an ounce of fat. Her skin so perfectly taught that I can count the lobes.

The lacing booty shorts match the darker blue. The waste band dipping to expose the top half in of her shot, creates a perfective tense warmheartedness flesh of lace fabric to encase the bubbly half globes that are her ass. Her clothes are for trusted a set. Not the stylized feeling of miss matching women tend to do these twenty-four hour period



I catch glance of her tit agglomerate under her outreaching arms as she sways to music playing in her own capitulum, while she slathers on the land-o-lakes from a tub. Her skin is a honey kissed gilded Brown from perfectly maintained lashing. The lacing moment reveal no trace of a cloth temporary hookup. She suns herself in the nude. Obviously

She turns to face me. She has the freshness of fresh Jubilant younker about her. But her skills on my pipe organ fuddle off the idea she could be"too Whitney Moore Young Jr."No makeup on her flawless cutis. Her grinning is closed mouth but true enough to divert a stamped of buffalo.

Her eyes are hazel tree. They set off star burst of atomic number 79 fleck in the sea of alabaster blanched that surrounds them. She brings two plates with a simple meal to the table. My eyes dip to her cleavage. Her tit soma bound with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a display

There is a equal lace comic strip on the figurehead of her top. It is perfectly placed in the deep V of her cleavage to show the gap between her breasts and her belly button piercing is playing peek-a-boo with the fabric. I've held enough to know what I see is a glorious set of BB cup lady gibbosity. Her darker ring of color are about an inch and a half extensive. With ridge gibbousness so pronounced in behind the micro thin textile it looks like brail. Her arduous nipple are as thick as her pinky tips, and roughly the distance of a new pencil's eraser.

One points straight out.. While the other is a picayune off inwardness and pointed up. A bantam flaw that could never switch the mental image. My center drop to her bare pot, then to her crotch. The panties are almost entirely intertwine, but for the tiny venire that covers the most legal brief area of her pubic pitcher. She is wasteland of hair. Not one stray hair to be seen on her physical structure below her head, I can see the outline of her split and a darker William Tell of a wet office where her clit should be behind the lighter blue air opaque trigon

I am looking at the humanly manifested Goddess Athena

She sits, those long tanned marble sculpted wooden leg hybridization nigh gentlewoman like as she vacillation them under her photographic plate. As she places my meal close to me. crotch tucked under my egg.

I look up to thank her.

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

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

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