The Way It Is Now

I'm still groggy, but the thing the mouth are doing to my cock are nothing to kick about.

I look down at the head in my lap. The shiny blond ( I think she's blond at least ) coil of Curl tickling my belly as her head word moves up and down. And my fat knob compresses as she works it past her gag reflex and into her throat. She occasionally fights off the urge to choke as she lets out racket that are almost obscene, but positively sexy when she does.

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

There isn't enough light for me to enjoin the color. But the lacy booty shorts clinging to her ass get enough light to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. second joint and sura toned to a gymnasts perfection. Still unable to serve coloring in the dim light. The thinly strap silk top clings to her torso so precisely to her upturned knocker ; it doesn't cover her firmly 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 womanhood I went to bed with. I didn't get a chance to see her nerve.

The smell on vanilla filling my anterior naris as I manage to endure on sorting of rickety legs.

that shock job was AMAZING

The fleeceable gleam of a clock that guides me to the master bath, telling me its 9 something Sunday daybreak. I find it's arduous to focus due to my exsiccate state. But the bra I managed to have hook with my toe getting there, recalling a vague memory. I pick it up. A give way face closure hasp, I was too drunk to figure it out. Sober enough to remember promising a new one. Telling me that was for sure NOT the same char.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the sink. Finding a neatly printed box of wise towelettes, I dampen my face then my pubic region. Cleaning my skin enough that it doesn't feel sticky from sex secretions. The not so newly aroma left on my rim from end nights affair now off my face. A memorable contrast to the fresh vanilla extract from this mornings wake up yell. java now filling the nostril, and bacon. Yes ! ! 1st Baron Verulam

I find my boxers closer to the threshold. One of my socks a few paces behind it. My blue jean still hold my sound, wallet, the wad of fives and ones ; could be, should be almost Fifty here. I shrug and smile. I got laid hard, put away wet. Apparently my mornings visitant doesn't intellect sloppy seconds, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a unspoilt day.

I don't ascertain my shirt. The other wind sleeve knotted up in the knee cuff falls out of my knickers as I pull them on in the lobby. Where the fuck is my shirt ? ?

"Breakfast"

comes the sing vocal voice I now know for a fact Does Not belong to the sultry, smoky vixen from last night. 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 streaks in her hair. Turned up into a messy bun on her head.

It looks like a golden onion set on flak and blazes in the illumination of the kitchen. Her eubstance 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 wassailer.

She wears a light blue organic structure hugging silk cami with a deeper blue lace strip about three inches wide that leaves her spine almost visible. She is an athlete. Not an apothecaries' ounce of fat. Her hide so perfectly taught that I can enumerate the lobes.

The lace booty boxers match the darker amobarbital sodium. The waste band dipping to expose the top half column inch of her quip, creates a perfect middle configuration of lace fabric to encase the bubbly half earth that are her ass. Her dress are for certainly a set. Not the stylized notion of miss matching fair sex tend to do these days



I catch glimpses of her tit mounds under her outreaching arms as she sways to medicine playacting in her own head, while she slathers on the land-o-lakes from a tub. Her skin is a dear kissed prosperous Brown University from perfectly maintained flogging. The lace moment reveal no hint of a textile patch. She suns herself in the nude statue. Obviously

She turns to face me. She has the glow of fresh Jubilant youth about her. But her attainment on my organ hurl off the idea she could be"too youthful"No makeup on her flawless skin. Her grin is closed mouth but genuine enough to divert a stamped of buffalo.

Her eyes are Hazel. They set off star burst of gold speckle in the sea of alabastrine white that surrounds them. She brings two plates with a simple repast to the table. My oculus dip to her cleavage. Her tit flesh bounces with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a show

There is a matching lace strip on the front of her top. It is perfectly placed in the deep V of her cleavage to show the gap between her breasts and her belly clitoris piercing is playing peek-a-boo with the cloth. I've held enough to know what I see is a splendid set of BB cup lady gibbosity. Her darker areola are about an inch and a one-half wide. With ridge bump so pronounced in behind the micro thin framework it looks like brail. Her concentrated mammilla are as thickly as her pinkie tip, and roughly the length of a new pencil's eraser.

One points straight out.. While the early is a little off center and pointed up. A tiny flaw that could never change the image. My middle drop to her bare tummy, then to her crotch. The panty are almost entirely lace, but for the tiny board that covers the most brief field of her pubic mound. She is barren of fuzz. Not one stray hair to be seen on her body below her head, I can see the outline of her split and a darker tell of a wet position where her clit should be behind the loose downhearted opaque triangle

I am looking at the humanly certify Goddess Pallas

She sits, those long tanned marble sculpted stage mark most ma'am like as she swings them under her plate. As she places my repast close to me. Fork tucked under my egg.

I look up to thank her.

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

She points at the annotation and nudges it in my counseling.

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