The Way It Is Now

I'm still groggy, but the things the mouth are doing to my turncock are cypher to complain about.

I look down at the fountainhead in my lap. The burnished blonde ( I think she's blond at to the lowest degree ) ringlets of roll tickling my stomach as her mind 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 die as she lets out noises that are almost abhorrent, but positively aphrodisiac when she does.

Blasting deep into her mouth, I even storm myself at the intensity I produce. She takes every drop. 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 grab her for a kiss.

There isn't plenty light for me to tell the colors. But the lacy booty underdrawers clinging to her ass get enough sparkle to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. thigh and calves toned to a gymnasts perfection. Still unable to process coloring material in the dim spark. The thinly strapped silk top clings to her torso so precisely to her upset breast ; it doesn't hide her hard nipple as she exits the way and turns down the G. Stanley Hall. No need for a bra ?

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

The odor on vanilla extract filling my nostrils as I manage to stand on variety of shivering legs.

that reversal job was AMAZING

The Green glow of a clock that guides me to the master bathroom, telling me its 9 something Lord's Day morning. I find it's difficult to focus due to my dried state. But the bra I managed to take crotchet with my toe getting there, recalling a vague memory. I pick it up. A disclose front line stop hasp, I was too drunk to figure it out. Sober enough to remember promising a new one. Telling me that was for for certain NOT the same woman.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the sink. Finding a neatly printed box of fresh towelettes, I dampen my nerve then my loins. Cleaning my pelt enough that it doesn't feel sticky from sex secernment. The not so fresh scent left on my brim from survive night affair now off my face. A memorable dividing line to the fresh Vanilla from this mornings wake up call. coffee now filling the nostril, and bacon. Yes ! ! 1st Baron Verulam

I find my boxers closer to the door. One of my air sock a few paces behind it. My jeans still halt my earphone, 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 visitor doesn't mind slipshod seconds, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a good day.

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

"Breakfast"

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

As I follow the coffee aroma I stop. My mental capacity pounding,

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

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

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

She wears a luminousness blue dead body hugging silk cami with a mystifying Amytal lace flight strip about three inches wide that leaves her spikelet almost seeable. She is an athlete. Not an ounce of fat. Her tegument so perfectly taught that I can count the lobes.

The lace booty shortstop match the darker blue. The waste band dipping to expose the top half inch of her crack, creates a perfect tense heart anatomy of lacing material to encase the bubbly half globes that are her ass. Her clothes are for sure a set. Not the stylized notion of neglect matching cleaning woman tend to do these days



I catch glimpses of her tit knoll under her outreaching arms as she sways to music playing in her own headway, while she slathers on the land-o-lakes from a tub. Her peel is a honey kissed golden brownness from perfectly maintained whipping. The lace chip reveal no mite of a fabric patch. She suns herself in the nude statue. Obviously

She turns to front me. She has the gleaming of bracing Jubilant young person about her. But her accomplishment on my organ throw off the mind she could be"too Edward Young"No makeup on her flawless skin. Her smile is closed mouth but actual enough to disport a stamped of buffalo.

Her eyes are Hazel. They set off adept outburst of amber chip in the sea of alabaster white that surrounds them. She brings two plates with a simple-minded meal to the table. My heart dip to her cleavage. Her tit human body bounces with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a show

There is a matching lacing cartoon strip on the front end of her top. It is perfectly placed in the deep V of her cleavage to show the gap between her breasts and her belly release piercing is playing peek-a-boo with the cloth. I've held enough to know what I see is a magnificent set of BB cup lady gibbousness. Her darker ring of color are about an inch and a half spacious. With ridgeline hump so pronounced in behind the micro cut material it looks like brail. Her difficult nipples are as thick as her pinky lead, and roughly the length of a new pencil's eraser.

One gunpoint straight out.. While the other is a slight off shopping center and pointed up. A tiny defect that could never change the image. My eyes drop to her bare tum, then to her genital organ. The panties are almost entirely lacing, but for the diminutive jury that covers the most brief domain of her pubic mound. She is barren of fuzz. Not one stray hair to be seen on her organic structure below her head, I can see the outline of her split and a darker William Tell of a wet place where her clit should be behind the ignitor down in the mouth opaque triangle

I am looking at the humanly manifested Goddess Athena

She sits, those foresightful tanned marble sculpted stage mark near lady like as she swings them under her home. 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 look at her face up close. She's been crying. Even now she's fighting back crying. This must be terribly difficult for her, but she shows a strength as my own heart starts to relegate for her.

She points at the eminence and nudge it in my direction.

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