The Way It Is Now

I'm still groggy, but the things the mouth are doing to my rooster are nothing to complain about.

I look down at the brain in my lap. The burnished blond ( I think she's blond at to the lowest degree ) scroll of curls tickling my belly as her head moves up and down. And my fat knob compresses as she works it past her gag reflex response and into her pharynx. She occasionally fights off the urge to choke as she lets out noises that are almost obscene, but positively sexy when she does.

Blasting deep into her oral cavity, I even surprise myself at the loudness I produce. She takes every drop-off. Sucks out whatever may still be in the pipework with a slurp. Then quietly but quickly rolls off the bed before I can cope to grab her for a kiss.

There isn't enough light for me to state the colors. But the lacy booty short clinging to her ass get sufficiency sparkle to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. thigh and calfskin toned to a gymnasts ne plus ultra. Still unable to process colors in the dim spark. The thinly trounce silk top clings to her torso so precisely to her upturned titty ; it doesn't cover her hard nipple as she exits the room and turns down the mansion house. No need for a bra ?

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

The feel on vanilla filling my nostril as I manage to stand on sort of shaky legs.

that setback job was AMAZING

The light-green glow of a clock that guides me to the captain bath, telling me its 9 something Sun morning. I find it's hard to sharpen due to my exsiccate state. But the bra I managed to have lure with my toe getting there, recalling a wispy memory. I pick it up. A snap off look gag rule hasp, I was too drunk to figure it out. Sober enough to commemorate promising a new one. Telling me that was for sure NOT the like woman.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the sink. Finding a neatly printed box of newly towelettes, I dampen my side then my loin. Cleaning my hide enough that it doesn't palpate pasty from sex secretion. The not so fresh fragrance left on my lips from last nights affair now off my facial expression. A memorable contrast to the fresh Vanilla from this cockcrow wake up shout. coffee now filling the anterior naris, and bacon. Yes ! ! bacon

I find my boxers closer to the room access. One of my wind sleeve a few stride behind it. My jeans still hold up my phone, 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 creative thinker muddy irregular, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a respectable day.

I don't find my shirt. The other windsock knotted up in the knee cuff falls out of my pant as I pull them on in the Hall. Where the nookie is my shirt ? ?

"Breakfast"

comes the sing song vocalization I now know for a fact Does Not belong to the sultry, smoky vixen from finis nighttime. 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 mussy bun on her head.

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

She wears a light blue body hugging silk cami with a bass blue devil lace strip about three inches spacious that leaves her pricker almost visible. She is an athlete. Not an apothecaries' ounce of fat. Her hide so perfectly taught that I can count the lobes.

The lace dirty money boxershorts match the darker blue. The barren band dipping to expose the top half in of her fling, creates a perfect heart conformation of lace fabric to incase the bubbly half orb that are her ass. Her clothes are for sure a set. Not the stylize notion of pretermit matching women tend to do these days



I catch glance of her tit mounds under her outreaching weapons system as she sways to euphony performing in her own head, while she slathers on the land-o-lakes from a tub. Her peel is a honey kissed prosperous brown from perfectly maintained flogging. The lace bits reveal no touch of a cloth temporary hookup. She suns herself in the nude person. Obviously

She turns to face me. She has the glow of fresh Jubilant youth about her. But her skills on my pipe organ contrive off the idea she could be"too young"No makeup on her flawless hide. Her smile is closed mouth but genuine enough to divert a stamped of buffalo.

Her oculus are Hazel. They set off genius burst of gold fleck in the sea of alabaster Patrick Victor Martindale White that surrounds them. She brings two shell with a simple-minded repast to the table. My eyes dip to her cleavage. Her tit flesh saltation with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a show

There is a matching lace striptease on the front end of her top. It is perfectly placed in the trench V of her cleavage to show the gap between her breasts and her belly button piercing is playing peek-a-boo with the textile. I've held enough to jazz what I see is a magnificent set of BB cup lady blow. Her darker areola are about an in and a half wide. With ridgeline protuberance so pronounced in behind the micro thin fabric it looks like brail. Her hard teat are as loggerheaded as her pinky tips, and roughly the length of a new pencil's eraser.

One points straight out.. While the other is a little off centre and pointed up. A bantam flaw that could never change the image. My eyes drop to her bare tummy, then to her crotch. The pantie are almost entirely lace, but for the tiny panel that covers the most brief area of her pubic cumulation. She is barren of hair. Not one stray hair to be seen on her eubstance below her drumhead, I can see the scheme of her schism and a darker tell of a wet spot where her clit should be behind the calorie-free profane opaque trilateral

I am looking at the humanly manifested Goddess Athena

She sits, those long tanned marble sculpted ramification cross most noblewoman like as she swings them under her plate. As she places my meal close to me. Fork tucked under my egg.

I look up to thank her.

It's at this peak that I get a smell 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 durability as my own affection starts to break for her.

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

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