The Way It Is Now

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

I look down at the capitulum in my lap. The shiny blond ( I think she's blond at least ) ringlets of curls tickling my abdomen as her head moves up and down. And my fat boss compresses as she works it past her gag physiological reaction and into her pharynx. She occasionally fights off the impulse to decease as she lets out disturbance that are almost obscene, but positively sexy when she does.

Blasting deep into her mouth, I even surprise myself at the loudness 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 enough brightness for me to tell the colors. But the lacy booty underdrawers clinging to her ass get enough light to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. Thighs and calves toned to a gymnasts perfection. Still ineffective to work colours in the dim light. The thinly strapped silk top cling to her body so precisely to her tip-tilted breast ; it doesn't hide her tough mamilla as she exits the way and turns down the Radclyffe Hall. No pauperism 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 prospect to see her face.

The smell on vanilla filling my nostrils as I manage to tolerate on sorting of shaky legs.

that blow job was AMAZING

The green radiance of a clock that guides me to the schoolmaster bath, telling me its 9 something Sunday morning. I find it's hard to focus due to my dehydrated state. But the bra I managed to have hook with my toe getting there, recalling a vague memory. I pick it up. A broken breast block hasp, I was too drunk to reckon it out. Sober sufficiency to think promising a new one. Telling me that was for indisputable NOT the same char.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the swallow hole. Finding a neatly printed box of wise towelettes, I dampen my look then my loins. Cleaning my tegument enough that it doesn't find pasty from sex secernment. The not so fresh scent left on my lips from hold out dark affair now off my face. A memorable contrast to the smart Vanilla from this dawning wake up call. coffee tree now filling the nostrils, and Roger Bacon. Yes ! ! 1st Baron Verulam

I find my boxers closer to the threshold. One of my wind cone a few paces behind it. My jeans still keep my phone, notecase, the wad of fives and ones ; could be, should be almost L here. I shrug and smile. I got laid hard, put away wet. Apparently my break of the day visitant doesn't mind loose-fitting second gear, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a good day.

I don't find my shirt. The other air-sleeve knotted up in the knee cuff falls out of my gasp as I pull them on in the mansion. Where the fucking is my shirt ? ?

"Breakfast"

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

As I follow the java perfume I stop. My nous throb,

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

is a blond with hot pink run in her hair's-breadth. Turned up into a mussy bun on her head.

It looks like a gilded onion plant set on flack and blazes in the light of the kitchen. Her trunk barely 5 foot tall. She may be 100 lbs. But I was never good with judging system of weights. She is buttering something that's come out of a wassailer.

She wears a light blue body hugging silk cami with a cryptic blue sky lace strip about three in wide that leaves her spine almost visible. She is an athlete. Not an oz. of fat. Her peel so perfectly taught that I can count the lobes.

The lace swag shorts match the darker blue. The thriftlessness stria dipping to expose the top half inch of her crack, creates a unadulterated eye shape of lace fabric to incase the bubbly half globes that are her ass. Her clothes are for sure a set. Not the stylise notion of Miss matching women tend to do these days



I catch glance of her tit pile under her outreaching branch as she sways to music playing in her own head, while she slathers on the land-o-lakes from a tub. Her skin is a love kissed fortunate brown from perfectly maintained flogging. The lace bits reveal no steer of a fabric patch. She suns herself in the nude. Obviously

She turns to front me. She has the glow of fresh Jubilant younker about her. But her skills on my organ hold off the melodic theme she could be"too Brigham Young"No makeup on her flawless skin. Her grinning is closed mouth but genuine enough to deviate a stamped of buffalo.

Her eyes are hazelnut. They set off star burst of gold fleck in the sea of alabaster white that surrounds them. She brings two shell with a unproblematic meal to the table. My oculus dip to her cleavage. Her tit human body bounces with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a show

There is a meet lace cartoon strip on the figurehead of her top. It is perfectly placed in the trench V of her segmentation to shew the gap between her white meat and her belly button piercing is playing peek-a-boo with the textile. I've held enough to eff what I see is a magnificent set of BB cup madam gibbousness. Her darker areola are about an inch and a one-half wide. With ridgeline bumps so pronounced in behind the micro thin framework it looks like brail. Her voiceless nipples are as thick as her pinky tips, and roughly the length of a new pencil's eraser.

One stop straight out.. While the other is a little off shopping centre and pointed up. A tiny flaw that could never convert the image. My eyes drop to her bare tummy, then to her crotch. The panties are almost entirely interlace, but for the tiny panel that covers the most brief area of her pubic mound. She is barren of hair. Not one stray hair to be seen on her consistence below her head, I can see the synopsis of her split and a darker Tell of a wet smudge where her button should be behind the lighter blue opaque Triangulum

I am looking at the humanly certify Goddess Athena

She sits, those retentive tanned marble sculpted branch cross nearly ma'am like as she golf shot 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 look at her nerve up close. She's been crying. Even now she's fighting back bust. This must be terribly hard for her, but she shows a military strength as my own heart 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 ’