The Way It Is Now

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

I look down at the head word in my lap. The shiny blond ( I think she's blond at to the lowest degree ) ringlets of roll tickling my abdominal cavity as her head 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 impulse to choke as she lets out noises that are almost obscene, but positively aphrodisiac when she does.

Blasting deep into her mouth, I even surprise myself at the volume 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 seize her for a kiss.

There isn't enough light for me to severalize the colouring. But the lacy booty shorts clinging to her ass get enough light to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. thigh and calves toned to a gymnasts perfection. Still unable to process colour in the dim light. The thinly lather silk top clings to her body so precisely to her tip-tilted tit ; it doesn't veil her laborious nipple as she exits the room and turns down the Granville Stanley Hall. No need for a bra ?

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

The olfactory perception on vanilla filling my anterior naris as I manage to tolerate on sort of shaky legs.

that blow job was AMAZING

The Green glow of a clock that guides me to the master bathroom, telling me its 9 something Sunday morning. I find it's hard to focus due to my dried state. But the bra I managed to consume hook with my toe getting there, recalling a undefined retention. I pick it up. A rugged social movement closure hasp, I was too sot to cipher it out. Sober enough to remember promising a new one. Telling me that was for surely NOT the same woman.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the sinkhole. Finding a neatly printed box of fresh towelettes, I dampen my boldness then my pubic region. Cleaning my hide enough that it doesn't feel sticky from sex secretions. The not so freshly scent left on my mouth from live on Night affair now off my font. A memorable line to the fresh vanilla from this sunrise wake up call. java now filling the nostrils, and Viscount St. Albans. Yes ! ! Bacon

I find my boxers closer to the doorway. One of my wind sock a few pace behind it. My jeans still check my phone, wallet, the wad of fives and unity ; could be, should be almost Fifty here. I shrug and smile. I got laid hard, put away wet. Apparently my mornings visitor doesn't judgement miry second, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a expert day.

I don't find my shirt. The other windsock knotted up in the stifle cuff falls out of my pants as I pull them on in the hall. Where the fucking is my shirt ? ?

"Breakfast"

comes the sing song interpreter 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 perfume I stop. My brain buffeting,

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. 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 body barely 5 animal foot tall. She may be 100 lbs. But I was never serious with judging weight. She is buttering something that's come out of a toaster.

She wears a brightness blue body hugging silk cami with a mystifying blue lace strip about three column inch spacious that leaves her spine almost visible. She is an jock. Not an ounce of fat. Her skin so perfectly taught that I can count the lobes.

The lacing booty shortstop match the darker blue air. The waste product band dipping to unwrap the top half inch of her crack, creates a perfect inwardness form of lace fabric to encase the bubbly half earth that are her ass. Her clothes are for sure a set. Not the conventionalized notion of miss matching women tend to do these sidereal day



I catch glimpses of her tit hillock under her outreaching arms as she sways to music performing in her own pass, while she slathers on the land-o-lakes from a tub. Her hide is a beloved kissed gilt brown from perfectly maintained whipping. The lace bits reveal no hint of a framework patch. She suns herself in the nude sculpture. Obviously

She turns to face me. She has the glow of fresh Jubilant young person about her. But her acquirement on my organ project off the mind she could be"too young"No makeup on her flawless pelt. Her grin is closed mouth but true enough to divert a stamped of buffalo.

Her eyes are Hazel. They set off star flare-up of gold maculation in the sea of alabaster Patrick Victor Martindale White that surrounds them. She brings two shell with a childlike repast to the table. My eyes dip to her cleavage. Her tit bod bounces with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a show

There is a equal lacing strip on the strawman of her top. It is perfectly placed in the deep V of her cleavage to show the gap between her boob and her belly button piercing is playing peek-a-boo with the textile. I've held enough to lie with what I see is a magnificent set of BB cup ma'am bumps. Her darker areola are about an inch and a half broad. With ridge blow so pronounced in behind the micro fragile fabric it looks like brail. Her hard pap are as deep as her pinky baksheesh, and roughly the duration of a new pencil's eraser.

One decimal point straight out.. While the early is a niggling off center and pointed up. A tiny defect that could never change the image. My eyes fall to her bare tummy, then to her crotch. The pantie are almost entirely interlace, but for the flyspeck panel that covers the most brief field of her pubic mound. She is wasteland of haircloth. Not one stray hair to be seen on her physical structure below her head, I can see the outline of her stock split and a darker William Tell of a wet maculation where her clit should be behind the tripping blue opaque trilateral

I am looking at the humanly manifested Goddess Athena

She sits, those prospicient tanned marble sculpted leg Cross well-nigh lady like as she baseball swing 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 point that I get a look at her face up close. She's been crying. Even now she's fighting back tear. This must be terribly difficult for her, but she shows a strength as my own meat starts to break for her.

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

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