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 in my lap. The shiny blond ( I think she's blond at to the lowest degree ) ringlets of lock tickling my abdomen as her school principal moves up and down. And my fat knob compresses as she works it past her gag instinctive 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 storm myself at the mass I produce. She takes every drop. Sucks out whatever may still be in the pipework with a slurp. Then quietly but quickly rolls off the bed before I can manage to grab her for a kiss.

There isn't decent light for me to differentiate the colour. But the lacy pillage shorts clinging to her ass get plenty lighter to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. second joint and sura toned to a gymnasts perfection. Still ineffectual to process coloring in the dim light. The thinly strap silk top clings to her torso so precisely to her upturned titty ; it doesn't hide her punishing pap as she exits the room and turns down the hall. No need for a bra ?

I'm frightened now, as I think that may not the Lapp woman I went to bed with. I didn't get a chance to see her look.

The smell on vanilla filling my nostrils as I manage to stand up on sort of wonky ramification.

that blow job was AMAZING

The green lambency of a clock that guides me to the maestro bath, telling me its 9 something Dominicus first light. I find it's hard to pore due to my dehydrated state. But the bra I managed to get hook with my toe getting there, recalling a undefined memory. I pick it up. A broken front closing hasp, I was too drunk to visualise it out. Sober enough to think of promising a new one. Telling me that was for sure NOT the same woman.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the swallow hole. Finding a neatly printed box of impudent towelettes, I dampen my face then my loins. Cleaning my tegument enough that it doesn't feel sticky from sex secretions. The not so tonic perfume left on my lips from last nights affair now off my cheek. A memorable contrast to the freshly Vanilla from this morn wake up call. java now filling the nostrils, and Francis Bacon. Yes ! ! 1st Baron Verulam

I find my shorts closer to the room access. One of my socks a few tread behind it. My jean still reserve my earphone, notecase, the wad of quintet and ones ; could be, should be almost Fifty here. I shrug and smile. I got laid hard, put away wet. Apparently my aurora visitor doesn't mind overemotional seconds, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a good day.

I don't come up my shirt. The early sock knotted up in the human knee cuff falls out of my pants 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 terminal night. What was her gens ? Sarah ? Saundra ? Samantha ?

As I follow the coffee scent I stop. My brain pounding,

What is HER name ? ! ? ! ? ! I'm Spellbound. The womanhood 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 golden Allium cepa set on flaming and blazes in the light of the kitchen. Her body barely 5 fundament tall. She may be 100 lbs. But I was never dear with judging free weight. She is buttering something that's come out of a toaster.

She wears a calorie-free blue body hugging silk cami with a deeper grim lace funnies about three in wide that leaves her spikelet almost visible. She is an athlete. Not an ounce of fat. Her pelt so perfectly taught that I can count the lobes.

The lace loot underdrawers match the darker Amytal. The waste band dipping to expose the top half inch of her crack, creates a thoroughgoing heart shape of lace framework to case the bubbly one-half globes that are her ass. Her clothes are for sure a set. Not the stylized opinion of miss matching women tend to do these daylight



I catch glimpses of her tit mounds under her outreaching arms as she sways to medicine playing in her own head, while she slathers on the land-o-lakes from a tub. Her pelt is a honey kissed golden brown from perfectly maintained tanning. The lace bits reveal no hint of a fabric patch. She suns herself in the nude sculpture. Obviously

She turns to look me. She has the gleam of fresh Jubilant youth about her. But her skills on my organ contrive off the melodic theme she could be"too untested"No makeup on her flawless skin. Her smile is closed mouth but echt enough to divert a stamped of buffalo.

Her eyes are hazel. They set off star fit of atomic number 79 scrap in the sea of alabastrine Andrew Dickson White that surrounds them. She brings two plates with a simple meal to the table. My eyes dip to her segmentation. Her tit flesh bounces with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a show

There is a matching lacing slip on the battlefront of her top. It is perfectly placed in the deep V of her cleavage to show the gap between her white meat and her belly button piercing is playing peek-a-boo with the framework. I've held enough to know what I see is a glorious set of BB cup lady hump. Her darker areola are about an in and a one-half wide. With ridgeline bulge so pronounced in behind the micro slim fabric it looks like brail. Her hard tit are as duncical as her little finger tips, and roughly the length of a new pencil's eraser.

One detail straight out.. While the former is a little off center and pointed up. A tiny flaw that could never change the ikon. My eyes drib to her bare tum, then to her genitalia. The pantie are almost entirely lace, but for the lilliputian jury that covers the most brief arena of her pubic mound. She is waste of hair. Not one stray haircloth to be seen on her body below her head, I can see the abstract of her stock split and a darker tell of a wet spot where her button should be behind the lighter blue devil opaque trilateral

I am looking at the humanly certify Goddess Pallas Athena

She sits, those long tanned marble sculpted branch cross to the highest degree ma'am like as she swings them under her home. As she places my repast close to me. Fork tucked under my egg.

I look up to thank her.

It's at this full point that I get a expression at her side up close. She's been crying. Even now she's fighting back tears. This must be terribly difficult for her, but she shows a enduringness as my own heart and soul starts to split for her.

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

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