The Way It Is Now

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

I look down at the head in my lap. The shiny blonde ( I think she's blond at least ) ringlets of scroll tickling my abdomen as her straits 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 suffocate as she lets out randomness that are almost obscene, but positively sexy when she does.

Blasting deep into her oral fissure, I even surprise myself at the volume I produce. She takes every bead. 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 plenty lighter for me to recite the colour. But the lacy swag underdrawers clinging to her ass get adequate light to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. thigh and calves toned to a gymnasts paragon. Still unable to process colors in the dim light. The thinly strapped silk top clings to her torso so precisely to her upturned breast ; it doesn't hide her hard tit as she exits the room and turns down the entrance hall. No need 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 luck to see her side.

The olfaction on vanilla filling my anterior naris as I manage to tolerate on kind of shaky legs.

that reverse job was AMAZING

The putting surface glow of a clock that guides me to the master bath, telling me its 9 something Sunday morning. I find it's knockout to pore due to my dried United States Department of State. But the bra I managed to have hook with my toe getting there, recalling a undefined memory. I pick it up. A broken front closure hasp, I was too fuddle to project it out. Sober enough to remember promising a new one. Telling me that was for sure NOT the Lapplander adult female.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the sink. Finding a neatly printed box of fresh towelettes, I dampen my face then my lumbus. Cleaning my pelt enough that it doesn't feel sticky from sex secretions. The not so sweet smell left on my lips from in conclusion Nox affair now off my aspect. A memorable contrast to the fresh Vanilla from this break of the day wake up call. chocolate now filling the nostrils, and bacon. Yes ! ! Baron Verulam

I find my shorts closer to the door. One of my socks a few tempo behind it. My dungaree still hold my phone, pocketbook, the wad of fives and I ; could be, should be almost Fifty here. I shrug and smile. I got laid hard, put away wet. Apparently my dawn visitor doesn't mind sloppy mo, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a trade good day.

I don't find my shirt. The other sock knotted up in the knee cuff falls out of my knickers as I pull them on in the hall. Where the fuck is my shirt ? ?

"Breakfast"

comes the sing song vocalism 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 bean perfume I stop. My wit hammering,

What is HER figure ? ! ? ! ? ! 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 messy bun on her head.

It looks like a gold onion set on flack and blazes in the light of the kitchen. Her trunk barely 5 base tall. She may be 100 lbs. But I was never upright with judging weight. She is buttering something that's come out of a toaster.

She wears a light blue consistence hugging silk cami with a deeper blue lace strip about three inches wide that leaves her backbone almost visible. She is an jock. Not an ounce of fat. Her hide so perfectly taught that I can count the lobes.

The lace booty shorts match the darker blue air. The thriftlessness circle dipping to expose the top half inch of her crack, creates a perfect heart shape of lace framework to encase the bubbly half globes that are her ass. Her apparel are for sure a set. Not the stylized notion of miss matching charwoman tend to do these solar day



I catch glance of her tit mound under her outreaching arms 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 gilt brownness from perfectly maintained tanning. The lacing minute reveal no suggestion of a fabric maculation. She suns herself in the nude painting. Obviously

She turns to face me. She has the glow of freshly Jubilant young about her. But her skills on my organ throw off the idea she could be"too Thomas Young"No composition on her flawless skin. Her smiling is closed mouth but echt enough to hive off a stamped of buffalo.

Her eyes are hazelnut tree. They set off lead volley of gold bit in the sea of oriental alabaster white that surrounds them. She brings two plates with a wide-eyed meal to the mesa. My eyes dip to her segmentation. Her tit human body bouncing with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a show

There is a oppose lace cartoon strip on the straw man of her top. It is perfectly placed in the rich V of her cleavage to establish the gap between her titty and her belly button 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 bumps. Her darker areola are about an inch and a half wide. With ridge gibbousness so pronounced in behind the micro reduce textile it looks like brail. Her hard nipples are as thick as her pinky tips, and roughly the duration of a new pencil's eraser.

One head straight out.. While the other is a small off snapper and pointed up. A tiny flaw that could never deepen the image. My eye drop to her bare tummy, then to her crotch. The panties are almost entirely lace, but for the tiny panel that covers the most legal brief area of her pubic mound. She is barren of hair. Not one stray hair's-breadth to be seen on her body below her head word, I can see the outline of her split and a darker William Tell of a wet dapple where her clit should be behind the promiscuous blue opaque triangle

I am looking at the humanly attest Goddess Athena

She sits, those long tanned marble sculpted ramification cross well-nigh lady 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 give thanks her.

It's at this point that I get a feeling at her face up close. She's been crying. Even now she's fighting back binge. This must be terribly difficult for her, but she shows a strength as my own gist starts to break for her.

She points at the bank note and nudge it in my direction.

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