The Way It Is Now

I'm still groggy, but the thing the mouth are doing to my shaft are goose egg to quetch about.

I look down at the head in my lap. The sheeny blonde ( I think she's blonde at least ) ringlet of ringlet tickling my abdomen as her head moves up and down. And my fat knob compresses as she works it past her gag reflex and into her pharynx. She occasionally fights off the urge to fret as she lets out randomness that are almost obscene, but positively aphrodisiac when she does.

Blasting deep into her backtalk, I even surprise myself at the volume I produce. She takes every drop-off. 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 light for me to say the colors. But the lacy loot shortstop clinging to her ass get enough light source to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. thigh and calf toned to a gymnasts ne plus ultra. Still ineffectual to process colouration in the dim igniter. The thinly strapped silk top clings to her torso so precisely to her retrousse breast ; it doesn't hide her hard mamilla as she exits the elbow room and turns down the anteroom. No pauperization for a bra ?

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

The smell on vanilla filling my nostril as I manage to support on kind of shaky wooden leg.

that blow job was AMAZING

The green glow of a clock that guides me to the master bathing tub, telling me its 9 something Sunday morning. I find it's hard to focalise due to my dried Department of State. But the bra I managed to have hook with my toe getting there, recalling a vague storage. I pick it up. A broken movement block hasp, I was too drunk to figure it out. Sober enough to recall promising a new one. Telling me that was for sure NOT the Same woman.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the sink. Finding a neatly printed box of sassy towelettes, I dampen my face then my pubes. Cleaning my skin enough that it doesn't feel viscous from sex secretions. The not so impertinent scent left on my backtalk from death nighttime affair now off my face. A memorable line to the impudent vanilla extract from this daybreak wake up call. coffee now filling the nostrils, and Bacon. Yes ! ! Bacon

I find my boxers closer to the doorway. One of my air-sleeve a few pace behind it. My jeans still check my telephone, wallet, the wad of fivesome and ones ; could be, should be almost Fifty here. I shrug and smile. I got laid hard, put away wet. Apparently my mornings visitant doesn't mind sloppy irregular, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a good day.

I don't chance my shirt. The former sock knotted up in the knee cuff falls out of my bloomers as I pull them on in the mansion house. Where the fuck is my shirt ? ?

"Breakfast"

comes the sing song phonation I now know for a fact Does Not belong to the sultry, smoky vixen from last-place night. What was her name ? Sarah ? Saundra ? Samantha ?

As I follow the burnt umber perfume I stop. My brain throbbing,

What is HER Name ? ! ? ! ? ! I'm Spellbound. The womanhood 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 golden onion set on blast and blazes in the light source of the kitchen. Her body barely 5 foundation tall. She may be 100 lbs. But I was never good with judging exercising weight. She is buttering something that's come out of a toaster.

She wears a spark blue devil body hugging silk cami with a deeper drear lacing strip about three inches wide that leaves her spine almost visible. She is an athlete. Not an ounce of fat. Her skin so perfectly taught that I can count the lobes.

The lace booty underdrawers match the darker blue. The barren band dipping to give away the top half column inch of her crack, creates a perfect heart shape of lacing fabric to case the bubbly one-half Earth that are her ass. Her clothes are for indisputable a set. Not the stylized feeling of miss matching cleaning woman tend to do these years



I catch glimpses of her tit pile 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 dear kissed golden brown from perfectly maintained flogging. The lace snatch reveal no pinch of a material patch. She suns herself in the nude painting. Obviously

She turns to face me. She has the freshness of newly Jubilant juvenility about her. But her science on my organ throw off the idea she could be"too young"No make-up on her flawless skin. Her smile is closed mouth but genuine enough to divert a stamped of buffalo.

Her eyes are Hazel. They set off star explosion of Au speckle in the sea of alabastrine white that surrounds them. She brings two home with a simple meal to the table. My eyes dip to her segmentation. Her tit flesh bound with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a show

There is a matching lace strip on the front of her top. It is perfectly placed in the mysterious V of her cleavage to show the gap between her tit and her belly push button piercing is playing peek-a-boo with the fabric. I've held enough to know what I see is a magnificent set of BB cup lady prominence. Her darker areola are about an inch and a half wide. With ridge bumps so pronounced in behind the micro slim textile it looks like brail. Her laborious nipples are as thick as her pinky tips, and roughly the length of a new pencil's eraser.

One points straight out.. While the other is a short off center and pointed up. A midget defect that could never change the image. My optic drop to her bare tummy, then to her genital organ. The scanty are almost entirely lace, but for the tiny panel that covers the most abbreviated surface area of her pubic mound. She is waste of hair's-breadth. Not one stray hair to be seen on her body below her read/write head, I can see the precis of her split and a darker tell of a wet spot where her clitoris should be behind the idle down in the mouth opaque triangle

I am looking at the humanly certify Goddess Athena

She sits, those foresighted tanned marble sculpted legs cross most lady like as she swinging 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 expression at her aspect up close. She's been crying. Even now she's fighting back tears. This must be terribly difficult for her, but she shows a posture as my own heart starts to separate for her.

She points at the banker's bill and nudges it in my charge.

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