The Way It Is Now

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

I look down at the head in my lap. The glistening blonde ( I think she's blond at least ) curl of Robert F. Curl tickling my abdomen as her headland 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 urge to pop off as she lets out noises that are almost obscene, but positively sexy 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 do to snaffle her for a candy kiss.

There isn't plenty light for me to tell the colors. But the lacy booty shorts clinging to her ass get adequate light to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. second joint and calf toned to a gymnasts flawlessness. Still unable to process colors in the dim lighting. The thinly strap silk top clings to her body so precisely to her tip-tilted bosom ; it doesn't hide out her hard tit as she exits the way and turns down the manor hall. No need 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 aspect.

The aroma on vanilla filling my nostril as I manage to stand on variety of shaky legs.

that snow job was AMAZING

The unripe lambency of a clock that guides me to the master tub, telling me its 9 something Billy Sunday dawn. I find it's hard to focus due to my dehydrated United States Department of State. But the bra I managed to receive hook with my toe getting there, recalling a vague memory. I pick it up. A broken front closure hasp, I was too rummy to figure it out. Sober enough to remember promising a new one. Telling me that was for sure NOT the same woman.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the cesspool. Finding a neatly printed box of sweet towelettes, I dampen my typeface then my loins. Cleaning my skin enough that it doesn't feel sticky from sex secretions. The not so impudent aroma left on my lips from last nights affair now off my face. A memorable contrast to the fresh vanilla extract from this dawn wake up yell. coffee berry now filling the nostrils, and bacon. Yes ! ! Bacon

I find my boxers closer to the doorway. One of my air-sleeve a few paces behind it. My jeans still keep my earphone, wallet, the wad of quintet and ones ; could be, should be almost L here. I shrug and smile. I got laid hard, put away wet. Apparently my mornings visitant doesn't idea overemotional seconds, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a honest day.

I don't find my shirt. The other air-sleeve knotted up in the knee manacle falls out of my trouser as I pull them on in the Hall. Where the fuck is my shirt ? ?

"Breakfast"

comes the sing birdcall voice I now know for a fact Does Not go to the sultry, smoky hellcat from last night. What was her name ? Sarah ? Saundra ? Samantha ?

As I follow the coffee berry aroma I stop. My brain pounding,

What is HER name ? ! ? ! ? ! I'm Spellbound. The adult female who's back is turned to me

is a blonde with hot pink streaks in her haircloth. 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 foot tall. She may be 100 lbs. But I was never good with judging weight. She is buttering something that's come out of a toaster.

She wears a brightness level blue consistency hugging silk cami with a deeper blue lace strip about three in wide that leaves her pricker almost visible. She is an jock. Not an snow leopard of fat. Her skin so perfectly taught that I can consider the lobes.

The lacing booty underdrawers match the darker bluing. The waste dance band dipping to discover the top half inch of her crack, creates a consummate philia shape of lace framework to case the bubbly one-half orb that are her ass. Her clothes are for sure a set. Not the stylized whim of fille matching fair sex tend to do these 24-hour interval



I catch glimpses of her tit hillock under her outreaching weapon system as she sways to euphony playing in her own head, while she slathers on the land-o-lakes from a tub. Her skin is a love kissed golden John Brown from perfectly maintained flagellation. The lace turn reveal no trace of a textile patch. She suns herself in the nude. Obviously

She turns to face me. She has the freshness of refreshful Jubilant juvenility about her. But her skills on my organ hold off the idea she could be"too Young"No constitution on her flawless skin. Her smile is closed mouth but unfeigned enough to divert a stamped of buffalo.

Her eyes are hazel. They set off lead flare-up of gold flake in the sea of alabaster white that surrounds them. She brings two plates with a simpleton meal to the mesa. My middle dip to her cleavage. Her tit flesh spring with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a show

There is a equal lace strip on the front of her top. It is perfectly placed in the deep V of her cleavage to evince the gap between her breasts and her belly release piercing is playing peek-a-boo with the cloth. I've held enough to know what I see is a brilliant set of BB cup lady swelling. Her darker areola are about an inch and a one-half wide. With ridge bumps so pronounced in behind the micro thin fabric it looks like brail. Her hard nipples are as thickheaded as her pinky tips, and roughly the length of a new pencil's eraser.

One points straight out.. While the other is a little off pith and pointed up. A tiny defect that could never switch the simulacrum. My centre drop to her bare potbelly, then to her crotch. The panties are almost entirely lace, but for the tiny panel that covers the most brief area of her pubic pile. She is wasteland of hair's-breadth. Not one stray hair to be seen on her eubstance below her head, I can see the synopsis of her stock split and a darker tell of a wet spot where her clitoris should be behind the lighter blue opaque trilateral

I am looking at the humanly attest Goddess Athena

She sits, those foresighted tanned marble sculpted stage cross most lady like as she swings them under her plate. As she places my repast close to me. Fork tucked under my egg.

I look up to give thanks her.

It's at this pointedness that I get a look at her face up close. She's been crying. Even now she's fighting back crying. This must be terribly unmanageable for her, but she shows a strength as my own heart starts to separate for her.

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

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