The Way It Is Now

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

I look down at the head in my lap. The shiny blonde ( I think she's blonde at to the lowest degree ) lock of Curl tickling my abdomen as her header moves up and down. And my fat pommel compresses as she works it past her gag physiological reaction and into her throat. She occasionally fights off the itch to choke as she lets out disturbance that are almost repugnant, but positively sexy when she does.

Blasting deep into her rima oris, I even storm myself at the bulk I produce. She takes every driblet. Sucks out whatever may still be in the organ pipe with a slurp. Then quietly but quickly rolls off the bed before I can manage to grab her for a buss.

There isn't enough light for me to secern the colors. But the lacy booty shorts clinging to her ass get enough visible light to let me see how perfectly shaped it is. second joint and calves toned to a gymnasts perfection. Still unable to process colors in the dim light. The thinly strapped silk top cling to her torso so precisely to her upturned tit ; it doesn't hide her hard teat as she exits the way and turns down the 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 luck to see her grimace.

The smell on vanilla filling my nostrils as I manage to resist on sort of shaky branch.

that blow job was AMAZING

The green glow of a clock that guides me to the victor bathing tub, telling me its 9 something Billy Sunday morning. I find it's surd to pore due to my dry up state. But the bra I managed to deliver hook with my toe getting there, recalling a vague computer storage. I pick it up. A expose front closing hasp, I was too drunk to cypher it out. Sober enough to remember promising a new one. Telling me that was for sure NOT the same char.

Having relieved myself, I wash in the sink. Finding a neatly printed box of fresh towelettes, I dampen my case then my lumbus. Cleaning my skin enough that it doesn't feel sticky from sex secretions. The not so fresh fragrance left on my sassing from last nights affair now off my face. A memorable contrast to the invigorated Vanilla from this mornings wake up call. Coffee now filling the anterior naris, and bacon. Yes ! ! Bacon

I find my boxers closer to the threshold. One of my socks a few rate behind it. My denim still give my phone, pocketbook, the wad of fives and ace ; could be, should be almost L here. I shrug and smile. I got laid hard, put away wet. Apparently my mornings visitor doesn't creative thinker soggy s, and I wasn't robbed. Today's gon na be a in force day.

I don't witness my shirt. The other sock knotted up in the knee cuff falls out of my drawers as I pull them on in the G. Stanley Hall. Where the fuck is my shirt ? ?

"Breakfast"

comes the sing song voice I now know for a fact DOE Not go to the sultry, smoky vixen from last dark. What was her gens ? Sarah ? Saundra ? Samantha ?

As I follow the coffee olfactory property I stop. My brain pounding,

What is HER Name ? ! ? ! ? ! I'm Spellbound. The fair sex who's back is turned to me

is a blonde with hot pink streaks in her hair. Turned up into a messy bun on her head.

It looks like a golden Allium cepa set on ardour and blazes in the light of the kitchen. Her body barely 5 foot tall. She may be 100 lbs. But I was never near with judging weight. She is buttering something that's come out of a toaster.

She wears a short blue consistency hugging silk cami with a deeper dingy lace strip about three in wide that leaves her spine almost seeable. She is an athlete. Not an ounce of fat. Her skin so perfectly taught that I can bet the lobes.

The lace booty boxershorts match the darker blue air. The wasteland stripe dipping to expose the top half column inch of her wisecrack, creates a unadulterated heart shape of lace fabric to case the bubbly half world that are her ass. Her clothes are for for certain a set. Not the stylized notion of overleap matching women tend to do these days



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

She turns to face me. She has the glow of invigorated Jubilant young person about her. But her skills on my organ throw off the mind she could be"too young"No makeup on her flawless tegument. Her grinning is closed mouth but literal enough to divert a stamped of buffalo.

Her optic are hazelnut. They set off leading burst of gold speckle in the sea of alabaster white that surrounds them. She brings two plates with a simple meal to the mesa. My eyes dip to her cleavage. Her tit flesh leaping with her heal-toe-bounce stride.

Shes putting on a show

There is a matching lacing landing strip on the front of her top. It is perfectly placed in the deep V of her cleavage to indicate the gap between her tit and her belly button piercing is playing peek-a-boo with the fabric. I've held enough to recognise what I see is a magnificent set of BB cup Lady bulge. Her darker areola are about an inch and a half astray. With ridgepole bumps so pronounced in behind the micro thin textile it looks like brail. Her backbreaking tit are as thick as her pinky backsheesh, and roughly the distance of a new pencil's eraser.

One points straight out.. While the other is a piffling off center and pointed up. A tiny flaw that could never change the image. My eyes drop to her bare tummy, then to her genitals. The panties are almost entirely lace, but for the midget panel that covers the most brief expanse of her pubic pile. She is barren of hair. Not one stray tomentum to be seen on her physical structure below her foreland, I can see the abstract of her snag and a darker Tell of a wet spot where her button should be behind the lighter blue opaque Triangulum

I am looking at the humanly attest Goddess Athena

She sits, those long tanned marble sculpted peg cross nigh lady like as she golf stroke them under her collection plate. As she places my meal close to me. crotch tucked under my egg.

I look up to thank her.

It's at this point that I get a flavour at her nerve 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 heart starts to crack for her.

She points at the distinction and nudge it in my direction.

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