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God. Jesus Christ. My fingers were still on it and Chantelle was still in my head. A bit more cream, some pussy juice, and I was off again&hellip, In my imagination I did everything with Chantelle that I didnt dare to do in real life: kissing, stripping, meshing, licking, finger-fucking, tribbing, 69 &hellip,night-long orgies of never-ending intimate, gorgeous sex with someone really special. I worked my pussy and tits with my left hand and my clit with my right, and came I dont know how many times. Half a dozen at least. I only stopped when my phone went with Marie asking if I was going out with them for something to eat, and I realised I was starving. The next day I was remorseful again, angry with myself again, thinking I could have just had a meal with her or something instead of losing my head and running away. Now I had to try and find her, again, hope that shed still want to know me, again. But it was Henri that I found, in the same mountain restaurant at lunchtime, without. ” John laughed. "I'm hot and sweaty," Mary repeated. She cupped and raised her left breast, "Lick me here, lick my sweat away and let me get cool.” "Do you want to shower?” "No, I want you to clean me, cool me; cool me with your tongue.” John began to lick along her ribcage. He licked where Mary directed him. John was familiar with his wife's taste, her odors. He knew her body scent, her soap and perfume scent. What John tasted was a new combination tonight; Mary and Samuel, her chosen partner for the evening. He looked at Mary, "I can taste him on you.” "Yes, I said he had no air conditioning. Samuel fucked me three times, always missionary; we dripped sweat all night. I'm sticky with us. Keep licking me!" John's tongue worked up Mary's body to underneath her breast. Here, at least, was pure Mary, the flavor he knew well. John burrowed his nose in to breathe her pure scent as he licked. Here was pure her, purity in a wife who has spent the evening fucking and being fucked.
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My mother was devastated by his death, and has never even considered dating again. But, as I know that her and my father have always had a very lively sex life, I've heard them in the throes of passion many nights, though they don't know so. I've always thought that my mother was the most gorgeous, sexy woman on the planet; she's forty-three, but has the most incredible body you could imagine. Her tits are pretty big, and very firm; her ass isn't too big, but has a nice round shape to it; and her legs are long and very trim. I couldn't count the number of times I've whacked off thinking about my own mother, and that it's so wrong only made it more of a turn-on for me.Not until my father's death would I ever have suspected that my mother had the same kinds of feelings for me. A few months after the funeral, my mother started walking around the house in very sexy outfits, ones that I didn't even know she owned. I just kinda shrugged it off as a strange way of dealing with her loss..

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